The Cafe Review

by Philip Dacey The female pianist’s long blonde lock of hair swings down before her face as she is playing fugal Bach. The female pianist’s long

by Philip Dacey “My mother never let me wear black; now I wear black all the time.”

by Pippa Little fits in a palm or snug in an eggcup. Cool, undimpled shades of lukewarm milk, magnolia emulsion, plain and neat as clouds on an

by Pippa Little warmed from within you thin as I hold you up to light, slow as aromatic malt swirl you to my mouth so all my vowels melt, leggy

by Pippa Little Over blue woods soaked in night–juices They nose low from star fields and ice caps, move true To earth’s curve, surprised

by Pippa Little drops of light drown the carved letters of his name hero of war / in love, a deserter the cold weight of him seeps from her

by Annie Stenzel Stuck / Torn All change is for the worse. — Anon. Because the rut has earned its fame for comfort, being now furnished

by Annie Stenzel But if you’re waiting for me to Say things the way I used to say things, don’t bother. There is no demand for plangent images

by André T. Demers In the end, she said, he survived. Besides, she sighed, they say that love is a road and even crawling is heroic. She smiled,

by André T. Demers The floors slope from east and west towards the center beam of the house. Four pine wedges had been hammered between the

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