by Devon Miller-Duggan

Some of our people
thought the god should
go masked.
Some favored the version
in which the god was permitted to sit
wherever it wanted—
even on top of our children.
Some wanted a pavilion
to contain the god so
their children would be safe
until they learned
their own masks.

by Michael Estabrook

He’s protecting the homestead barking
and lunging at the lawnmower guy
on the other side of the window
a product of man’s domestication
for protection, companionship.

Shall we grill tonight dear
or get Chinese take-out or Mexican?

Doesn’t matter to me.
Did you see on the news
more pilot whales beached themselves
near Judique on Cape Breton?
Wonder why they do that.

No one knows why.  Could be confusion
caused by sonar
or fear of shark attacks or from poison
or pollution or something in the weather
who knows?

Max for crying out loud stop barking!  Quiet!

Chinese it is.
Does Max know they eat dogs in China?

by Michael Estabrook

At the baggage carousel I ask
how she got her dog so well trained
to lie still at her feet for six hours.

“Two years specialized training
been with me five.
I have a rare immunological disease,” she adds.
I’m sorry.

Her voice is quiet, shaky
but maybe it’s the surgical mask she’s wearing.
“I give lectures all over the country
so we do a lot of flying together.”
I imagine she’s smiling.

Tough enough traveling with a baby
but a dog all the time, impressive.

Her red hair pulled back in a ponytail
makes me wonder (for some reason) if she
can have normal relationships
can she kiss a man for example, but of course
don’t ask her that.

On the plane I thought she was a whack-a-doodle
with the dog, the mask, the headphones
and now I want to hear
her whole story, want to see her face,
touch her hand.

As I’m leaving with my bag
she gives a faint little wave
grateful I assume that someone talked to her.
Take care I say and wave back reminded once again
that you can’t tell a book…and all that.

by Peter Bushyeager

They want me back in that town
to argue about the spindly
silver-painted cannons
in front of the two-bay firehouse:
which war was it?

They want me back with
the volunteer ambulance chief
riding in his high-finned antique Cadillac
with an echo chamber built into
the back speaker for
an underwater sound.

They want to reminisce about
the old polio pit with
steep concrete steps down to the
green opaque mossy water
and the swimming instructor with
purple scars between her toes
where the webs were excised.

Scarlet crepe paper streamers
ripped from the high school dance
used to bleed and flow on
the wet boys’ room floor
just like wine and they’re reliving
Jive vs Conservative gang fights
in somebody’s basement
set up as a club
where they remember the town.

They don’t really want me
to come back but they insist
because they know I don’t want to.
They talk about bringing everyone together
one last time in the
halls of the old school
a handful of fast knuckles
briefly ground into the
groin ouch that
hurts well it
ain’t supposed to tickle.

I know what they say about
the snows of yesteryear and
I don’t want to get
caught in that trap.
I don’t mean drifts or spinning tires I mean
the past made tasty
to package the present
when probably someone back then
already knew who would go early
and all the future bright spots.