Outlier

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By May Hem

I never cared much for statistics
until you were one of them.
Now I scan them for patterns
and correlations
to find significant factors
and probabilities of effect size
but only that outlier
hints that you were ever there
and the effect measurable
only in the absence at my side.

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Writer’s Block, The Sequel

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By John Grey

I tried to write a poem
about nothing
but, unfortunately,
something came to me.

RELAX
prone on couch,
staring at
painted clouds on ceiling,
lids slowly closing,
lowering the sky

HI THERE
through my years
as a lover
my feelings
have followed
a reductive path
from superficial
and shallow
toward a truer
and more understated
elusive and indirect
minimalism
what I mean is –
you’re no Scarlet Johansson
but you’ve caught me at a good time

A POET DREAMS
all these years
after the death of Frost,
Dickinson, Whitman,
all I need is that great first line
and being alive helps

     
John Grey’s work has appeared in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review. He has work upcoming in Harpur Palate, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Gardens

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By Mark Jackley

Our wrinkled faces,
spoilt fruit.

Your wicked smile,
the trace

of a bee lifting
towards next spring.

HOLDING A LIQUIDATION SIGN BY THE SIDE OF ROAD

Children stare
and parents shake their heads. I have learned

what wisdom is: the gift
I never wanted, given

under one condition. Everything must go.

DRIVING INTO A TELEPHONE POLE IN THE PENTAGON PARKING LOT

Two a.m., blind with drink.
This was in between wars. Saluting, hubris reared its head,
and cracked mine.

      
Mark Jackley’s poems have appeared in Fifth Wednesday, Sugar House Review, The Cape Rock, and other journals.

Spring Concert

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By ankayar

The meek mourning dove had gone silent,
All of a sudden. Coz, the croaking crows
And the rasping ravens are setting up
A soaring stage, high up the trees

A rage and a ranting all over
They flew in and out. A flutter
And a bustle and a tug-of-war
For a piece of meat maybe

And then, again, all of a sudden
The rowdy raiders were gone.
In the lull that followed, the
Chickadees dared all over again

To call out, their sweet names.
The finches, and then me,
Followed suit, to constitute
Our own mellow melodies.

Nineteen Months

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By Amy Brunson

The first night
Pizza on the stairs
Surrounded by
boxes
And the unfamiliar sound
Of being
Alone

The ceiling above the bed
Telling me
This is it.
You are
Here
Now

A place filled with memories
None of them belonging

Nineteen months
Could have had two babies
But instead
Nine lovers
The mother
Three skeletons
Five neighbors
A handful of friends
One ghost.

Now I see
This place held me
Weeping into wine glasses
Dancing in the nude
Laughing on the phone
Fucking on the floor
Mourning the past
Fearing the future and
Thanking the present for itself.