by Linda Laderman

you say, Lilith is a lunatic. Lilith is daring.
Lilith’s body is a bird. How she snubbed
the snake & spurned your overtures.

by Ryan Harper

In the March years, things emerge, set back—
bed of daffodils, stiff plane trees bare,
creaking as the carillon rings early.

by Ryan Harper

Was a daydream in the unelected silence
of an April afternoon—an exhausted body
shocked still, pinned even upon waking.

by Sue Proffitt

We set places for them at the table—
white bowls, wicker mats , wine glasses  

alternate living    dead    living    dead—
take our seats without speaking,  

by Sue Proffitt

There was a moor, you remember—
no idea where, but grass scrunched
tough under boots, a lean stretch of hills,

by Jan Wiezorek

Those flying over vistas hold onto whatever
wings they have—like a Reflection Chapel,
where I follow airport’s arrow down a hall.

by Abigail Carroll

That I woke in the hollow of a starred dark
to the arias of coyotes
echoing the hills.

by Elizabeth Harlan-Ferlo

All week at home in Chennai, dodging
rickshaws and touts, cow manure, mosquitos, I track
the water level sinking in the five-gallon jug

by Elizabeth Harlan-Ferlo

All week at home in Chennai, dodging
rickshaws and touts, cow manure, mosquitos, I track
the water level sinking in the five-gallon jug

by Jonathan Chan

blood thins at the brow,
language folded into the cleft
of an olive tree. it is not an unfamiliar
scene, an envisioning rehearsed

by Alex Lee

“Can you see the slippery slides in the sky?”
Little Caleb asks, his cat-eyes glinting like

Fireflies. He points his stubby finger upwards. I answer
Yes, but I’m too preoccupied with treating

by Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

Like a man tethered to the edge of a cliff,
I stumbled into the ragged end of a mountain,
where there were no roses and no daisies;
the wind was whipping at my back,

by Elizabeth Hamilton

Nothing happened. Not really.
A Sunday in Southern California.

We went to mass, and then
had the afternoon to spend ― but no money.

by Judith Sornberger

Since love alone can’t heal you,
I create this prayer
in blazing hues,

by Wayne R Bornholdt

On this day, this day
I will wash my hands
scrub-flush a life-time
of mourning, six miles of grief
and the daily premonitions

by Wayne Bornholdt

Before my Sunday prayers,
the sunrise must be monitored to be
sure that it is not taking the day off
or sleeping in.

by Fran Markover

Nights, I’d wait for Julius’ descent downstairs for dinner. I watched
as he bobbed up and down at the table, hummed Ofyn Pripetchik in an

by Maryella Desak Sirmon

The opposite of faith is not doubt but certainty.
— Paul Tillich

May I carry your faith
when it itches too much,
makes you irritable?

by Christopher Honey

When Father Nick lifts high the bread and brings it
Above his head, he pauses; bells no longer
Ring and the recitation’s done.