by David Hathwell

It’s falling heavily now, as they said it would, in splashing thuds against the northern windows, brutally, as if it would break and enter. Precedence insists that it won’t (I am too awake) but brings to mind that fine, must-bearing splatter, impossible to expunge, and those widening gaps between glass and rattling frame above the desk— its shaded lamp, a book left … Continue Reading ››

On One River We Listen to Music of Another River
by Athena Kildegaard

We took turns tossing your ashes with a cup— purple violets, a spring flower, hardy, despite seeming frail—though I reached in to touch your ash. Our bodies were cool in the May breeze, swallows swept insects before them, cars trundled across the bridge upriver from where we stood on sand. After we let your ashes go, a few of us … Continue Reading ››