Sunfall on the Sierra

Kimberly Gibson-Tran

 

Sunfall on the Sierra

after Galway Kinnell

Out of the blue ferns, a pale half-face
turns to grasp the lid of the horizon.

Warmth wetting clay, the man
quits braying from a gash at the throat.

In stillness, the shiver of leaves,
a whimper.

 

Indelible

Andrew Vogel

 

What will we not allow ourselves?
Consider all we carry with us in the body.

In The Valley Diner, Tuesday morning,
sturdy plates soar from the kitchen
on the girls’ arms, good chow glistening
with filmy grease. Ceramic clatter. Plastic
flower and felt-snow season. Outside,
rain washes caked salt down the lot.
Detroit steel.

 

The Kitchen

Peihe Feng

 

Ma is in the kitchen, pouring oil into a red-hot pan
creating a small explosion. Beside her left hand
were knives of different sizes: the slimmest for the tomatoes and lettuce
the awl-shaped one to open the belly of a fish,
the square one, heavy as a brick, to chop through bones,
that would soon be floating in a boiling pot,
to be used as bleacher for the soup.

 

My Mother

Harriet Weaver

 

is the coffee still in the microwave
and the note apologizing to the school.

She is Chef Boyardee, Hungry Man,
and a cheap homecoming dress.

 
 

Growing up in a small Missouri town there were three things to do: go hiking, speculate
about the weather, and eat at Chili’s. Every now and then we’d have a tornado too, but those
three were the main activities in my small town. Chili’s particularly was my favorite.
It was a family tradition to go every Friday. I was in love with the molten chocolate lava
cake. My entrees would change and so would the appetizers, but my dessert remained steady,
like a good marriage. I wasn’t tempted by the chocolate chip cookie and the cheesecake did little
to sway me. I was loyal to the molten chocolate lava cake.