Talone’s Yard
The slight pear tree held my five-year-old curious-girl frame. Fall fell year-long. Ladybugs tempted and purified. Startled by a praying mantis, I dropped to my knees. A doorway in the hedge led me home. Years later, I finally learned to inhale. Half-smoked cigarettes dotted spots under the pines, where I also left my innocence. Baited by bases. Kissed by the sun. Sustained by drugstore candy and...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of Aug 12 (August)
Baltimore Harbor, photo by Alyce Wilson As summer winds to an end in the Northern Hemisphere, our contributors reflect on the season. “August Hymn” by Anthony Botti evokes the sultry feel of the end of summer. “The Porch” by Christine Kelley shares a blurry memory of babyhood. “Abundance” by David Sapp captures one perfect summer moment. “Susquehanna” by Christine Kelley recalls a hot day at the river’s edge with blunt...
Read MoreSusquehanna
“View of the Susquehanna,” watercolor by Vivian Starr I. The kayak eases in— its green plastic sides scrape rock as the rower digs her oar through mud—and sunrise- pink waves embrace the vessel. A lonely train howls its morning echo, crossing the old Rockville Bridge where the golden plovers catch insects drawn to mossy walls. An old man watches the fishers work from his porch, watches the train creep, watches the kayaker rest, adjusts his cap to the sun. II. Bass kiss the surface, gulp E. coli microbes. They process the toxin throughout their cold bloodstreams as they...
Read MoreAbundance
A Wednesday in Oberlin, a warm, affable, summer day, dolce far niente, under the red umbrella, we’re al fresco at Lorenzo’s pizzeria. Bees feast, elbowing for the finest, pink hibiscus blossoms. Beneath the table, a sparrow begs, hopping to a lively mazurka. My wife objects, but I can’t resist, and toss a piece of crust, exceedingly satisfied as the tiny bird pecks at the edges of lunch. It occasionally glances at me, wary, grateful, greedy. That’s it. There’s nothing more to this inconsequential moment. This abundance is...
Read MoreThe Porch
I was premature. Born yellowish, butterfly kicking forward, already homesick when they snapped the cord. They placed me in the sun to bake beneath the maples on their new porch where I could speak to the trees with cries and hear myself attempt the forest sounds. My first language: shhhhh-ahhh-shhheeee. Wind teaching a child to listen to suburban alienation. Each caterpillar inching on my skin was a friend to gather, greet; each cardinal was a scarlet blur of echoing skylight, calling me back from the harsh kick of a car engine. My ears were tuned to the patter of rain on the porch boards,...
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