The Cafe Review

by Michael Danahy The Monongahela, that flammable river, for once threatened to prove its invisible light. The ghosts of sons of miners’

by Glenn Morazzini He kneels on a prayer rug of sand, in a crumpled kurta, hands tied behind his back, looking up at the lesser gods, his

by Glenn Morazzini According to chaos theory the world is in a state of dynamic flux where all things are inter–connected,

by Allen Fowler Mice thwart their teeth with what wood holds in the walls, answer to a boning itch, question to a witnessing ear. Poison has been

by Allen Fowler Pierce and ugly caw embroider an edge which parries wind as might love, so so softly that the whole moves as if through water.

by Allen Fowler Each day a question stumps us from the rich dark drama of night, what to eat mostly, what package to wear. Our constant doing

by Richard Taylor To whom am I to give these poems, polished, erased, smoothed again and fitted into murmured line, the limb and sinew of

by Richard Taylor I want to see the wounds I’ve dealt and show the scars I wear. I would point out the faintest outline of a footprint on the

by Padma Thornlyre I lie alone. Sappho And thus, under a fat moon in February, the wheel turns, our failures at last not wrong- turns,

by Padma Thornlyre I am not so full of wine and elk medallions grilled rare that I forsake utterance. Lichens, too, have filled me up, near

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