The Boy with the Bolt – Taije Silverman
The boy at my poetry reading wants to start a reliquary.
He might be twelve, his belly billowed around him like a safety
net for his body, and a head of curly hair the shocked color
of saffron. His shoulders have the blockish weight
of a kitchen cupboard but his voice is a child’s,
girlish and mannered. His name is River.
Chasing the Bear From the Bird Feeder – Tim Mayo
Boo! works the first time. A little less the second.
Then he begins to realize you are neither god
nor ghost, that what shines at him in the night,
your flashlight, has no power other than to reveal.
The Son I’ll Never Have – Mark Wunderlich
The son I’ll never have is crossing the lawn. He is lying on an
the coverlet pulled up over his knees—knees I don’t dare