The Cafe Review

by Mike Bove Roads to nowhere, rivers flowing back into hills: I can think of several wrong ways to draw a map. All it takes is one slack stride

by Mark DeFoe In decency and calm our homes repose. Flowers bless our summer. Each fall we rake. When the snow comes we heave the snow aside So

by Mark DeFoe I heaved them in the reeking pile, but they did not break. The vision of that old world was not so brittle, though warped to be

by Mark DeFoe In some jungle, waiting. What we feared may be amongst us. We sniff the wind. We hang on each change of intonation. We

by Karina Borowicz In a clearing at the edge of the forested hillside a boulder is crouched. A mother elephant and we her children. We find her

by Karina Borowicz When the punishing snows came, mother would stand with her hands outstretched and filled with crumbs for the sparrows. How

by Karina Borowicz Our neighbor, she of the white hair smoothed in a French twist. She of flowering dresses and earrings of mute pearl. Hands

by Dick Allen The French, I read somewhere, think cellar door most beautiful English. My father’s cellar door was ugly,

by Dick Allen black–eyed Susans in a tin cup over a grimy porcelain wood–burning kitchen stove beside the washing machine in my

by Dick Allen When you’re being shot at, it’s best to run in an almost zig–zag pattern, varying a little depending on the time of day, the