Fresh Blankets by Michele Habel-Coffey



Into the treetops falls my night

Under the cover of whispering stars

And a blanket of moonspun dreams

Into the treetops then rises my day

A sun too far for warmth

Pulls from me as I slumber unaware

My comfort

Like a selfish lover who leaves me




Reaching for a fabric

Pulling back absently

From the unrelenting thief

Wanting permeates the hours

They pass in anxious stutters

Disquietude filtered by purpose

Into black coffee and blue screens

I long for clouds

Distraction from the lying star

Feigning happiness from above

I long for warmth

Respite from the light

Exploiting my weary shadow

Who first hides

And then leads

Stretching out before me

On cracked sidewalks

And bustling streets

The lie is behind us now

Cast down into dusk

My shadow slowly disappears and

Into the treetops falls my night

Fresh blankets and dreams

Come again

Obedience, or the Lying Tale: By Jennifer Chang


Art by Alexandre Egorov

Obedience, or the Lying Tale


I will do everything you tell me, Mother.
I will charm three gold hairs
from the demon’s head.
I will choke the mouse that gnaws
an apple tree’s roots and keep its skin
for a glove. To the wolf, I will be
pretty and kind and curtsy
his crossing of my path.

The forest, vocal
even in its somber tread, rages.
A slope ends in a pit of foxes
drunk on rotten brambles of berries
and the raccoons ransack
a rabbit’s unmasked hole.
What do they find but a winter’s heap
of droppings? A stolen nest, the cracked shell

of another creature’s child.
I imagine this is the rabbit way
and I will not stray, Mother,
into the forest’s thick,
where the trees meet the dark,
though I have known misgivings
of light as a hot hand that flickers
against my neck. The path ends

at a river I must cross. I will wait
for the ferryman
to motion me through. Into the waves
he etches with his oar
a new story: a silent girl runs away,
a silent girl is never safe.
I will take his oar in my hand. I will learn
the boat’s rocking and bring myself back

and forth. To be good
is the hurricane of caution.
I will know indecision’s rowing,
the water I lap into my lap
as he shakes his withered head.
Behind me is the forest. Before me
the field, a loose run of grass. I stay
in the river, Mother, I study escape.

Dorothy Parker: Interview



By Dorothy Parker

The ladies men admire, I’ve heard,
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light;
They’d rather stay at home at night.
They do not keep awake till three,
Nor read erotic poetry.
They never sanction the impure,
Nor recognize an overture.
They shrink from powders and from paints …
So far, I’ve had no complaints.