The Cafe Review

by Steve Luttrell Wishes for water — ashes for the wind — memories with the passing and distance from light. Your poems now recede, becoming

by Steve Luttrell In the story there is a blue truck parked at the curb. Empty, except for a large yellow dog — head resting atop the

by Stephen Petroff “the melody is memory itself ” I lay for the night on the yellow roadside, in a deep field of curving gourds, across from

by Philip Levine As they return from their pilgrimage, footsore and disgusted, only a few wear jackets and ties. As usual Gerald is the most

by Melissa Crowe Uncle, today there is nothing to say but yes, to my new city, cupped in its sequence of palms — purple, periwinkle, watery blue,

by Michael Macklin So maybe I was the one your mother never mentioned or your father who was still healing after I ran over his knees with my

by Michael Macklin The way rain slowly erodes stone by washing and caressing its faces, my hope is that time moves over us polishing our hearts

by Michael Macklin Ascension begins like this, walking into the falling snow each flake lifts us with its gentle kiss. Imperceptible as the

by Michael Macklin We sit in conversation the world around us recedes until all that is left is the sound of our voices filled with murmurs as

by Michael Macklin At the hard edge of dark water you can catch an glimpse of yourself reflected on the growing ice all frozen waves and ripples

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