by Dan Rosenberg I’ll eye and mouth and handle this worldwhole, demand of the rocking chair armsand demand again of the clementine’s supple give. I’m out on the lake with thosetwo women sculling deathlessly throughthe afternoon. I’m inside my phone smoothing out my brain function: absenceblanketing the sunflower fields on both sidesof my eyes. Concern… [Read More]
Witness Magazine
Borrowed Light
by Andrew Payton after a photograph from the invasion I am not the man dead in the street.The daughter is not my daughter.Every day I wake, eat an egg, some fruit.I pour last week’s yogurt into the milk. Who am I to want? Every timeI shape the question the ends failto connect. What I mean… [Read More]
Clew
by Forester McClatchey The wind unfastened twigs from cedars; fleetindigo berries bounced to where we readtogether, dark globes jumping past our feet, and then a spritz of rain prickled sweetlydown my neck, teasing out a threadof thought. I grabbed it, felt it give a neat sharp tug, hunger-dark and indiscreet,and knew this moment’s squall was… [Read More]
Visiting the Ucross Chapel
by Diana Keren Lee Clearmont, Wyoming I came to see the rocks that make up the church of my lifethe stones that don’t touch anymore the dogwalking around it the light looks different nowmaking the frame that much clearertwo doors side by side a prayerthe deer look up from… [Read More]
Vol. XXXVII No. 2 – Winter 2024
Cover Art: “Flowers” by Charlie Joy Poetry Lawrence Bridges, The Sponge Horse Lies Down Diana Keren Lee, Visiting the Ucross Chapel Forester McClatchey, Clew Andrew Payton, Borrowed Light Dan Rosenberg, In the Lighthouse Shadow Lana Spendl, On the Lido Deck Before Sunrise Lauren Tess, Imposition Dean Marshall Tuck, The Preservationist Nonfiction Ciara Alfaro, Boots in… [Read More]
The Sponge Horse Lies Down
by Lawrence Bridges My leaky leaves accuse butterflies’past lives. They leak noon beams.It’s still dry and it’s almost Christmas. Horrible coaches assemble in paradeand all cruise to the Bu in marching time.But I live backwardly on the prairie now, no mail, only deliveries from bodieswho dash away leaving me with cable newsthat enlightens me with… [Read More]
Vol. XXXVII No. 1 — Spring 2024
Editor’s Note: The theme of this issue is “Crush.” Inspired by the poet Richard Siken’s first collection Crush, the word is impossible to define because it extends much beyond romance: it is tenderness and strength, conviction and confusion, dissolution and immensity. We invited writers to interpret “Crush” loosely and expansively. The submissions we received made… [Read More]
Source of Unending Light
In memory of Dr. Carol C. Harter, President Emerita of UNLV and founding Executive Director of the Black Mountain Institute Dr. Carol Harter passed away on September 14, 2023, in San Diego, CA, at the age of 82. As many others have noted, she was a legend, a visionary, and a tenacious fighter who always put… [Read More]
The Baby Factory
by Lorraine Rice The baby factory has an assembly line that runs backwards, making a mockery of time… By the end, no one remembered the beginning. The city on fire, burning itself out in a squall of flame and ash. The escape, fleeing to a rumored safe house in the basement of a church near the… [Read More]
The Power of Naming
In memory of Peter Stine, founding editor of Witness What does “Witness” mean? In this letter, we want to celebrate the legacy of our founding editor, Peter Stine, who passed away in August 2023 at age 81. In 1987, writer Peter Stine was approached by Dr. Sidney Lutz, a philanthropic businessman in Detroit, asking if… [Read More]
Just Call
by Wilson M. Sims I’m doing the work of mental health and substance abuse consultation in pandemic isolation, and I’m in my bedroom wearing nothing but gym shorts while suggesting, assessing, and directing. There’s a full moon tonight and its white light is profiling the holly bushes and fence posts outside my window. It’s not supposed… [Read More]
Devi Maa
by Reema Rao-Patel There was no funeral for Devi, no puja for final rites, no pyre. That day, six months ago, crashes into the shores of Sriram’s mind the way Devi’s blood spilled from her little body, flooding the temple and streets, staining the ponds angry. And then too quickly, the red disappeared. He wonders if… [Read More]