Image by Rodean Kutsaev
Inside the dollhouse I play human,
prop the tiny woman in a brown floral
dress against the fragmented rectangle
of window light. Inside the dollhouse,
it’s intimate as a minefield. Inside
the dollhouse, linoleum flowers burst
alongside the tiny man who is passed-
out drunk in the kitchen again,
intoxicated with the pleasure and woe
of real-life—the woman gently treading
around his resting body preparing lunch.
My mother can’t cook a lick. It was
my father who primed her for cooking.
I wonder if that’s what lasting is about:
priming. The small woman lives in this
house with her forever-husband, barely
stirring. The two appear almost identical
in their soft tan attire. And I don’t
understand who does what or why
but when they dance in the dusky living
area, the old woman leads. I am seven
and already confused about gender
roles. I am confused about forever too.
In the Dollhouse
By Hollie Dugas
by Adrienne Ross Scanlan
By Matt Tompkins
The Krishnachura Tree
By Mukut Borpujari
My neighbor had decided to chop the Krishnachura tree.
He is right, of course; the tree is over 20 years old
and spreading over the jagged road
like a giant umbrella.
It’s clearly a danger
tilting to the side of the house —
some feeble wind
my neighbor said could uproot it.
Every year, it sent out its bursts of orange blossoms;
blooms and blooms
threw shooting flames out into the sky
more stunning than fireworks on new year's eve.