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
Brenda K. Marshall’s first novel, Mavis, was published in 1996 (Fawcett-Columbine), and
What separates us from our lives / is a see-through thing. /
I believe in the sun even when it is not shining, I believe in love even when I cannot feel it, I believe in god even when he is silent -written on
On the faculty hiring committee, I march,demanding they acknowledge meand my virtues. I tell them I am decent.I never thought about killing someoneexcept myself, even then I didn’t do it.Despite myself &
Marcus and I share a two-bedroom garage apartment, and he has filled it with horses—some are small figurines with stout legs and straining muscles, some are broad, shiny busts, with veiny eyes
I am driving west, away from New Mexico, where Kai and I had made our home, when the shrubs suddenly give way to rock: Cliff faces scarred with eras past. Steep buttes
One way to measure the passage of time is to count the number of days since you last had sex. I’ve lost count. I only know it’s
yellow hibiscus shrouds the cathedral feet in pieces of sunlight / the church full of sprack / he steps into a cassock / moves down the vestibule
When the world woke from burning / we wiped down the counters / and straightened the dishtowels.
Winner of the Sonora Review Issue 77 Fiction Contest, selected by Rebecca Makkai
I built a sky of my own on my bedroom ceiling. / This sky is bold & bright & blue and I know / the birds will fly away, but it’s okay.
All night, the frost-rimmed windowpane / conducts me into new states of sleep, / while town announcements beckon me back /
from days in my grandmother’s yard, /
