It’s raining today
and the pond across
the street fills with tears
for so much pain
in the world. Scars
and scandals. Tombs
too early and forgiveness
too late, a funeral
for all those lost
in the forgetfulness
of time or the forgery
of despair, abandoned
except for the prayer
circle our eyes say
for those we buried
and who come back
now, haloed,
grace on a gray day.
Planting seed is an act of faith in the future. The sower struggles with poor soil, meager rainfall, choking weeds, and predatory birds—with no guarantee of a plentiful harvest. These stark realities are on view in this mixed media painting by Hari Mitrushi, in which hovering crows, ominous clouds, and run-off rainwater threaten the tiny parcels of promise scattered by threadbare but determined planters. Mitrushi knows what it means to step out in faith.
Scientists try to resurrect an extinct Australian frog by implanting
cells in a related living species. —National Geographic
She’s rock-sitting in my mind’s eye
beneath a riverine gallery of eucalyptus,
the platypus frog defunct. She swallows her
own glistening eggs. Strange stomach
that serves as womb. Clever the chemical
blocking acid that would digest her young as
so much caviar. She’ll not eat again while
they grow inside. Belly bloated, lungs collapsed,
My visit isn’t going well. Dad stews,
testy, displeased by everything I do,
critiques my pasty face, physique, and views,
complains I never cook the green beans through.
I can’t suppress a funk of irritation,
but bite retorts back, stifled by a noose
of new grief, ancient hurts, and the frustration
of wanting his good will. Yet it’s no use.
Aharon Appelfeld’s novel of wartime survival among Jewish partisans in Nazi Europe
Both Agnes Howard and Brittany Bergman encourage reflection on a transformational experience.
August and already
the birch’s rustling
is autumnal, transposed
to a lower key.
All my life I’ve wanted
to be the high soprano,
summer’s voice warbling
in the tree’s crown,
not the mezzo’s darker singing
in the air just below.
Some things can’t be helped.
That snow comes early.
That difficulties arrive
in any weather, time passes.
Bach, knowing this, tuned
his keyboard to make
I am driving in late day sunlight
when a girl in a silver car aims
for me and quick as an email
from hell, sails to my address.
Her stare obliterates me, empties
my driver’s seat. So fervently
does she want me out of her way,
she seems eager to be canceled too.
I begin to hope that death will
oblige the lust she feels for it.
An opulence of loathing
fills me. Full throttle hatred,