Issue 13

Autumn 2014



We were not always directionless, not
– at least – before we learned to turn the map
around to match the road we traveled. And
we were not all common sense, were not pop
and hum and unlit lamps to keep the bills
from burgeoning the way the shadows did.
We were not naïve, not pennies hidden
atop a beam for luck. Not decimal
but binary, we were numbers translated –
we were named, we were songbirds, we were flight.
We painted bridges and boulders, vandals
of the blown-through mountains and interstates.
We were hideous abundance applied.
We were bittersweet vines. We were bramble.


Ruth Foley