It's interesting...I feel like I haven't been watching myself lately. I'm a heap of scabs and bruises, all of which seem to have been acquired without my noticing. All injuries are kind of like that, and not just the bodily ones. The ones you feel in your heart and your gut, too. One minute you're flying down the street, and the next you're scraping yourself off the avenue. How do these things happen?

They happen like poems. They stroll in, begin to stammer, then holler and the next thing you know they're calmly on their way out. In this issue we've got a lovely poem by S. N. Jessa that isn't quite so violent, but I sure hope it hits you like a fast-moving train. I know it did me. We've also got a review by Stephanie Sy of "Letters I Didn't Write", and man, that one's full of hurt. If I hear right, much of the book of poetry is an examination into the life and emotional problems of Hank Williams the country blues musician. You don't have to know Hank, but if you know any blues or country at all you know they can wail like a long black scab.

Dive into this issue. I promise your landing will be soft.

Amy Carlberg
English Editor, Re:verse E-zine
www.youngpoets.ca/ezine
reverse@youngpoets.ca