Limited Edition

Suzanne Morris

March 1, 2026

Downbeat from bad news along the road,

you spin the radio dial

to the show that will only play

for a little while.

He only recorded so many songs,

and only for so long will that

sphere of refractive mirrors

keep spinning above the floor

glittering your shoulders

with starlight

opening the magical wings

of Your Night.

Hello again, hello, he sings

catching you in his spell:

you are Kentucky Woman, Sweet Caroline,

and Desirée wrapped into one,

hair swept back, caught in

a cascade of pinned-on curls,

vision in soft white linen

with above-the-knees hem,

wide cummerbund

of saucy golden coins that

flash, flutter and flirt:

Here I am!

And Lord,

can you dance!

You are tall and lithe

and nimble:

past the awkwardness of 

tap and ballet lesson days;

innocent yet of 

the secret longings of middle age.

Svelte bare arms upraised,

palms out, fingers splayed

you spin on a dime,

Belinda was mine

and partners one by one recede into

the darkness of the night.

You are beautiful, no question;

every lyric sings your praise.

Velvet voice strumming

up and down your spine,

hips rotating, in you chime,

Thank the Lord for the Nighttime.

Thank the Lord for the moment 

the mid-twenties moment

most fleeting

of all,

recaptured in a sudden flash

of gold then

all too quickly gone,

spinning off

on the last note

of a song.

Before becoming a poet, Suzanne Morris was a novelist, with eight published works between 1976 and 2016.  Many of her early poems were featured in her fiction, to advance the underlying themes.  Since 2020, she has contributed poems to several anthologies, and has been published at a variety of online poetry journals, including The Texas Poetry Assignment.  A native Houstonian, Ms. Morris has resided in Cherokee County for 17 years.

Because the Ground Is Too Hard to Dig

Chris Ellery

March 1, 2026

In the morning

after the party

I find a dove

frozen

on the bottom step

of my back porch.

The mercury is kissing zero.

I’m taking out the garbage

for something to do,

telling myself

be careful don’t slip

don’t slip whatever you do

and break a hip

or worse.

She might have fallen

out of the sky

or off the icy roof 

or from her frigid live oak perch. 

She might have come

to my house

a beggar

seeking shelter.

Now

she is on her back

where winter dropped her,

staring at me

like a totem

carved in wood.

If there are special times

for prayer

this must be one.

I set the garbage 

on the ground

and go back in

for paper towels.

I tear some off the roll.

There’s not a sound I know

inside the house

where recently

so many friends

talked and laughed and sang.

When I go back out,

I’m a little bit surprised

I’m not at all surprised  

the dove is still

dead there on the snow.

I open the bag.

A whiff

of rotting scraps.

Alone with the bird,

I grant myself

a pause

to feel

what holds us.

The ground is frozen hard,

too hard

to dig.

It’s really cold.

I wrap this thing

that was alive

above

in paper towels

and let it fall 

into the bag

without touching it at all.

Chris Ellery resides in San Angelo, Texas, where he taught English for 31 years before his retirement in 2021.