Size / / /

Twenty years later, you return

Along that path in the woods

To my grandmother's house,

Planning to try us again, and

Knowing the woodcutter is

Gone because the trees are gone.

But we have seen worse wolves

At the door since your time:

Impending foreclosure, bad mortgage,

Angina, chronic back pain, rotten molars,

My son caught with a hirsute hand in the till.

Your gray look is familiar to me.

Calling to Grams in the kitchen,

I guffaw in your face. You just

Stand there, not knowing whether to smile

Or what to say. But yes, old friend:

I always knew who it was in that dress.

Come on in and have a drink.




Amy Cummins teaches English at Fort Hays State University in Hays, Kansas, USA.
Current Issue
17 Jan 2022

The land burns so hot and high tonight that Let can see its orange glow even from the heart of The City of Birds. It burns so thick she can taste the whole year’s growth of leaves and branches on her lips. It burns so fast she can almost hear the deer and cottontails scream as flames outrun them and devour them whole.
I writhe in bed with fever, chills, chatters and shivers. The near becomes far as the far comes close.
No one gets married before going to space.
Wednesday: Unity by Elly Bangs 
Friday: The Cabinet by Un-Su Kim, translated by Sean Lin Halbert 
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