By William Cass

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The grass had all turned brown.  Snow, crusted gray by car exhaust, hugged the curb.  A blare of shift change whistle blew at the factory a few blocks away; 5:00 pm and the gloaming of evening had already fallen.  From his bedroom window in the rectory, Father Francis watched the cold breeze tug at a lone leaf on the tree in the front lawn.  His own heart felt like that leaf.  He went down the hall to the kitchen to heat water for tea.  Although he’d only turned forty-six earlier that month, days after his mother’s death, he walked with a slight limp.  The rectory was as quiet as a tomb.

At the sound of the factory whistle, Sister Katherine glanced up and looked outside the convent’s basement window.  Above the rooftops, she could see the plume of smoke from the factory’s chimney against the ink-wash sky.  She paused at the ironing board in the laundry room where she was pressing the nuns’ habits.  The globe on the ceiling threw white light.  A glimpse of her ex-husband entered her mind, and she shook it away.  In the convent’s small chapel directly above her, she could hear Mother Superior’s quiet voice leading the rosary, followed by the answering chorus of the other nine nuns. 

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For Laura

By James Mulhern

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My grandmother sat on the toilet seat. I was on the floor just in front of her.

She brushed my brown curly hair until my scalp hurt.

“You got your grandfather’s hair. Stand up. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

My hair looked flat, like someone had laid a book on it overnight.

I touched my scalp. “It hurts.”

“You gotta toughen up, Aiden. Weak people get nowhere in this world. Your grandfather was weak. Addicted to the bottle. Your mother has an impaired mind and is in a nuthouse. And your father, he just couldn’t handle the responsibility of a child. People gotta be strong.” She bent down and stared into my face. Her hazel eyes seemed enormous. I smelled coffee on her breath. She pinched my cheeks.

I reflexively pushed her hands away.

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The Flute Case

By Adam Golub

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          On my morning run, I met a boy with a flute case. I was jogging up Highland when he flagged me down and asked directions to the library. He told me his school was closed because of a bomb threat. Then he started swinging his flute case forward and back.

         “I’m the only boy in school who plays. I get teased all the time,” he said.

         The boy was tall and thin with wet hair that fell over his face. He looked to be around twelve. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a backpack. I paused the timer on my watch.

         “I think it’s cool that you play the flute,” I said. “It’s different.”

         I kneeled down to retie my laces.

         “Why are you running?” he asked.

         “To get better.”

         He swung his case a little too close to my head. “Better how?”

         I was training for a race. But I was trying to get better in other ways. I didn’t feel like telling the boy about this.

         Suddenly we heard police sirens in the distance. The boy’s eyes widened. He hugged his flute to his chest and took a step back.

         “I’m not giving it to you!” he yelled.

         I rose and held out my hand to calm him.

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Interview w/ Rebecca Resinski

By Carol Smallwood

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Rebecca Resinski is one of the founding editors of 
Heron Tree, an online poetry journal.  She also designs and produces hand-bound chapbooks and pamphlets under the imprint Cuckoo Grey.  A professor of Classics at Hendrix College, she lives in Conway, Arkansas.


Please describe Heron Tree and your duties as editor:

Heron Tree is a poetry journal founded in 2012 and online at  We aim to publish a poem weekly, and all of each year’s poems are also collected in a volume.  I read and weigh in on all of the submissions, as do the other editors, and in addition I prepare the accepted poems for publication on the website.  Formatting the poems for publication is an especial pleasure because it gives me a chance to inhabit them, to notice and appreciate every word and line break.

When I read poems for Heron Tree I’m looking for poems which convey a strong sense of being situated—whether that’s in a particular moment, emotion, or place (actual, imagined, or even surreal).  Heron Tree poems tend to provide their own grounding.  And I think they also use language in distinctive yet clear ways:  each poem’s language becomes its own special kind of air.

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Lost and Found

By Michael Pikna

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He wakes to the assimilating weight of his wife on top of him and the sound of Portuguese blooming in his head, her lips feathering his ear, pouring in a steady stream of sinuous vowels and indulgent consonants.  They glide down his spine and enter her, creating an elliptical rhythm duplicated in every one of their cells.  He wonders how this woman can still surprise him after so many years and if it is a sin to be so happy before he has thanked God for another day.  What would his congregation think if they knew their minister’s faith, shaken by the absence of God in his daily rituals and devotions, is revived so readily by a conjugal act that, at this point in their marriage, has nothing to do with procreation?

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