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Spring 2015


The Harbor of the World
- O. Arieti
Those Italian Boys
- I. Backalenick
Friendless Featherheads
- G. Beck
- K. Cain
- J. Campbell
King Street Comanche
- B. Foster
- L. Giulianetti
Poets Out of Service
- M. Johnson
Irish Farmer
- L. Kumar
Communion Portrait
- J. Lagier
- M. Lisella
Connemara 2004
- C. Lloyd
Carrying Grandpa
- M. Lyon
The Saying of Mass
- C. Moore
Taking You home
- J. Mulligan
- P. Murray
- P. Nicholas
Resurrecting Easter Sunday
- L. Pierro
Dublin Spirts
- F. Polizzi
Nun Ponnu/They Cannot
- N. Provenzano
- K. Retzlaff
- C. Steinhoff
Strawberry Pickers, Cyprus
- J. Tarwood
Melina's Tarverna
- B. Thomas
No News
- R. Tremmel
- R. Volz
Broadway Bagel
- C. Wald
Taking My 8-Year-Old Daughter to Hear Seamus Heaney
- L. Wiley
My Mother Had a Relationship with Good Bread
- C. Young
Sicilian Traces
- A. Znaidi

Spring 2015


- J. Amato
Moving Day, 1897
- D. Corrigan
My Madeleine
- F. Dunne
A Review Of Italoamericana: The Literature Of The Great Migration, 1880–1943
- G. Fagiani
The Immigrant's Grandson
- J. Giordano
Review of The Glass Ships
- R. Crupi Holz
A Sunday Afternoon
- R. Iulo
Dark Idyll
- T. Sanfilip
The Choir Book
- G. Sullivan
Review of My Two Italies
- T. Zeppetella

Featured Artist
Richard Holz



Kay Retzlaff


“Are you hearing the thunder?
“There’s blue sky this side of
Galway Cathedral.”

“But sure,” says Maureen, “there’s a
black one someplace else.”

Four hours by bus.
Winterport, Maine.
Logan Airport.
Five hours and a bit.
Logan to Shannon.
Just nine hours to stand on Irish soil.

Much longer the other way round.

Kildare hunger drove them headlong
into the wind, Nebraska bound.

Mical Bridget they left behind
with the Old One, but finally,
she went west, to a family
she had never met, beyond
Pawnee lodges and stands of
cottonwoods, to a place last
kissed by salt waters long before
dinosaurs exploded into
star shine, married a good looking
drunk, had three daughters and a son,
who took in his Da when Bridget said,
“Enough.” Then Catherine Bridget
married a Scots Prod and was lost.

“Dropsy,” said the death certificate,
But the obit said, “Two daughters
and a son living.”

Kate said, “Don’t call me Bridget. I’m
no one’s scullery maid.”

Kate it is. Handed down,
along with the anger,
like her lace hanky,
mother to daughter.