Gaylord Brewer
More Honored in the Breach:
Fava Bean

Gaylord Brewer - More Honored in the Breach:
Fava Bean

Poetry
Gaylord Brewer is a professor at Middle Tennessee State University, where he founded and for 20+ years has edited the journal Poems & Plays. His forthcoming books are a cookbook/memoir, The… Read more »
Michael Derrick Hudson
Scale Model of a World War II Airplane

Michael Derrick Hudson - Scale Model of a World War II Airplane

Poetry
Michael Derrick Hudson lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana. His poems have appeared in Columbia, Georgia Review, Gulf Coast, Iowa Review, North American Review, New Letters, Washington Square, and other… Read more »
Amorak Huey
Scientists Say One Language Disappears Every 14 Days

Amorak Huey - Scientists Say One Language Disappears Every 14 Days

Poetry
Amorak Huey, a former newspaper editor and reporter, teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. His chapbook The Insomniac Circus is forthcoming from Hyacinth Girl Press. His poems… Read more »
Piotr Gwiazda
The Propertyless

Piotr Gwiazda - The Propertyless

Poetry
Born and raised in Poland, Piotr Gwiazda is a poet, critic, and translator. He has published two books of poems, Gagarin Street (2005) and Messages (2012), a critical study James Merrill and W.H.… Read more »
Daniel Butterworth
Toward Death

Daniel Butterworth - Toward Death

Poetry
D. S. Butterworth teaches literature and creative writing at Gonzaga University. He has a creative non-fiction book from Algonquin, Waiting for Rain: A Farmer’s Story, and a book of poems, The… Read more »

Scale Model of a World War II Airplane

Michael Derrick Hudson

When you’re thirteen, an old man’s face has a Wild West look,
the site of unimaginable extinctions and ancient

trackless massacres, dried-out arroyos and gulches carved

into the moon-white silica. You grow accustomed, however,
to the pity and the waste of it, to the fact this

catastrophe is so obviously not me. So before it was too late,
one Sunday I helped him put together a Nazi

Stuka dive bomber, just like one he said he saw flying futile
late-war missions over Luxembourg or Belgium

or somewhere else. Not a good plane, he told me, we swatted

‘em like flies. The news that he was dying had finally come
to bore me a little, in that heartless, guilty way

of the well-meaning young. So that’s what I did in order to be
a good boy: an old man’s afternoon dutifully

obliterated. We made a mess, what with my impatience
and his Parkinson’s, splayed-out landing gear and a gummed-

over canopy. The tiny pilot and his pitiless machine-gunner

we managed to blob for eternity into the cockpit
while I affixed the decals: tiny black crosses for the wings and

wadded-up snarls of tiny, meaningless swastikas for the rudder.
Read more »