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Francine Witte P- 1


Robert Roth P-4

Robert Roth P-5

Thaddeus Rutkowski P-6

Joseph Farley P-7

Martin H. Levinson P-8

Patricia Carragon  P-9

Patricia Carragon  P-10

Arthur Lasky Erik Ipsen P-11

Ronald Whiteurs  P-12

Susan Weiman  P-13

Erik Ipsen  P-14

Table of

After a month, I meet him for dinner
                     by Francine Witte

First thing I notice, new haircut, the grays dyed clean away.

I’m careful with my words. Nice shirt, I finally say.

I’m aware he never dressed this nice for me. I found it in my closet, he says.

The waitress brings a basket of bread.

You look good, he says. I can smell the scratches on his neck. They smell like blood and sex and another woman.

Would you like some bread? I ask.

Cutting down, he says, pointing to his stomach, flatter than I recall.

The waitress returns, and we order small. Nothing that will take too long.

The bread is piled high in the basket. The smell is filling up the air between us. When I look at him again, he has the eyes of a ghost.

My shoulders sink, and I grab a piece of bread. I bite into it, final and hard, because, frankly, it lets me.

Broken Promise
by Francine Witte

In pieces it is. Lying there on the floor. It has shardy edges. One could rip a toe on it. One could rip a heart.

Like Charley just did. Walked in here all big man stuff and took his I love you till I die off the mantel where I treasure it. Wipe it clean every single day.

When he walked in, I could smell all kinds of wrong on him. Longing and other promises. But nothing for me. Not anymore for me.

I will take out the broom. The one that scrapes the floor. The one I’ve used a hundred, thousand times. I don’t even need to push. It already knows the way.