Lake Sagatagan Summer

By Denton Loving

After evensong at the abbey, we walk circles
in the woods, weaving through deerflies

in kamikaze flights. The cerulean warbler
mates among these trees, we’re told,

so we keep vigil for blue flickers in leaves.
So far, nothing. On half-submerged logs,

turtles perch like hard-shelled gods—
We canoe to the deepest part of the lake

before we can talk about who we were
before the other existed as witness.

Crow Cento, Time Cento

By Jessica Goodfellow

Crow Cento

There was a broken jaw of light at dusk where the crows
pinned to each tree
the hammer’s shadow in the shadow of a hand.
Sound of a crow, pulling the one nail from its voice,
claim the far away in me—
a never air, the lens for being.
Every microcosm needs its crow,
and the crows are up to no good:
They invented the earth for people,
inventing pizzicato as they fled the horizon.

My new bra feels like a hug

by: Kate scholl

My new bra feels like a hug
It holds fast where I need
It embraces and invites
supportively

It also lingers too long
awkwardly
It digs in places
Just like a hug does
sometimes

Evolution

by: Leila Bilick

I.

Each April, I walked among crushed tulips
after the last snow
and headstones for fallen soldiers,
my favorite for James Miller, last of the Minutemen,
“I am too old to run,” inscribed in the stone.
I imagined him falling to his knees
delivering himself, negating himself
as the red storm blew in.  

A White Frigid Fright

by: Bruce Shearer

I have too many white shirts

They are everywhere.

Just waiting for me, all neatly pressed and ready.

First I had one, and one would be controllable

Kept carefully in check.

Diagnosis

by: Elizabeth Hazen

I.

In Exam Room 3, I drank
barium sulfate through
a bendy straw, breast buds

rising beneath my hospital gown.
Sharp pangs like scissors
snipped inside me, but the x-ray

revealed no ulcers. In his preacher’s
tenor, the doctor insisted
I had no cause for pain.

The Annual Under-Winter Assault

by: beth Oast Williams

Already it’s rained too much. Water
pools at the base of the pecan tree
and her leaves pull hard, begging
to dive in. Mama tries to hold them, tight
by the toes, so they won’t fall.

TCR Talks with Sirje Kiin

BY: KAIA Gallagher

Sirje Kiin is an Estonian writer, poet, and journalist currently living in South Dakota, and the biographer of Marie Under, one of Estonia’s best-known poets.

Born in 1883, Marie Under established herself as one of Estonia’s premier poets in the beginning of the twentieth century through her expressionist and neo-romantic poems. Her early poetry explored themes of happiness, joy, and erotic love. Later, during the 1920s, she addressed topics related to justice and death, with lyrics that merged dark, apocalyptic visions with a yearning for happiness and all-embracing love.

She who was on her way

by: Kate scholl

She’ll be coming round the mountain
She’ll be coming
She’s on her way
Did she call first?

She’s hatching
from a round mountain, an egg

Everlasting

BY: Daniel Edward Moore

After death leaves its stinger
buzzing in my head
don’t let the hive of a million lies
tempt you with their honey.