Volume No. XVIII
Volume No. XVII
Volume No. XVI
Volume No. XV
Volume No. XIV
Volume No. XIII
Volume No. XII
Volume No. XI
Volume No. X
Volume No. IX
Volume No. VIII
Volume No. VII
Volume No. VI
Volume No. V
Volume No. IV
Volume No. III
Volume No. II
Volume No. I
Archives
Volume No. I
Volume No. II
Volume No. III
Volume No. IV
Volume No. V
Volume No. VI
Volume No. VII
Volume No. VIII
Volume No. IX
Volume No. X
Volume No. XI
Volume No. XII
Volume No. XIII
Volume No. XIV
Volume No. XV
Volume No. XVI
Volume No. XVII
Volume No. XVIII
smells of saffron makes you hungry half-undressed
early may condensing the kitchen air
motes float as invisible starts to breathe
you hope for rain or, if you could, to steal grapes from God
you hope to share sweeter juices with a faintly freckled woman, half-undressed
you hope for your neighbor no sign he'll clean up his take-out left staining his porch will play reggae, which you hate, loud enough to shake your windows
you want any complaint or victory before considering
Michael Fisher is a survivor of testicular cancer. He holds an MFA in Poetry from New England College and lives in Worcester, MA with his wife, Brenda, and their ferret, Cassidy.
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