About thehuronriverreview

I am editor/faculty advisor of The Huron River Review.

Carol Hamilton: “Morning, Green Tea, the Efforts”

Morning, Green Tea, the Efforts

The quiet places hide
in the space where
important papers gather.

They are drawn, as I,
to that spot of sunlight
on maple floorboards,

the space all around the mobile
only touched with bright
blue, magenta, green, orange, yellow.

It is not the lifting
but the dropping things off
into forever that is hard.

But there you go, flutter up
in spring warmth like
the wakened monarchs of Michoacán,

you with important documents
gripped tight in imminent approach
to the grim-faced immigration officer.

But I don’t have to cross borders.
I can sit here in a pool of light
until the sun is high at last

and all the fists open,
the silenced voices speak,
and I am ready.


Carol Hamilton has recent publications in Paper Street, Common Ground, Louisiana Review, Pontiac Review, Sanskrit. Louisiana Literature, Off the Coast and others. She has  published 17 books, most recently, SUCH DEATHS. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma and has been nominated seven times for a Pushcart Prize.


Bob Meszaros: “Mrs. Matilda May”

Mrs. Matilda May


Here, among the pockmarked tombstones
of the poor, below the sycamore that drapes
its ancient limbs across the graveyard sky,
(its thin bark peeling like old skin, day after
day, month after month, year after year)
the dirt lane’s wide enough for just one car.

Born in eighteen sixty-nine, the absence
of a final date keeps her mystery alive.

Childless? Forgotten? An old woman dying
in the house alone? Are her ashes mingling
with the ashes of some other man, or were
they caught by a gentle wind and carried
throughout the world, without end?

Here, where the sycamore bends and twists
its mottled limbs into the sky, above the neatly
chiseled letters of her name, before the heartwood
rots, I carve her initials in the living tree.
No need that death be writ in stone.


Bob Meszaros taught English at Hamden High School in Hamden, Connecticut, for thirty-two years. He retired from high school teaching in June of 1999. During the 70s and 80s his poems appeared in a number of literary journals, such as En Passant and Voices International. In the year 2000 he began teaching part time at Quinnipiac University, and he began once again to submit his work for publication. His poems have subsequently appeared in The Connecticut Review, Main Street Rag, Red Wheelbarrow, Tar River Poetry, Concho River Review, and many other literary journals.

Salvatore Difalco: “Manhattan”


6 am: adjacent man in bad wig snaps
like a slug. He’s too ugly for us, skin like canvas,
an ancient egg his skull. He eschews the relic
airs of the neighbour, Mr. Dust, rabble of the hood,
age-spots his calling card. Folks, this is no new
found land, wearing out its greenhorns—decrepit
rules even in its shiny zones of tony brands.
Nothing would survive the flat, expired robes
he wears for breakfast in his musty nook,
rotting man, no smile to spare, so toothless.
He wears earplugs for myopia, plays phone tag
with his God in a red psychedelic sweater.
I’m just saying, nothing like Manhattan
in the morning, even when you’re rotting,
even when you don’t know that you’re dead.

Sam Difalco lives in Toronto. His work has appeared in print and online.

Sergio Ortiz: “The Problem with Traveling”

The Problem with Traveling

Every time I’m at an airport,
I think I should change my life.
Behave according to my numbers,
set fire to disorder & crawl
below the radar like a Pitbull
― digging a hole
under the fence. I’d be woven
up to my neck, beautiful
beyond purchase, trusting
the creator, fixing my problems
with prayers & property.
I’d think of you, at home
with the dog, a field full
of purple buds― we are small
& defective, but I want to be
who I am,
going where I want to go
all over again.


Sergio A. Ortiz is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in FRIGG, Tipton Poetry Journal, Drunk Monkeys, and Bitterzeot Magazine. Ortiz is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard. He lives in devasted Puerto Rico without electricity or water and very little food. 

Gail Hosking: “Wasson at Mid-afternoon”

Wasson at Mid-afternoon

On the front porch swing you could see
dust flying from an old Ford truck
headed your way so you stare
and stare for one large minute
because you are lonely, so lonely
you might melt into one of those
tractor tires filled with marigolds. You might
run away with one of the wandering mutts
hungry for your grandmother’s slop bucket
she left in the barn. No fans. No bathtub.
Nothing sweet or cold. Who could stand it?
Not you singing the top ten buzzing on the radio
from far off St. Louis. Not your sisters
down at Kenny Miller’s to use his phone
as you grow dizzy and dizzier from the heat.
Not a friend in sight. Not an invitation to count.
Not even a river to wade through. Just miles
of cornfields, the sound of your grandfather’s demands
for another cup of coffee. As the truck passes
in a dirty cloud and the temperature rises,
your powder blue culottes and seersucker blouse
grow wet. A pregnant cat comes to the stairs.
It was like this:
sometimes you disappear
and not a soul knows. Long before you have
a right to imagine so, you want to leave
this earth, leave it now before anyone notices.

Gail Hosking is the author of the memoir Snake’s Daughter: The Roads in and out of War (University of IowaPress) and the poetry chapbook The Tug (Finishing Line Press). Her essays and poems have been anthologized several times and appeared in such places as Camera Obscura, 100 Word Stories, Upstreet, Elipsis, Post Road, and Consequence Magazine. She holds an MFA from Bennington College. Two recent essays were considered “most notable” in Best American Essays of 2014, 2015.

Dan Nielsen: “Beryl and Ned Live in a Tiny House”

Beryl and Ned Live in a Tiny House

Beryl was a famous flautist. Ned was an unemployed florist. They met on Absurd Criteria, a dating site that matched partners based on how similar their professions sounded.

Beryl, still in bed, sneezed for the fifth time in less than three seconds.

“I’ll get it, honey.” Ned, arranging imaginary flowers in his mind, made his way to the pull-down bathroom with the medicine cabinet just slightly larger than the generic Dimetapp it contained.

Beryl sneezed again, this time so loudly it nearly ruptured her eardrums. She’d worn protective plugs earlier, but previous sneezes dislodged them completely. Beryl needed her ears to hear. She was first flute with the alt-cowgirl/retro-trance dance band Ten Gallon Pyramid-Shaped Hats. But Beryl’s real passion was The Charismatics, a Christian improv group that took its sketch suggestions directly from God.

“Here.” Ned handed the medicine to his wife.

“Thank you, my love.” Beryl tool a swallow and made a face.

“What is it, darling?” Ned stroked his beard in what appeared to be a thoughtful manner, but it was merely a nervous habit.

“The generic isn’t as good.” Beryl took another swallow, and, to prove her point, made the same face again.

Ned read the label. “The ingredients are identical, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t say it isn’t as effective.” Beryl quibbled.

Ned changed the subject. “Honey, you’re not wearing socks.” He saw her pink toes sticking out from beneath the blanket. “Your feet must be freezing.”

Without getting up, Beryl opened the top drawer of their dresser. The room was the size of a walk-in closet. It was the largest room in their Tiny House. The kitchen was a regular sized closet. Beryl’s music room and the place where The Charismatics practiced was a space under the sink.

The drawer had a divider. One side was her socks and the other side was his. Beryl chose a fuzzy pair of his.




Ned didn’t care about the socks. Tomorrow was Beryl’s birthday. He’d hidden a package of hot-pink pipe cleaners in his side of the drawer. He ordered them directly from the factory in Formosa. They weren’t even pipe cleaners. They were chenille stems.

“Now the inside of my skin itches.” Beryl didn’t bother scratching.

Ned looked at his phone. “That could be liver disease, cancer, a thyroid condition, celiac disease, kidney failure, anemia, multiple sclerosis, diabetes, shingles, or pinched nerve.”

Beryl patted Ned’s arm. “Baby, it’s just a side effect of the generic you bought.”

Some people think there aren’t enough hours in the day. There are, in fact, too many.


Dan Nielsen plays solo ping pong, which is like Tai Chi, but fun. His flash manuscript Flavored Water was a semi-finalist in the Rose Metal Press 2017 SHORT SHORT CHAPBOOK CONTEST. Recent work in: Bird’s Thumb, Minor Literature[s], Cheap Pop, Random Sample, Spelk, and The Dirty Pool. Dan has a website: Preponderous and you can follow him on Twitter @DanNielsenFIVES