by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
When I was 10 years old my father taught me how to shoot He wanted me to be safe To be brave To be the son he wished he had And for a while I was I could hit a bullseye on any target I could watch the football game and pretend to care I could ski faster and run...
by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
The piece hangs in the space between our dining room and our kitchen. Framed with dark wood, the paper yellowed with age, sealed under shiny museum glass, free of prints. It won an award, my dad would tell us. That’s why it was saved. High on the wall, I...
by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
I hate sitting in the front row The eyes of grateful hundreds Trained on the back of my head. Close enough to hear the ruffle of papers, To see the tears, and take in the details of a face (as words are shared and old stories spread) That has always been familiar, yet...
by Lunchbox Editor | May 6, 2026
Last April I stood before the old maple tree. Alone in that field among golden rushes nipping at my legs. Beholding the failing Atlas whose limbs once upheld my world. Watched it die. Leaves fluttered, stories lost in the breeze. Shades of molten wax littering...
by Lunchbox Editor | Jan 23, 2026
i dont understand how i deserve love. i was born in february and suddenly was wrapped in it. my body carries a million people that i’ll never know. swiss immigrants from ellis island, orphans turned indentured servants, men who died young. i am guilty. my grandma...
