Sandy Ostrau © 2020
talking in the fort
after Nick Laird
We are talking in the fort
passing a blueberry croissant
from North Market between us.
The Late Show is on & the kids
are in bed. You are painting your
toenails hot pink. Daiquiri,
you call it. Your legs stick out
from the entrance of the Mickey Mouse
comforter that hangs loosely
over three of the four kitchen chairs.
We are learning to speak to each other
again. Tonight, our secrets live outside
the sulking veil of the enormous blanket.
Ease sweeps up & under its soft
openings like swirling leaves or crisp
autumn air, away from the imagined color
of night. Or the night that was always there,
tucked in between your arm pressed
against mine & pulling your legs back
inside the empty space.
by Adam J. Gellings
July Monarch
& all else wields to her
bold, queenly walk across
the curl of the peony.
For three glorious days
I have watched her
triumph at the edge
of the field. Burnt orange,
black wing over light-colored weeds,
her coat of arms spreading
like a tear in the canvas.