PATIENCE by John Francis Istel Many rains fell before she filled her boots, put clasps on her ankles, turned them metal. Now she pursues like Athena, no love for her prey, craving such simple justice. She thought about indifference and knew she dare not knead bread from a yeast of feeling. Amid hand-me-down quilts old, squared and frayed at her bed’s foot, the stream back-fills with paint. Sure she can see Madonna from her bakery a simple rose behind her virgin ear as fragrant through the swimming heat as prayer that gnaws or strudel rolls that flake his scent. She hears his steps, fingers the jam so knife’s wiped clean before the click of her garden gate. Gyroscope Review - page 36 !