The Cafe Review

by Carol Westberg An eagle, the boy said, or a loon. Next time I might be moss or stone or a stream carrying on.

by Betsy Sholl It all comes down to one day glowing, one day gone, one day haloed mother, one day the hag, scythe in hand. So, what throw of the

by Betsy Sholl It wasn’t a Mac truck wanting me dead, just a blue car, young woman on the phone. Good, Biene — Biene — the license plate read. At

by Betsy Sholl The radio’s weeping again, this time without commentary, so it could be for anything, these strings brought to the breaking — for

by Paul Christensen You were my guest in southern France once, with Thea fussing with car rentals on the phone, my wife fixing breakfast at the

by Paul Christensen I was upstairs in Jack’s house on the flat suburban prairies north of Dallas, tossing among the words and muses of his little

by Paul Christensen When Jack said getting his first real job (SMU in Dallas) saved his life, he was like an trapeze artist in the Cirque de

by Ariana Nash I have made a sister of a stone statue, who willows her head into her lap, bending over ferns. She wakes me up in the morning to

by Ralph Angel Were you guilty of something your story would wear a black suit and come to an end. I leave you alone. I mop up the afterlife and

by Jack Myers I’d like to leave a lighter imprint on the world than I’d formerly meant. Just a scent, not the thud of the thing steaming on a

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