MR. BOSWELL PEELS AN ORANGE by Sarah Johnson

My wife’s marmalade is the best I’ve had. She peels and crushes
the oranges herself, and for days
the house smells of oranges’ beaten golden pulp. Under her persistent hands,
the fruit submits. It becomes a vivid concentrate,
textured with rind. Stored in jars,
it will keep for months.

THE PRINTER by Jenny Doughty

All day he labours, polishing the plate
(small, nondescript, whose eyes illuminate

his workman’s face), picks up the burin, starts
to etch out in reverse all but the heart

of what he sees, carves worlds in words,
carves tigers, devils, chimney-sweeps and birds.

BURGESS FALLS, TENNESSEE by Owen Lewis

Where the waters cut the gorge cut strata of soft stone where granite
resists and holds itself against the water

where the waters drop in sheets across the rock steps then plunge
in white cascades

like moving ice the liquid of glacial rumbling froths and pounds stone
a heavenly and timeless pressure

AS IF I WERE ANYTHING BEFORE by Damian Rogers

Not all rocks
are alive. Or
so I’ve read.

Someone I love
is struggling, her thoughts
caught in a net.

YES, I’M A WITCH by Damian Rogers

For Yoko Ono

I dreamed there was a storm.
When it cleared the sky said here

is a half glass of water
to see the seasons through.

When I was a little girl Mother
said I could be anything.

PREFACE by Rajiv Mohabir

Let’s pretend you are going hunting.
You pack your gear: a buck knife, a bow
and arrows cleft from the straight weeds, wild
in my front yard. You perch in a red oak, yearning
for those chilly mornings that signal harvest.