A Tidings of Magpies

by Wesley McNair Why, when we say goodbye at the end of an evening, do we deny we are saying it at all, as in We'll be seeing you, or I'll call, or Stop in, somebody's always at home? Meanwhile, our friends, telling us the same things, go on disappearing beyond the porch light into the space which except for a moment here or there is always between us, no matter what we do. Waving goodbye, of course, is what happens when the space gets too large for words – a gesture so innocent and lonely, it could make a person weep for days. Think of the hundreds of unknown voyagers in the old, fluttering newsreel patting and stroking the growing distance between their nameless ship and the port they are leaving, as if to promise I'll always remember, and just as urgently, Always remember me. It is loneliness, too, that makes the neighbor down the road lift two fingers up from his steering wheel as he passes day after day on his way to work in the hello that turns into goodbye? What ...

by George Bilgere Someone's taken a bite from my laptop's glowing apple, the damaged fruit of our disobedience, of which we must constantly be reminded. There's the fatal crescent, the dark smile of Eve, who never dreamed of a laptop, who, in fact, didn't even have clothes, or anything else for that matter, which was probably the nicest thing about the Garden, I'm thinking, as I sit here in the café with my expensive computer, afraid to get up even for a minute in order to go to the bathroom because someone might steal it in this fallen world she invented with a single bite of an apple nobody, and I mean nobody, was going to tell her not to eat. please note: painting by Gustav Klimt, Apple Tree

Rain, sun, rain, sun, rain, sun here in the beautiful city of the seven hills. Lots to be done today and plenty of space to do it with Hubby at work and HoneyHaired camping amongst allergy-inducing pollen. Have Zyrtec/Will Travel. CollegeGrrrl is still recovering after an evening involving multiple baths, Miralax, and geriatric psych patients. We won't go there. I learned yesterday after diligently checking my emails twice or twenty times a day for the past six weeks that I'm accepted to grad school. Public Health Nursing. I'm very, very excited and not only because of the new notebooks and pens yet to be bought, although they obviously are a huge factor and I do love pens. There's also a new killer fungal spore out in Oregon which is an interesting read. School doesn't start till September so I won't be boring you with any public health gossip till much later in the year. Right now I'm relishing the quiet with the animals snoozing and the house empty and ...

After a Noisy Night by Laure-Anne Bosselaar The man I love enters the kitchen with a groan, he just woke up, his hair a Rorschach test. A minty kiss, a hand on my neck, coffee, two percent milk, microwave. He collapses on a chair, stunned with sleep, yawns, groans again, complains about his dry sinuses and crusted nose. I want to tell him how much he slept, how well, the cacophony of his snoring pumping in long wheezes and throttles—the debacle of rhythm—hours erratic with staccato of pants and puffs, crescendi of gulps, chokes, pectoral sputters and spits. But the microwave goes ding! A short little ding! – sharp as a guillotine—loud enough to stop my words from killing the moment. And during the few seconds it takes the man I love to open the microwave, stir, sip and sit there staring at his mug, I remember the vows I made to my pillows, to fate and God: I'll stop eating licorice, become a blonde, a lumberjack, a Catholic, anything,...

by Beverly Rollwagen Remember: This is a test you cannot pass. The thirteen year old asks, "Where are your kids?" When you say you don't have any, she tells you, "His last girlfriend did, and we are best friends." Feel yourself slip through the blue of her eyes. The sixteen-year-old watches you from all five corners of the room. When her father is there she is pleasant, smiles, asks about your cat. When he leaves a happy man, she tries to kill you seven different ways. She sets herself on fire and says you did it. She watches your chest rise and fall and hates your breath. If you try to touch her, her arm falls off. She is a sensitive creature. Be patient. Soon, you marry the father. The girls come late to the wedding and pull wrinkled dresses from paper bags to stand in the living room. crying for their mother. They throw all their arms around their father and hold him tight within their skirts for the last time. Stand outside yourself in your silly white suit ...

by Jane Kenyon I divested myself of despair and fear when I came here. Now there is no more catching one's own eye in the mirror, there are no bad books, no plastic, no insurance premiums, and of course no illness. Contrition does not exist, nor gnashing of teeth. No one howls as the first clod of earth hits the casket. The poor we no longer have with us. Our calm hearts strike only the hour, and God, as promised, proves to be mercy clothed in light. please note: photo of dust motes

His Wife by Andrew Hudgins My wife is not afraid of dirt. She spends each morning gardening, stooped over, watering, pulling weeds, removing insects from her plants and pinching them until they burst. She won't grow marigolds or hollyhocks, just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas – things we can eat. And while she sweats I'm working on my poetry and flute. Then growing tired of all that art, I've strolled out to the garden plot and seen her pull a tomato from the vine and bite into the unwashed fruit like a soft, hot apple in her hand. The juice streams down her dirty chin and tiny seeds stick to her lips. Her eye is clear, her body full of light, and when, at night, I hold her close, she smells of mint and lemon balm.