When Her Boyfriend Leaves by Steven Standage

When Her Boyfriend Leaves the dense wooden door slams shut with only a fewcentimeters of clearance from the cold tile floor,forcing a gust of frigid air into the dimly lit residence the moonlight...

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Two Poems by Serena Agusto-Cox

School Yard Games I. Huddled    still too many of us    for the old oak to hide We wait    silent tap, tap, tap our shoulders     giggles erupt II. Crouched     under the desk, knees up heads...

Three Poems by Lora Berg

You Choose Say you studied hard to understand the body,so hard that its ailments were no longer a mystery.Say you kept cures in jars behind...

Two Poems by Thaina Joyce

Why I Hate Going to the Doctor I’d rather drive with my windows down to the hair salon than to my doctor’s office. My hairdresser examines the...

Three Poems by Lora Berg

You Choose Say you studied hard to understand the body,so hard that its ailments were no longer a mystery.Say you kept cures in jars behind...

Two Poems by Sally Toner

Lady Liberty Finds Sand Dollars in Coronado I pay no attention to lovers twined around each other like ropes on sailboat masts.  My eyes avoid their youth, fixed instead on the afternoon horizon—the swath...

State of the Art: Middle Eastern Dance by Lori Clark

"Middle Eastern dance schools play upon harem-mother-goddess fantasies of adult students. One has to give credit for business savvy, but what is being sacrificed in terms of art and ethics? In a bid to take over the local market, unskilled student dancers have been sent out on behalf of the studio to perform for fees that are either shockingly below the going rate or, which is worse, free."

Brian Williams: What is Dance?

Dance is our reminder that the human body is a temple which should be honored, nurtured and protected. Brian is the founding artistic director of...

Two Poems by Carol Poster

Sheltering in Place The desert wind outside my window howls.Tree branches, desiccated by the rainless winter,toss and rustle with eerily sibilant sounds.The wind itself moans...

That Winter Afternoon by Michael Gushue

In the third grade, I sat in the last row.Chalk dust whisper down the slate blackboard.The radiators hammered like anvilsthroughout the morning. In the...

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