By ELIZABETH METZGER
The quickness of living.
The quickness of wanting to kill something.
Forget dreams, they attack me and
I welcome their landings.
By MATT W. MILLER
For a moment I was a failed skip of stone
sunk into the river for a moment I was the river
purling in long last shadows of September
for a moment I was a skinny grizzly climbing
from a beer can
Andromeda Came to the Silver River
By ANGIE MACRI
as a girl approaches a mirror,
not yet a queen, and maybe never,
seeing in the water
no man’s voice to answer,
to say you are better
We Used To Call it Puerto Rico Rain
By WILLIE PERDOMO
The rain had just finished saying, This block is mine.
The kind of rain where you could sleep through two breakthroughs and still have enough left to belly sing in the ambrosial hour.
Blood pellets in the dusk & dashes of hail were perfect for finding new stashes; that is to say, visitations were never announced.
A broken umbrella handle posed a question by the day care center.
Buscando un árbol que me de sombra
By SAMUEL MIRANDA
In conversation with A Hill in the South Bronx, by Perla de Leon
Estoy buscando un árbol que me de sombra
Porque el que tengo me lo van a cortar
Coro de bomba
This building stands,
the last tree to be cut down
in a garden of brick and steel
made desert of rubble and dust.
By RICARDO ALBERTO MALDONADO
21 de septiembre de 2017: “pero estamos vivos”
Two: home dos tres dos tres two: Mother.
One lápiz. One pen. One ocean between us. Six: Home.
Red Light Roses
By JILL MCDONOUGH
Josey picks me up at work in a car we bought
together, car she dug out of frozen slush for hours.
She picks me up and gives me roses. Valentine’s Day.
October 16, 2018
By WILLIE PERDOMO
In that year of a shot to the head where were you the first time you broke night?
When you break night, you learn that one puff, under the right circumstance, can give you the right perspective.
You learn to pick up stories that fall & slip on the right side of knowing.
February 23, 2018
February 2018 Poetry Feature
Poetry by TODD HEARON
Music by GREGORY W. BROWN
“I have made
an elegy for myself it
Geoffrey Hill, i.m., 1932 – 2016
1. The Meeting of the Waters
Sempiternal waters, sing-
ly sing, gush glottal-less & all
triphthong’s liquid pluraling
through rock & ruck & rill
April 20, 2017
March 2017 Poetry Feature
At The Common we’re welcoming spring with new poetry by our contributors. (Be sure to listen to the audio link to Megan Fernandes’ “White People Always Want to Tell Me…,” read by the author.)