David Ryan

They were playing the cartwheel game out on the lawn. Christopher’s toys were scattered nearby—the wooden horse, the bells, the blanket they’d stretched out on for the picnic—and Lily had thought it might be time to bring them in, as the sky was getting weird. Then the dark tips of the forest’s pines below the base of the lawn shivered silver . . .

Tiana Clark

I thought about taking a picture.
To capture what? I decided to live

through the present moment instead:
ephemeral glaze, sentimental risk

with the numb tips of our chilled noses
grazing as we kissed and kissed . . .

Taghrid Abdelal

Everything will melt 
at the bottom of childhood: 
the road is the salt.

If we empty the glass 
we won’t dissolve—salt 
will devise new noses 
to seek us out . . .

Rima Rantisi

I am at O’Hare, in one of the three cities I call home. It is just a few miles from my Chicago neighborhood, am at O’Hare, in one of the three cities I call home. It is just a few miles from my Chicago neighborhood, Portage Park, where my gregarious neighbor Gary lived and died, where where there’s a swimming pool in the park . . .