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Triptych: Nuala O’Connor

There But For I rub in the hand cream, slide it over giraffey age spots, sniff the petal scent. Marcus watches this ritual with unbridled irritation. Before he would have wanted the cream slick on my palm, the better to…
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Triptych: Sharon Telfer

The objects of my affection My husband, the wall The breakfast sun melts over him like butter. I run my hands across his dips and hollows. No one else comes close like this – feels him soften in the slanting…
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Triptych: Stephanie Hutton

Before I married, I was a plume of gas. His hands grasped through me. Slowly, slowly, I set into that which can be held. Or be hurt. My cracked lips taste of summer on the turn. I press on raised veins on the backs of my hands, trace a map of mortality along my skin. Never to return to a noble gas, perhaps I can cling to another to become a compound.

Triptych: Paul Beckman

DINER TALES Coffee, Hon? Everyone’s Hon to May. Even strangers. Especially strangers whom you want to feel at home like their regular diner. The regulars are all Hons, only the teens are not Hons, they are Hey Guys or You…
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Triptych: Fiona J. Mackintosh

Madonna and Child with Apocalypse: A Triptych Left Panel With a whoosh and thud, he lands on the courtyard wall, and I leap up, startled, my book flying off my lap. His wings are twin arcs of pure light, and…
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