by Valerie Lawson

Christina’s World
Of course, she’s an old cripple, for Pete’s sake!
                                                      Andrew Wyeth 

He saw her scuttle crabwise
across the field beyond the lawn.
Thin arms prop and propel; a bundle of sticks
dragging a kit bag on an exposed hillside —

but for the pink dress, the hip curve,
the compass needle of unruly hair
pointing to the cove beyond
the elliptical runway of the rutted road.

She wore down hard New England acres
with her passage from spinster farmhouse
to bachelor barn.  It took an awareness
to lift her from the grass, to see her

for what she was.  Here in Maine,
tides swap land and sea, Aputamkon
and selkie appear in hidden pockets
along its craggy coastline.

Once he found one, he saw them everywhere.
To find them, you must first look away.
He learned this from his father,
would pass it on to his son.

In the patient tempera hours models
let down their guard.  He did everything
he could to keep them from singing
as he painted.  The scuba girl, his wife

on that blueberry afternoon before the storm,
the sentinel dog a distraction — how could one
intrude and belong?  He keeps their secrets,
reveals just enough to satisfy as they emerge.

by Martin Steingesser

The Little Birds
Keep Singing

When the sky grows
suddenly dark
before rain — maybe
a thunderstorm,

the path I am on
through the woods
grows darker.
Earlier, before losing myself

as I do
going my own way
into the woods, I stopped
to watch some kids,

Little Leaguers starting
a game.  I was surprised
the pitcher
really had a fastball

and could burn it
over the plate.  Strike!
the ump would call
more than once.

Lilliputian batters
nonetheless are belting
his pitches —
line drives,

long fly balls,
sending outfielders
running, all of them
playing hardball.

On my path, the wind
had picked up
some urgency
among the trees,

a heavy scent —
new growth, or something
old from under
last summer’s leaves.

by Shirley Glubka

Metaphysics in the Time of Trump
You are all me but I’m having /a private moment.
                        — Alice Notley, “Hotel Truth Room”

i.

I am not large, I contain no multitudes —

I am this tiny cupful of tangled —
astonishing —
bodied, held, stretched, shaped, valued —
mysteriously valued —
liquid —
events —

minded —
mine —

ii.

Froth now on the surface of my cupful of events —
tiny storms on my tiny ocean —

deep in my tiny cup, still, the miracle —
busy sources —
happy, active, unseen —

iii.

But my cup spills —
all cups, jostled sufficiently —
spill —

and all the tiny oceans run together.

by Shirley Glubka

The young man, my enemy —

his stubborn mind, my stubborn mind —
his contorted body draped over my lap as in the Pietá —
his unexpected weeping —

his beauty —

my own moistened eyes —
the surprise of softening, sudden and golden —
our bewildering quarrel: alchemized.