The Cafe Review

by Kathleen Sullivan Do you find yourself watching now for stubborn crows, penny nails, limpet shells, the dimpled light on an orange? Now can

by Nadell Fishman The loons on East Long Pond went silent this morning; it’s a gray day and the chill that rolled in from Canada last night has

by Erika Butler “I won’t be able to come this weekend, but I’ll see you next time,” you wrote. “It’s for a good cause, though. We’ll miss you —

by Gerard Grealish I imagine you inviting strangers into the fold, finding in the cut of their words a grain that draws you in, knots burned from

by Betsy Sholl Six months after you died, spiders fill the field, gleaming in early sun, having spun all night their bright God’s – eyes,

by Betsy Sholl Bird flash too quick — to sketch it I’d have to rush the line, long dash like wind riffling the paper I am almost out of,

by Megan Grumbling appears between our weekly beers one afternoon. It’s small, but has some weight to it — cast iron, solid, and as plain as our

by Kevin Sweeney “What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee” Ezra Pound, Pisan Cantos, LXXXI It’s

by Baron Wormser On Chandler Street in Baltimore a brick house With a sectioned cement sidewalk, a maple tree, A privet hedge, a rusting swing

by Catherine Fisher now that you’re not here anymore that we can see we can see you were both here and there all along. belonging to everyone as

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