Elizabeth Volpe

Lyn Lifshin

Simon Perchik

Gary Charles Wilkens

Dorianne Laux

His Leg

is part of the aftermath, the debris
he left in their lives.

It's propped beneath the basement stairs,
smooth black sock disappearing

into cordovan penny loafer.
At the top all those hinges hitched

to a wide leather belt,
a cavernous mouth that yawns

into the basement blackness,
a tunnel back to the days he dragged it in and out

of their lives. Sometimes she hears clamor, a howl
from its haunt under the stairs, sees underlife

skitter at the commotion
of sudden light. Over time it has slithered down

the cinderblock wall, knee joint bent,
a compass pointing southeast

into the litter box, a question mark
carved out of the hard heavy air.

A 2001 and 2004 Pushcart Prize nominee, Elizabeth Volpe lives in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. Her poems have appeared in many journals, including: Borderlands, the Texas Poetry Review, California Quarterly, Phoebe, Diner, Crab Creek Review, Comstock Review, MacGuffin, Atlanta Review, and Adirondack Review. She received first prize in the Briarcliff Review 2004 Poetry Contest and the 2006 Metro Detroit Writers Contest. New work is forthcoming in Rattle.

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