After Jennifer S. Cheng 1: the sea captured in a glass 2: a homophone for having enough for leftovers, a synonym for abundance 3: the fish, who have already forgotten you. It’s not personal 4: where memory fails, there’s still imagining 5: you. Not as an ocean but outside 6: glass and/or acrylic
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The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
CHARLES YU is the author of three books, including the novel How to
Winner of the EXTINCTION Essay Contest, selected by Lacy M. Johnson
The scarecrow thawed & we readied it for the garden.I wanted to rub the purple botches on the Dahlia’ssoft white petals. A robin oblivious to me stoodon earth as soft as bread
Timothy Nolan (he/him/his) is a writer and visual artist living in Palm Springs, California with his husband and their rescue dog, Scout. He has exhibited extensively for three decades and his work
I see a photograph of a human heart entirely drained of blood, its surface translucent. The aortic valve and pericardium membrane encapsulating the heart are a pale, pinkish beige just shy of
You tried to color my hair at the kitchen sink the night we moved in together: a big man wielding a little brush with surprising delicacy, applying blond dye in practiced streaks.
Having For So Long Been My Mother’sLive-In Caregiver I could call the doctor, make oatmeal,buy vitamins, change batteries,and dim the blinds all day long.I could service your concentrator,clean your nebulizer,or do something
All around is a dark sea threateningto swallow challengers – boats approach in failed attemptsat reconciliation, boiling over⠀⠀⠀⠀ at the hull with sailors shaped like menmouthing tame loose-lipped⠀⠀⠀⠀ apologies. Mumbled voices blanket
Chaco Canyon yesterday, impulse after reading the Childs stuff. Many years of wanting to go. I thought it took 5 hours or more but driving a little hard it was only 3.5.
I come home sad so I slice potatoes thin and fry them with oil and onions, keeping watch to flip at the perfect time, right when they crisp up golden. I remember
because there’s something I should tell you,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀but you’ll need to come to me. I reachand the rock of me stays,⠀⠀⠀⠀ just here where I’m mortared— ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I must, then, own my arms,
Matthew Woodman teaches at CSU Bakersfield and is a graduate of the IAIA MFA program in Santa Fe, NM. He is the author of This Is Not Your Moon, and his poem