Skip to main content

Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
Contact Us


During rainy recesses, two hundred kids sat on bleachers

surrounded by murky light that slipped in through the double doors.

We listened to Mrs. Griswold’s tales of possessed ferris wheels,

headless dogs, and children forced to drink hemlock.


She wore cat-eye glasses and moved atop thin ankles,

her every footfall a creaky hinge against the gym floor,

no longer wood, but the boggy ground of a graveyard. 

She whispered and we heard every word. 

Even the most fidgety among us held our breath

as fog rolled over our laps and weeds grew between our feet.


Tonight I’m walking a hall in my old school. 

I pass a floor waxer and a scaffold, making my way

to the double doors at the end.  Peering into the dark

cauldron of the gym, I dimly make out the shadows

of folded lunch tables and a rope hanging from the ceiling,

and—barely perceptible, as if from another dimension—

I hear the faint rattle of Mrs. Griswold’s voice

and a kindergarten boy quietly crying.

                                                                            -Kim Lozano