The porch light throws shadows on the far side of the canyon.
Three Poems by Gary Young
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Issue #7
Hero by Tom Whalen
Every hero the writer must approach only approximately. The eyes, for example, must resemble Roman candles, like the eyes of the actors in Wilhelm Meister arriving at night in freight wagons before the castle of a count, as noted in Jean Paul’s School for Aesthetics.
Strip Poker & Dybbuk by Jeff Friedman
My lover shuffles the deck, fanning the cards into a bridge. The cards arc like a rainbow, then fly wildly through the air like fish hurling out of the water into the mouths of bottled-nosed dolphins that leap to catch them in their hungry mouths.
Overcrowded With Ghosts & Fairytale in Fracture by Kelli Russell Agodon
My nights are packed with mourning—barn swallow in the closet, fishhook attached to its beak.
Kappa by Matthew Minicucci
It’s raining again, you say. Near flow and no-slip. Car on the curvature of space and time and boxed wine. Here: the clear empty well of a disappointed glance.
Where I Found Him by Meg Pokrass
Way up in Alaska I found the man who loved me. He could no longer move his feet. I found him half-dead, staring upat the sky, looking for a helicopter.
Some Day We Will be Scientists, or Farmers by Amelia Martens
We have begun the experiments. Peek-a- Boo Birdhouse, with two-way mirror so the
girls can spy on chirpy hatchlings, watch cartoons, and cry.
Linked Stories by Siel Ju
The coffee spill added a familiar sentiment to an otherwise simple postcard.
Holiday Inn by Kathleen Nalley
After the bruised body recovered, after being shoved
into a car, after the knot in the temple subsided after
a platter of fried chicken smashed into her head, her
mamma took her girls to the Holiday Inn and hid.
Five O’clock Rush & by The Knight’s Move by David Lehman
The nurse left work at five o’clock. My heart stopped beating at 5:01. There
was no one in the room when I died and no one to notice the miracle of my return
to consciousness.
The Oboist & The Revolution Passed Me By by Maureen Seaton
The only way we can properly forge into a
dark future is to bring along our oboes. Bring
them high. Bring them low.
Five Prose Poems by Denise Duhamel
Once upon a time there was elaborate plumbing, then people started shitting in
the woods again. Once we worshipped goddesses who bore children—now we
want mothers back to work in twelve weeks.
Combustible by Claire Bateman
In the realm where infants, like comets, show up in flames, igniting
as soon as they make contact with the air, all of the delivery room
Suite X by Amy Breau
I was prepared to answer the first question, have you ever wanted to kill someone?
But it completely threw me off when they asked, have you ever wanted to keep
Three Prose Poems by Shivani Mehta
A snow leopard, a tree, an owl. Her favorite is any winged creature. Bats,
dragonflies.