The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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The chalk creaks in agony on the blackboard.We hate this double English. Still not evenmidway into the first period that happensonly on Tuesdays. The minutes grind onlike stilt walkers on my new
Apocalyptic Date Idea #1 What if we kissed for the first time and I tried to stop it—sprinting up the street, scraggly-bearded, soot-skinned, tearsacross my face, minutes until the portal to my
Daily promise of blankness Scraping against whiteness Not loneliness but loneliness The house is not the room is not the bed is not the moment is not Cold nestling in after My
Allie Hoback is a poet from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Southwest Virginia. She earned her MFA in creative writing from Syracuse University. Her work has appeared in New
To Sleep The pink sun has fledto its bedchamber, leaving my hands darkened—wrapping‘round the sleeping beast his prayers, shadows and starshinehis hooves, bent toward the bloody moon begging for forgivenessas my fingers
dollar store sonnet i’m a five-below tree frog bitch so i can’t tellthe difference between the tree, the general, family$1. usually there’s a section where thingsare 8 times $1, so after i
the water becomes a villagewhere the ghost of the boy you were first learned to swim. you remember full moonsthat lasted entire months, swans who thought they were sparrows,sparrows certain they were
from ambient poems hi this is my algorithmic expression my me slowly becoming an NPC an encrypted moth a placeless i in an ambient logic that wants forgetting yet persits like a
against the shed, my bike leans, rusting. i pick off my legs a handful of sand spurs. i save them in a jar. i save everything that cuts me, from paper to
When the Editor Asks if the Suicidal Ideation is a Persona in his rejection email I appreciate it honestlyI do but I wish he was right that that endless tunnel was just