Patrice Wilson
Born in Newark, NJ, Patrice M. Wilson has lived, studied and taught in NC, CT, MD, DC, VA and HI, where she made her home in Honolulu 1985-2014. She then lived 5 years at the Carmelite Monastery in Kaneohe. She now resides in Mililani in Central Oahu. She has had three chapbooks with Finishing Line Press (now out of print), and one full-length book, Hues of Darkness, Hues of Light, with eLectio Publishing (now at Histria Books). Her poetry has appeared in many journals. In addition to writing, she likes to walk a lot, read, crochet, make jewelry and listen to music.
The following work is Copyright © 2026, and owned by Patrice Wilson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Lot’s Wife
We walked fast away,
the wind tugging at our hair
like the distant cries of those dying men,
yet a negligible hesitation.
It was not a sharp turn I made—
I was not struggling.
The morning was bland and gray
as an order to move on,
and we went not blind, not fearful,
only the smell of burning to fuel us,
remembrance of sin and boredom.
These were, somehow, not new footsteps.
My mouth is silenced now
and I will melt into the soil
by the same rain that will quench
a large, far-off blaze.
No matter—
I could no more describe fire
than find reason for “no”
to a glance at the scene
of a lifetime.
Wayne F. Burke
Wayne F. Burke’s poetry has been widely published online and in print. He has authored ten poetry collections, most recently Whatever Happened to Baby Wayne? Hog Press, 2025, and also A Lark Up the Nose of Time, Escape from the Planet Crouton, and Black Summer, Selected Poems. He lives in Vermont (USA).
The following work is Copyright © 2026, and owned by Wayne F. Burke and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Alone
Living alone is not so bad:
can control the volume of
noise, leave towels on the
floor, leave dishes in the sink
for as long as I wish; can
study the shapes the
silences make, the way the
bedroom turns into a crypt
at night, a sliver of light
above a window, like
the lid of a coffin
closing.
