The Cafe Review

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

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

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