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Palmetto Moon

In Charleston, black folks know ghosts are always among them on the cobblestone streets, jaggedly outlined in salt, their shackles rusted. In Charleston, black children grow blacker under the southern sun—ever the watchful eye of all human misdeeds. In Charleston, white oaks are not just trees but platforms, shelters, the ...

Fishers of Men

He said to throw our nets and rodsthe other side of the boat—a little guy, only yay highwalking on the surf like he could float. He looked like his feet were the wateror something beneath held him up—like he was a son of the plastera flicking paint piece from the stars. So somebody let him walk on waterthat God first ...

This River, This Stone

She pauses by the river, stone in hand. A willow dangles, touching pools where light is caught and salmon ripen for their run. The maples let go, red leaves stick to boots and this small weight held in her palm is all and nothing. Edges–smoothed by currents, time, and chance–begin and end in water’s womb. The surface holds ...

Hermitage Piece

The span of winter afternoons spreads out between the hollow moon’s two distant ends. It is a bear gone far ahead. It is elsewhere.   by Amos J. Hunt Original bio from the Fall 2008 edition: Amos J. Hunt is pleased that he gets a contributor bio this time. This poem first ran in the Fall 2008 edition of ...