• Poetry

    I never sent you that letter that I told you to look out for, by David Greenspan

    Our heads were full of yogurt
    during those years
    of rain and warm rot

    We didn’t pay much attention
    to the mudbleat
    hiding in our chests

    We drank grapefruit juice
    and watched squirrels
    chase each other

    You didn’t look at me
    stuffed as I was
    with glass

    When milk spoiled
    and winter was bright,
    we talked about
    the body’s coarse leak

    O the beautiful shapes
    our mouths made to speak

    Anne,

  • Poetry

    Two Poems by Emma Hyche

    Precarity

    My friend said
    that adjunct teaching makes him wonder
    which character from Apocalypse Now

    he is that day-

    Dennis Hopper maybe, or
    that Playmate emerging from the helicopter
    and shimmying. The one
    with the cowboy hat and the fake
    guns under the swingblade. I’m

    a palm tree on the beach

    most days, keeping
    the sand anchored

    to the shore.

  • Corona Chronicle,  Poetry

    “Quarantine” by Rimas Uzgiris

    By day we count like clocks the dust motes
    And wait for the hour of maximum sun
    When the forest folds us in

    Like the first morning, Eve yet to meet a snake.

    The passage back is through the cemetery
    Haunted by the occasional human
    Shuffling from grave to grave,

    Pottering with plants and sloughed pine.

    We park ourselves before electric iridescence
    Trying to feel our way towards a future:
    Seeing only fear and desire and no Eightfold Path,
  • Poetry

    Light Year by Regina DiPerna

    “Rat. Pearl. Onion. Honey. These colors came before the sun lifted above the ocean, bringing light alike to mortals and immortals.” – Homer, The Iliad

    Under rat-colored sky,
    a window swings open

    its sash, floods the other
    side of the world

    with cold light,
    the not yet of dawn;

    nets full of stars recede,
    become bare slats

    of blue between cedars,
    fewer magpies than before,

    fewer feathers loose
    in grey air.

  • Corona Chronicle,  Poetry

    Two Limericks by Raquel Melody Guarino

    Pot o’ Gold

    America’s in a recession
    With closures in every profession
    The nurses all cry
    As more people die
    With 12-hundred bucks in possession

    Oh Jesus

    The virus is getting quite bad
    But the president thinks it’s a fad
    As the numbers still lurch
    “I’ll see you in church!”

    Says Don, a positive lad

    *
    Raquel Melody Guarino is an aspiring expat who just left Italy due to the pandemic.
  • Corona Chronicle,  Poetry

    “The Air” by Anthony Mirarcki

    There are methods of
    coping, optimism in the

    face of uncertainty, hope.

    Change can be a
    good thing, a chance
    to reflect. But questions

    infect my outlook—

    How fast can life change?
    What will happen next?

    Where do I go from here?

    The answers to these
    interrogatives, like

    their cause, remain in the air.

    Maybe time can heal
    all wounds, or maybe time

    is up.