There is darkness, and there is the light in the darkness. Crack of rifle, fruit skin at night, neon cross in window. Even the crystal interior of a stone. This is what we search for, and what we ask of poetry. Tell us, we say. What hope do we have? And the poem answers us with silence. Not the boom, clap of thunder, but the white fork of fire. It welcomes us to the table, asks us to sit and give thanks for the mystery of living. Each of these poets shares, graciously, what we might glance through the keyhole, small as a needle’s eye, if we only look. 

Zack Strait, Poetry Editor