Issue #1, 1998

In memory of Peter Wiley

Price: $4.50


Table of Contents

Cover Art by Heidi Fiechter: untitled, 1998
Julianne E. Adams, Remembering (excerpt)
Susan Collard, Keeping House
Peter Meinke, Nailbiters
Kathy Garlick, The Well
Steve Cleveland, White Zombie
Martin Marriot, when you walk up
Martin Marriot, the alien corn
Susan Collard, Who We Are Walking Backwards to Point O
Susan Miller, Chicken Money
Jeanette Lynes, The Tenant
Anne Splane Phillips, Letting the phone ring
Irene Wanner, Basic Birding
John Byrne, Spring Garden
Nancy Hoffman, I must confess to stealing my neighbor's fruit
Gregory Hischak, The Best for Last

Sherry Asbury, Melvin's Hat
Peter Meinke, Nor Iron Bars
John Byrne, A Sign in Two Languages
John McFarland, Colleen's Orders
Steven J. Quing, Climbing's Not a Metaphor for Life
Peter Meinke, Mountain Man
Alden Borders, Polar Bear
Adam Rovner, Specific Gravity
Susan Collard, Navigations
Alden Borders, Hood Canal
Kathy Garlick, Where Knock is Not
Jaimie Berg, Mystery Kitchen
Nancy Wilbur Woods, Praying, Alaska Style
Polly Buckingham, Outside My Window
Lorraine Healy, Snow and Moon
c.e. kavanagh, A Letter to Denise
Peter Wiley, Weather (excerpt)


Julianne E. Adams


That new crab, that older crab, that bigger crab
has been gone for days.
Wind has pushed soft body with pincers out
into mud flats and tidal pull.

Here, on the ribbed Salicornia, on the crosshatch
of rotting wood, salt grass and tipped-over pilings,
is crusted shell, bleached leg, sloughed skin.

There is a freedom in such loosening.

Peter Wiley


Is the saddest story
I have ever heard:

Slowly, there was snow
        that day
        through bright sun and,
While she joyously walked
        soundless through the
        sugared snow that fell
        in star-shaped whirligigs
        past the stricken trees,
She pondered her happiness
        coming across the orchard
        now to me
        among the dancing, sighing winds.
Her happiness as she
        saw me smiling
        at the open door, lamp-lit,
And with my face
        shiny from the glowing
        fire on one side,
        and the blue and silver of
        the snow on the other, and
Drawing her in
        across the doorstep.
But then
Within the book-mused sharpness
        the snap of quarrel
        on a senseless note–
As snaps a lute-string
        in a disused room
        for what?
And then an ancient silence
Desolate, a bare domain, Hence nor?

A dreary thing is snow.
So cold, so grey against
        these tiny smoke-hid flames.