The Cafe Review

by Eric Forsbergh Cook! Boil us a pot. Fresh. Or yesterday’s. We don’t care as long as there’s no skin of mold. Better take it bitter. Black.

by Ceridwen Hall There’s an island in the middle of a lake. During summer, boats go back and forth. People bring dogs and bicycles. They circle

by Ceridwen Hall Travelogue Edmonton When I cannot see the earth or hear beyond the roar of the engine, nothing seems real but my cramped

by Ronald J. Pelias My sister said on the witness stand her child was just under bad influences; she didn’t think irreparable damage had been

by Michael Biehl Every time the world ends, he breaks out in loneliness, like chickenpox. Then the world–wheel, creaking, turns again, not

by Michael Biehl Death watches from an upstairs window the little scene transpiring below: six semi–dangerous eighth graders, jostling a

by Michael Biehl God bless cookie–cutter houses, cookie–cutter poems, cookie–cutter people. Pigeons! Pizzas! Penelope gazes

by Bruce Holsapple Four wood rats drowned in a rain barrel, after recent storms not all at once — one after another repeated the same mistake

by Bruce Holsapple Small moth folded dusty white on the Desk Encyclopedia zonked by the lamp I’d guess but who could argue that, given a

by Bruce Holsapple Opened window by the sink dark wind clattering thru wood blinds — reminds me, washing dishes, of an island breeze & it is,

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