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Henry Hart WREATHS (for my son) I bend a coat-hanger in a ring, wind it with duct tape, tighten wire around sprigs of fir and holly. Thorns dot my hands with blood. “This is how you do it,” I tell…

Elisabeth Murawski OLD SNAPSHOT: MOTHER AND DAUGHTER We’re in a rowboat, close to shore. Our shoulders meet, my left leans in to your right. In our hands, a dripping mass of water lilies pulled up from the mud. Our smiles…

Richard Prins BECAUSE: AN ETIOLOGY Because she says she's a simple lady. Because I don't believe her. Because she called herself convoluted just a minute ago. Because I'm trying to charm her. Because I say the path to simplicity is…

John Findura MY SON, THE STIGMATIC My son had nightmares of his hands bleeding like Christ’s He spent hours each day wiping non-existent blood from his crown “I am like the Lady in that play, but I love Christ and…

Catherine Broadwall HEMATITE HEART Once, my godmother gave me a box of hearts that could hang from chains as pendants. Each one made of different stone: agate, jasper, quartz. What heart will I wake up with today? I wonder, an…

Steven O. Young Jr. INSUFFICIENT GRACE I wish I could say my heart is origami, a masterwork practiced over centuries, a handcrafted empire of intricate folds creased by the wearpolished femur a wild stag ran smooth, that I am built…

Ruth Taylor AUNT ADELINA’S THUMB For as long as I can remember, Aunt Adelina has talked about her list: who was on it, who wasn’t, what sort of thing we might do to be taken off or—a rare occurrence—put back…