by Catherine Harnett

The old are on the roof; perhaps their last
chance to see the moon pass between the sun
and them. On a cool April afternoon they wear

by Fred Gallagher

Doubt is the essence of Faith.
— Paul Tillich

When in doubt, walk round the backyard
of a late night with your anxious pup,

by Fred Gallagher

We are made of such remembrance
more than we know. The smoke
of chapels wafts round lamps

by Maxim D. Shrayer

My generous father, a myopic Jewish boxer,
lies buried in a suburb west of Boston.

by Elizabeth Cranford Garcia

We think of it as evergreen,
a towering thing, stark
against the drifts of snow.

by Elizabeth Cranford Garcia

The evidence: wet nest of cling wrap wadded on the deck,
the handful of black circles scattered like loose change.

by Riley Morsman

Abandonment pries open
balled fists, but mine are still
clenched. So, again, God’s thumb
digs into my flesh with unsettling

by Esther Van Dyke

Bright beads of headlights,
pulled tight along the neck of the night,
squeeze the breath of dusk away.

by Richard Jackson

1. JUDGING
The wind begins to whisper
behind its stilled mask.
Stars in the river begin to leave a wake.

by Alea Peister

The room is dark, its only light offered

by Maureen Sherbondy

I tell them don’t go
into the showers,
but it’s too late.

by Maureen Sherbondy

I see rabies not rabbis, wonder
at perception of eyes and that thought
machine inside, its metal gears spinning

by Maureen Sherbondy

I tell them don’t go
into the showers,
but it’s too late.

by David Blumenfeld

Nate wanted to see God.
We all do I suppose...wouldn’t it be nice to be directly in touch with
the source of all of this...what? wondrous Being? colossal chaos? have a chance

by Steven O. Young Jr.

Before it all gets wiped away, let me say,^A
I can’t remember the tale,^B
all of it, to the heart.^C

by Eric Machan Howd

Not all doors open in the same direction and with the same effort. —Jasleen Kaur Gumber

In Rome
impossibly large doors
almost touch the clouds
each adorned with ornate
knockers fashioned by hands
long lost to the seven hills.

by Quincy Gray McMichael

An erasure of “How It Works,” from the book Alcoholics Anonymous

by Claire Scott

Since a cat has seven lives, how about seven hearts
for us humans, or at least four hearts
like the slimy hagfish or three like an octopus?

by Barry Casey

It felt like prayer, the held-breath-
clenched-fist of guilt, those half-formed
entreaties reluctantly withdrawn