Below are some examples of poetry that have appeared in the Edison Literary Review


At the age of fifty-six, I don’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. Even worse, I feel folding fitted sheets into small neat rectangles that fit on shelves in an orderly fashion is beyond my abilities. I am not kidding. Every week when the sheets come out of the dryer I start folding with optimism—this time I will surely figure it out—and end with rumpled messes, which spill on the floor when anyone opens the closet door. Every week my belief becomes stronger: I am broken in some fundamental way and thus incapable of learning how to fold a fitted sheet. I trust my ability to understand complex scientific theories such as dark matter or to fix an outage affecting sixty-thousand phone lines or to travel alone in a foreign country but not my competency with easily-mastered-by-everyone-else-in-the-universe tasks such as applying makeup, buying shoes, blow-drying my hair, managing money, cooking simple meals, housekeeping or tending a flower garden. It has been this way my whole life. I get by because you can get by with wrinkled sheets in disorderly closets by pretending you’re above worrying about such nonsense but, truth be told, week after week I’m in the basement trying to figure it out.

Teresa Carson, Issue 11


Unscrew the first doll,
split the painted halves in your hands.

Thumb the glossy outer shells,
then the unfinished insides.

Unscrew the next doll,
a smaller version of the same soul.

Unscrew the next, the next.
Admire their wombs of sandpaper,

their awful fixed expressions,
the only weapon they have to fight back.

Abrasion with no sensible end:
this is how pearls are grown.
Anna Evans, Issue 13


I’m the senior citizen, the new face 

of Medicare. I get 10% off at most places,  

two bucks at the movies. I’m the son who 

didn’t listen, in debt now. I’ve signed on 

the dotted line once too often, my wife is 

my partner in these pecuniary crimes.

She knows what she’s doing. I blame her.


I taught my kids to drive to get them out 

of the house, played dad and loved it.  

I’m the guy who comes home at night, 

falls asleep in front of the TV, awakens 

several hours later in the middle of an 

infomercial for Nu Wave Oven (the best 

in conduction, convection, infra-red 


technology—a holy trinity of bullshit).

But wait, I’m part of the target  market,

dreamy enough to be talked into mostly 

anything. I’d like to revisit a lot of my 

mistakes—doubt, anger, duty, self-mockery.

Where fools gather, I know where to 

find them. I take a number and get in line

 Robert Rosenbloom, Issue 14