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
Read More
The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
Winner of the EXTINCTION Essay Contest, selected by Lacy M. Johnson
The theme of this special issue was inspired, in part, by a
The only flowers you can’t pick on the island are wood lilies. They shoot out of the ground in clusters, orange with brown flecks on their petals, and in 1978 the state
Clatter-drawn, drawn by hail.In rain the stones go soft and feral.You’re ferocious in trauma’s pelt,prickly skins each generationpasses down, heavy and re-stitched. You’re a roar of grassesand lashed panes, a rabbit haunchquivering
What Happens in Hour Four? I’m paying attention to the lyrics in this song which go you can’t…always get…what you want… but if you try…you get what you need. I’m paying attention
Dirty light in the tiny hours. Rubbed myself off on a fire hydrant in the shadows. For want of a more accessible protuberance. It was the old night terroirs had me up.
Translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry healers / flat sky / flame gifts for the hill / dachshunds blue cellophane / blue color of bread blue white walls / dante blood
Ryan and I had decided we were too old to be parents. We’d just met too late in life for this to happen, and the fiscal reality that we were teachers meant
You always leave them on the trees to rot & it so pains me to see this every fall those gorgeous pinkish red orbs like pinkish red planets become hollowed a reminder that time
I do understand what would drive someone to chart their loneliness on a grid. I do understand the precipitous tower of books relies on labors paid and unpaid, mine and others, in
2023 Margaret Sterling Memorial Award Winner I am of my mother, my mother is of me. I am my mother’s eyes, deep turquoise, surrounded by deep orange, that I am not of.
2023 Hattie Lockett Award Winner Memory finds me clean. I offer it space inside of my kidneys.It wants to know a face. I don’t have a face I only havehands. Bear the
