by Vesper Grove When I was a sister my brother told me stories underblankets of storm clouds and pillow forts because he thoughtI was scared of thunder, and the yelling in the walls. That’s whenI learned fear could bring people together. When I was a sister my brother stole books on castles;We crafted every […]
tell that story again Read More »
by C.L. Rooster Martinez “Witchy Woman” plays & the Eagles don’t knowthat I know that brujeria lives in the hair –curly & wet & coarse & coffeerich mystic mujeressirenas con cabellos sin cortaswild thicket womenovergrown in the face of a mad psychotic cosmic I love the shock & awe you adorn me in–Pelo on
Even after the world ends, I always date peludas Read More »
by Kaylee Fichtel And suddenly its autumn born again,and although I’ve moved half a state away(back to the coast, to the forest, to home),the kiss-swept sun of september duskis the same milky gold of every fall before: Falling, lazily, through leaves and brancheslike tacked-up birthday streamers sagging with ageand dappling different sidewalks in the
by B.A. Brittingham So many nights I visited you alone—For we were both solitary; I above anddealing with the world of cars, groceries,jobs, laundry, and you below finding your wayin the what-comes-after world, wearing yourdenim jacket and embroidered shirt (stitchedby my own hand) resting in that forever pose.We were alone and yet close, a
by Stephen Ruffus Sleep remains spectral in a blue light,saturated and dispersed in a prism.He ripples out like water drawn tothe horizon until it rushes back again.Or even more truly, he walks upa steep path with seemingly no end,trees on both sides giving him comfortthen descends toward the housewhere he lives. Although untetheredfrom him we
On the anniversary of his passing Read More »
by Elizabeth Cooper After the beach you kissed me for the first time. “We taste salty” you said – as though the sea had synthesised us swirled us into a single thing with a single flavour. Moments later remnants of sand on skin rubbed away the outlines of our individual bodies. Elizabeth Cooper is an
by Charlie Brice In memory of the 270 souls lost in theJune 12, 2025 crash of Air India flight 171 Sweating in his dhoti, the little man pushes his cart alongbrick streets under a cruel sun. Engine roar makes himlook at the plane rising. How much rice does he spill on Ahmedabad’s bumpy streetswhere
by Pamela Hobart Carter after Deborah Digges Notice the last brightness leave the field at its back,ignoring it into a nonexistence. Ants, crows, squirrels—always up to something.We board the bus to sail beyond earthly gravity, or step onto the slack rope, precarious over a canyon.A kind of buoyancy like a hot
by Nicholas Olah I take a walk in the dark. Crickets and fist-sized frogs are close; a breeze carries belly laughsfrom across the pond. Otherwise,I am alone. I think about how I have loved you and you will never know this. I think about holding my broken parts up to the light but the days are shortening again. It happens every year—the light dims and leaves.
by Evan Balkan Her name was Susan Goldstein. She joined our class in late September. When Mrs. Joyce introduced her, Susan’s face shaded scarlet. Sitting in the desk next to hers, I could feel her radiating a prickly heat as she mumbled, “Clover.” “Clover,” Mrs. Joyce pronounced. “Okay. I think we can handle that,” she