When skies drizzle over Baltimore,
I taste bourbon in the air, and know
my parents are drinking Manhattanstwo each
in a bistro in another realm,
where ice cubes like stars clink into night;
maraschino cherries dazzle the winter-weary earth.
After cocktails, my father leads the choir, blends
a bevy of languages into song. My mother
crochets a pearl afghan every angel covets.
My parents lounge, share a cloud,
reminisce about how they met at a bus stop
in the spring of 1940.
I want one more happy hour with them,
a wedge of time to toast their light, the way
they shape this new green season.
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Issue 54
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Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
by Joseph Millar
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust