Nina Corwin is the author of two books of poetry, The Uncertainty of Maps (WordTech Communications, 2011), and Conversations With Friendly Demons and Tainted Saints (Puddin’head Press, 1999). Her work has appeared in ACM, Forklift OH, Hotel Amerika, New Ohio Review, Southern Poetry Review, Verse, and has been nominated for the Pushcart prize. Corwin is an Advisory Editor for Fifth Wednesday Journal curates […]
It starts with Inspector 29, her nervous tics and squinting eyes gone bad on the search for the wayward thread or almost invisible discoloration. Or should I say, it starts with the apparel, on their hopeful parade from production line to seller’s rack. But there’s always somebody judging, saying yay or nay, fast track or […]
In the dream about her parents, they’re always Kodachrome and anywhere but Kansas. Her aunt says they’re on the other side of the rainbow. The truth is less romantic (those damn shades of gray). They could see which way the birds were flying. Who says there is no place like home? She climbs on her […]
And just like that! Cruising up Route 94 with the classical radio station crooning on all four speakers, when it gets to the moment of that certain crescendo where the violin does what violins do so well, and the bow catches the sinews inside my chest as if they were strings stretched across an unfretted […]
Pickering, why can’t a woman be more like a man? —Henry Higgins, My Fair Lady In love, I find your right leg In my Levi’s, my left In your Lee’s. We are a three-legged race At an Independence Day Barbecue. This never goes well. I start over with somebody new. Each craving the taste Of […]
What I meant to say, but the crop of false fruit kept intruding, is that doorbells are not destiny. They have no teeth. Split infinities while waiting for a ring. When you come, you come without warning labels or guarantees (black box from a bastion of caveat emptor). All I ask is the insider’s peek. […]
In a carved-up corner of the Amazon, an old gardener keeps her cabbages and cucumbers apart. Shaking her head, she explains, they will kill each other if given the chance. A panel of scientists votes to strip Pluto of planetary status. The grumbling opposition asks: how round is round? In second grade, my best friend […]
it is a there reached only by jumping roof to roof beneath a sky where stars disappear in a halogen glut (insidious searchlights invading the dark) there on the street of poor excuses for trees, an approximate block from the slipshod mission (no green light long enough) in the torn, shattered city where music wears […]
