Sister Julia found God in cooking, but she thought it would be funny if every recipe had a morel.

Sunday supper
praying the wild mushroom galette
isn’t poisonous

Bob Lucky

cloud-mottled sky
picking wilted lettuce
out of the salad

I take the 6718-word manuscript and start cutting, slashing with the precision of a Daoist butcher, until there’s nothing left but the title, which says it all. The End.

Bob Lucky

At it again, dishing out apple pies. White lies for extra crust. Common man gets the hunch, turns into a comma, the never-ending pause, period. Amidst dwindling tallies …

election flyer
street kid folds
a paper bird

Daya Bhat

All the miles dotted with volcanoes raised by monosyllables. The last thing I would need on a long-haul flight is one less wing.

at the shore
sandcastles of
all lost one minutes

Daya Bhat

She’s never touched a drop of LSD but maybe on the threshold of seizure
…from amethyst to rose to aquamarine delineated by reflected boughs a stained glass window segues into a canvas by Degas…

a gust
shatters the surface
fragments

Diana Webb

I break open a thought the sky has compressed since long. It is the one from the manuscript of your dream.

beyond looking
a butterfly jigsaws
into my identity

Richa Sharma

The purr at the back door announces the delivery of another mouse.

cold sunrise
the saucer of milk
empty again

Bob Lucky

All the roads mistaken brought me here.

Bob Lucky