This ongoing, collaborative sequence of weekly poems, with editors changing every month, features wonderful work, like that of James Benger, "Blood," this week, monthly editor Ronda Miller. , The poem begins:
Dad sold his blood
on Saturday afternoons
a couple times a month.
Mom off waitressing,
or maybe the warehouse job,
or any other place the temp agency
would send her,
Dad’d load us into the
rusted quarter panel conversion van,
soup can dangling from baling wire
(I think it was beef noodle)
