Communion | Ken Farrell | The Piltdown Review



Soon you will speak

to an empty room

calmed by the weight

of echoes, of space.

Alone you become

a snowflake of grief;

each crystal stalk sings

a separate ache, longs

for a moist flame, a child’s tongue.



ones speak

as a room full

of longing tongues

we will flames to sing crystals

each child becomes moist snowflakes

each child awaits ache in emptied spaces

each child stalking the echo of separate griefs  



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The custom is to sit next to another when you enter alone, to fill each empty seat as close to another as you can. It is only a custom.
Painting, in an Old Kitchen, Thinking of the Sea

Painting, in an Old Kitchen, Thinking of the Sea

You stand beside the window as I catch a simple scene: Payne’s gray countertop, a bit of teal to wash the walls, hot pink oil to fry the shrimp.


Outside, the barber pole, a swirl of symbolic spirals, and walk upstairs, touching, as you go, the espagnolette.



  • There’s No Place
    a poem by Ken Farrell
  • Piano Concert
    a poem by Bree Devones Hsieh
  • Beringia (Part I)
    a story by Tanyo Ravicz
  • Out of Habit
    a poem by Jonathan Andrew Pérez
  • The Birthing Room
    a story by Lisa W. Rosenberg
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