Poetry selection from the 2006 issue
Still Life with Pears
by Gail Hanlon
Now the words are the deep black ground – layer after layer, the waxy sun’s shadow on the horizon – you repeat them, repeat them, and against them it appears: yellow letters speckled with abstract scars. Her name. You beckon, burnishing the splintered ground. In the dark mirror. Two women in shadowy sheets. Caesura. The smell of ripe fruit and ground pepper. Manifesting. The slow burn of an eclipsed sun and the excited click of shiny leaves.