by Oceana Gamel-Howes Hands. They all serve the same function, they all have the same basic shape. Some are old, some are rough, some are small. Hands tell a story, and not just through their appearance. The things our hands do are an extension of our brains, our minds, our thoughts; the hub of activity that lives in our skull. That place is where we come from, and our hands are the most important tools we own to express ourselves. Your hands may not seem too different from mine based on appearance, but it’s not about that they look like, it’s about what they can do. Your hands. Yours hands…

by Roman Dial Trial and error Failure and terror The truth of the matter at hand. Death in a whisper Is so much to weather For the life of a Wife and her man.

By Paige Flack Once upon a time, a little girl with wild blonde hair looked over the bluffs on the coast of Cook Inlet The sun was setting and below the sweet hum of the blowing wind, a gentle chorus of birds sang a sweet song Nature was presenting its symphony with absolute perfect timing and poise How beautiful it was That was one of the many times the little girl would be captivated and left in awe of the unfathomable wonders of music Every song had a story and a deep meaning behind it Even the earth, singing praises to our Creator Music is its own language It speaks…

by Shelly Wozniak Flexing like a man, I attempt to remove a ring from a hand swollen with excess fluid, marking a cycle giving life, serving as a reminder that I am a woman. She wants me, but not my structure. Closing praying eyes she creates me from a rib – removing my breasts, the shape of my hips, giving me biceps I have no use for. We are daughters of Eve from different trees. Hers, tall and in the sun, mine, absent an Adam, flourishing in indirect light. We take in heat, and grow from water. Two similar compounds differing in an element, combustible, burning, attempting through reconstruction to…

by Shelly Wozniak Piece by piece he took her apart, leaving only one letter of her name hidden above his signature. Nose of a pig, eyes that cannot possibly see, the convolution of her contour flattened by his hand to a pointless stroke. Her mangled chest and hips, reversed, reassembled to something easily understood. Resemblance more than real, he would say, compelled him to fracture the female. She has become a conversation piece, stripped down to the period. If her mouth were in the proper place I am sure she would scream.

by Patricia Pierce Graying clouds grow spindly wisps, highlighting the city’s twilight. Whispering wind, that only I can hear, severs memories of your voice. I pace, alone, where cobwebs dangle from unlit light poles. My spine shivers, cold. Summer heat rises from the pavement. My lungs pant for breath. The ever-present fear of sleep claws at my eyes, forbids me from glancing backward. Future forever the same: Days and nights without you. Darkness resides in my soul, promises of peace, no more.