by Erica Goss

On the last day of winter,
my car, filled
with chaff and spare parts,

fits neatly in its painted slot,
a motion box, stopped.
The little junk birds peck at foil,

and I am called away from my body
to forage for my life
out in the open.

When I was eleven
I climbed a huge pine
and had a vision

of flying into the thin
mountain air; my mother called
my name softly, standing on the red earth,

and her voice was a ladder
I climbed down.
I have seen the sky

in late winter, watched clouds
form the ribcage of a fantastic beast,
understanding that

the world is stitched together
from the loosest of tissues — even
concrete, webbed

with faint cracks
leaves nooks
for the smallest seeds.

by J. B. Sisson

In life’s peculiar game of hit or miss,
whatever happens, you’re supposed to say,
“It doesn’t get any better than this.”

Who hasn’t ever paused to reminisce
and wonder if it had to be that way
in life’s peculiar game of hit or miss?

Who hasn’t craved a metamorphosis?
Bottom the weaver, translated, could bray,
“It doesn’t get any better than this!”

But you’re not snoozing in a chrysalis
and hoping you’ll be ready, come what may
in life’s peculiar game of hit or miss.

Although a ruthless audience may hiss
when you’re ad – libbing life’s impromptu play,
it doesn’t get any better than this.

As you’ve been dreaming of a future bliss
and divagating like a ricochet
in life’s peculiar game of hit or miss,
it doesn’t get any better than this.

by David Moreau

scored from first on a single
to win the Cardinals the seventh game
of the 1946 World Series
the Boston shortstop got the blame —
and he took it, even though by the time
he got the ball he couldn’t have got him
with a twenty – two.
The sportswriters missed it —
a guy takes an extra base like that
it’s gotta be on the shortstop.
There was no television replay
and nothing John Michael Peskovich
could say that wouldn’t make himself
look bad so he said nothing
and that’s how it’s remembered
Pesky held the ball.
Dom Dimaggio the center fielder
blamed himself for not being there.
He doubled in the tying run
in the top of the eighth and tore up
his ankle sliding into second
so they put in Leon Culberson who
never charged the ball, which Slaughter,
who was a well – known red ass,
punished him for and made it home
godamya to go up 4 – 3
and that was all she wrote.
It was typical of the Red Sox
who won the pennant by 12 games
but didn’t have a backup fielder
who could run or throw.
It all happened before I was born
but they’re my team and so I help
carry the stone in his gut.
They could have pointed out
Ted Williams was hurt slamming
into the wall late in the season
and didn’t have an extra – base hit
the whole series but Slaughter
was playing with a broken elbow himself
and since when does that matter?
I can’t say I would have liked the sonofabitch
but you gotta tip your hat to him,
it was a long way to run on just a single.

by Christopher Seid

The ruts of my two skis
   fill with shadow, blue ash
from the full moon’s burn.
   The dogs run ahead

to wrestle ghost dogs
   or a fallen pine bough
shivering in a crooked break.
   I’m panting from the work

of circling this field, nose
   runny and lungs scratched
raw from a head cold.  Still,
   it feels good to get close

to the hibernating world,
   to glimpse at least part of
the paralysis underneath.
   I never feel alone here, skiing

beside these trees; I know
   I’m being watched from inside —
good friend gliding with me,
quiet passenger, holding on.