by Leslie Moore

These flowers don’t worship the sun,
don’t tilt their faces towards its fire,
don’t trace its arc from east to west.
They bow their shaggy heads
to the gardener — the woman
who tucks their seeds into beds,
tamps soil around them,
frees their roots from weeds,
baptizes them with water
from the rain barrel
fed by the downspout
at the comer of the house
evenings after supper.
When they bolt to the heavens
in a rapture of soaring limbs
and blousy leaves,
they beam down upon her,
their faces haloed in flames.
She moves among them,
pinching here, picking there,
touching, tending.
They track her radiant presence
through the garden,
the sweet arc of her spine,
the vital force of her hands.

* the abandonment or renunciation of a religious or political belief.

by Gary Rainford

Bobbi is a sack of complaints
ignoring death under Pepsi Blue
sheet.  Deb from Hospice takes

her twisted, arthritic fingers, rests
them in hers, fits the blood pressure
monitor around her skeletal wrist,

then presses the start button.
Once Deb is done examining Bobbi,
she looks at me, jazz-hands her

shapely breasts and thighs and
belly rolls, rolls her eyes, and says,
“Her vitals are better than mine,”

by Mark Melnicove

All day in the garden I looked
for a spot to plant
that seed my father gave

me without saying what
it was.  A curious pip,
not speaking, it nearly split

open before touching ground
and slipping in for a restless
germination.  I thought I might

see my father again,
that he might check up on me
or the embryo, but his gift

was clearly a farewell
gesture, leaving me watering
a whisper of a rumble in soil.

by Mark Melnicove

My soul — come back.
It is your turn now.

Those secrets of the dead —
forget about uncovering them.

The tracks you have been
following — where have

they led?
I dreamed the earth

was eating earth —
I have saved you a plate.

Those bright feathers
you wanted

to dress in —
I have stored them

inside pillows.
Lie down.

There will be a time
when there will

not be a time.
Before it is too late —

before I am lost to you —
eschew the pettiness

of our differences.
Find forgiveness

for our regrets.
No reason

to abandon prayers.
Tumble with me

by the stream that laughs.
My house is yours.

Any nail that does not
fasten for you

is not real.
Reverse the entropy

of ruins.
Listen — the stars

are chanting —
come back.