by William Bonfiglio

When he woke into broken night
back aching from his stony berth

when he arose and swung his feet
to earthen floor of mountain cell

when he took his first tender step
and followed with emboldened will

when he walked from dark into light
into the view of clan and kin

when they tore the shroud from his face
lost the wraps to the hillside wind

when his pale skin four days entombed
felt sun’s invigorating brace

when his body drew second breath
did he then fear his second death?

by Patricia Carragon

Diamonds and Rust
And if you’re offering me diamonds and
     rust I’ve already paid—Joan Baez

I’m not nostalgic,
but tonight,
too many ghosts walked in.

The moon was full,
dust slept on broken boxes.

Heard whispers in my head,
brought the boxes down.

Teenage expectations
unwrapped—

eyes on peacock feathers
dry as dust.

The Madonna and saints,
never saw the storm coming.

No prayer could have prevented
what I had to face.

Teenage expectations
rewrapped,
returned—

diamond dreams
left to rust.

by Christina H. Felix

I am wondering why we never talked about that day we found
a deer on North Haven Island.  Her leg snapped and wedged under a tree branch.
You bicycled back to town for help.  The part you don’t know—I sang her
soft songs and told her eyes lies about the future.  We both felt such loss
when we heard the gunshot from the beach.  I know this.  We had the ocean
sunset to our own, a share of Prosecco.  This was the same island trip when
hiking off trial we got lost and found, a yellow farmhouse with sheep in a
shaggy field white sheets on the line empty rocking chairs.  I knew your
thoughts then too: your desire to realize a future.  What does that future
look like?  This was not the trip when picnicking on three tree island the
tide went out and your boat wouldn’t start.  I am wondering why we never
talked about that night at the inn when you were too tired and I felt friendship
creep in me like the black bird mood of your tiredness.  We called your
fear-mood tiredness then and never talked about that either.

by Christina H. Felix

She didn’t want
to be a woodchuck.
Foraging for the Long Sleep
accumulating layers of fat
around the midsection
fashioning a winter burrow
from hay pillows
remnants of compost heaps
settling into cold.

Curled in darkness
she drops her body heat
stills her pituitary
faints her heartbeat
inextinguishable breaths
until she’s cold blooded
beyond consciousness
waiting.