Maurlucuaq Alethia Belleque Two peals of laughter fill the air as the river meanders by on a sunny day.   You’re three, maybe four, watching your gram.  Your eyes flicker between her as she filets reds and kings,  And the grayling and dollies that nibble at the fish guts in the water.  She begins to cut another red, and suddenly, she says,  “Look! It’s still beating!”   She shows you a pulsing burgundy heart.  The two of you watch the heart beat and beat.  And it’s as though the three of your hearts beat as one. 

By Rosanne Pagano It’s possible, so I’ve been told, to waste time on other people’s dogs, but judging by the response, I’m fine. They’re the ones who start it with that pull on the leash, that whip of the head, eyes seeking mine. The dogs, I mean.  “Stop me,” I say to whomever I’m with (or if alone, to my own feet). “It’s embarrassing to love other people’s dogs.”  But restraint fails, doesn’t it?  And there I go again. Mittens off, I’m scratching ears, rubbing bellies. Returning smiles.  “That’s a good dog,” I say, and always I am right. 

By Rosanne Pagano What I love about making a syllabus – the only lovable thing about a syllabus – is the chance to type two words that say the opposite of humdrum: Field Trip.   Field Trip 1: It’s a synagogue Friday and we’re lifted as one by singing in a language we don’t understand. Field Trip 2: A cartoony curtain rises on a two-act opera, thankfully funny and in English.    Two words, and it’s fourth grade again in May and I’m anklet-deep in barnyard hay, cows everywhere you turn. Field trips! If you’re the teacher, you get to have them. Almost as many as you like. 

By Laurie Evans-Dinneen Morning fog. Iced raindrops on my car  bedazzle its midnight blue hue.  Winter is trying to make its presence known,  but we’ve grown to like a long Fall.  Deniers, all, in our light raincoats, heels  or Xtratufs still flat on hard pavement.  Rounding the corner to campus, fog clears  to expose the robes of thick white peaks against  a crisp blue dawn at mid-morn: Winter’s icy palette –  as if to say, yes, yes, I am here, and I am near. 

By Holly McCamant I don’t think the term “ex” can fully encapsulate    What we had, but has since changed   The resentment we had? None of it’s left.   The disapproval of my music taste?  Doesn’t matter, we both like Medium Build now.   It wasn’t the differences we had, but how we went about it.       You’re kinder now, I’m happier to see you.   Our separation of worlds has made us better people.   We might have been meant to be lovers, but we’re better off as friends.   But I still think my family likes you better, so it really isn’t the end.  

By Miles Dennis I went out into the rain,  When I started to think about bullets  And the blue-handled kitchen knife.  I found a pair of salmon  The color of blood stains on wooden floors,  Crossing and recrossing each other,  Dancing and decaying,  Braiding themselves together past  Tent walls and needles and  Under graffitied bridges  Towards death and life.  And a little color  Returned to my  eyes. 

By Jordan Hales How lovely to be trapped in a memory.  Trapped in a painting, the brush strokes outlining your shape.  Your name, tied together with lyrics.  A blurred snapshot preserving your smile.   Your freckles and charisma linked by an ellipsis of somebody’s prose.  The figment of one’s everlasting image.   The blue-colored stranger in the bookstore.   You’re somebody’s first “something.”  A haunting memory.   You are never forgotten—   They will always feel your absence.  You will forever live in the mind, the canvas, the pages, sheet music, and photos.   The memory, forever, you will reside.