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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* Voltage-gated pathways are depolarizedand pore-forming membrane proteinsallow calcium influx from adjacent solutions. (Cell insides become saturated) Excitation is mossy fiber runningsouthbound head-stems and paired shootsthrough once-relaxed tissue. * You’ve established rules,preventative
What separates us from our lives / is a see-through thing. /
Brandon Downing’s collections of poetry include The Shirt Weapon (2002), Dark Brandon
Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless like water.Now, you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup.Now, water can flow or it can crash.Be water. —Bruce Lee 1. When the lineup
LM Brimmer is a co-editor of the anthology Queer Voices: Poetry, Prose and Pride (2019); their essays and poetry have recently appeared in The Colorado Review, Heavy Feather Review, Tiny Spoon Lit
I’ve always balked at playing scalesbut I’ll stand on a girderhipshot in floral board shorts,a vintage weirdo pokingthe membrane between here and now.⠀ I need my sea green eyeshadesto scan this fiddly
My heart, a jackalbecoming wild,for beholdingat a distance.⠀ I wake up unrelenting.I stay that way forever.⠀ No sound but a sirenfrom my mouth.I sit in the stainand gnash at myself.⠀ All animal,
A Short Film Starring Me at a Bathhouse I have a line of men waiting to see me. Inside, their hands extend when I walk down halls.I can see their palms glisten
Mending I watch her delicately wielda needle, coax threadthrough a beaten pairof my father’s Levis.We’re in the family room,with all its books. The old oak tableis covered in charcoal sketches,badly disfigured handswe
The Bispham Dairy Farm We wandered and settledon the Bispham Dairy Farmwhere the hills disappeared and the countryside flattened,a land filled with Palmetto Palms with sand no seed could sprout. My father became
Jalal-Abad, Kyrgyzstan, 1997 ⠀ Snow——the silencewithin silences——a flickering streetlamp——your gloved hand——⠀⠀ Р е м о н т scrawled in Cyrillic on an abandoned shack——the good-night kiss——[⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ] ——then the small, fused heat
Playing Hide ‘N Seek with My Father’s Ghost the blue-sky gleams [______________________]from behind the oak tree [__________________________]like it’s fed by the stream [__________________] on the day my father dies we
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
