by Carol Casey on my skylightconversing, lingering,their raucous criesa threshold tosomewhere nearthe profound earthof birth, or death. Their gravelly calls fill me with fear that is part longing. In the midst of illness I ask them are you telling me to live or die? Both, they say. That’s hard, I tell them.They pace about, black […]
By Brody Alix Long summer, half-forgotten —when I felt I was dying, I thought of writing past lovers as if their memory of me could keep the disease from spreading.You begged, what do you do all afternoon in the bedroom? Praying, I said, red,Cuius regio, eius religio —keep the windows open.Bewaring the beetle on my
By Ann Weil One thousand wooden houses line the streets, centenarians painted white or in Easter-egg pastels, each with a porch, its ceiling painted like sky. Haint Blue, the color has been named, and is said to ward off spirits. There are always chairs, a rocker, sometimes a swing, and these porches beckon like pretty
Porch Life on a Limestone Island at the End of the Road Read More »
by Andrew Furst my loveand three hundred.between thema pictureof a long sand barstretched across the red sea.i am disguisedas an echoin dissolving water.threadless, fair,and uncolored.i forgetputting a price tag onthe red and sweetof listening to you readabout the dakotas,and their shaking winds.disconnected fromevery childhood friend;address, city, state, and zip.three hundred lovesforming a plane,intersecting at 11:11
By Amirah Al Wassif Every time I start to laughSomebody invents a new way of laughterI run to the closest mirrorBurying my swollen faceCounting my disappointments on my fingersNo music in the backgroundOnly the cracking of my bonesDo you hear it?I see you on the wallsYour purple face wavingLike a curseI put a hand on
The same old story Read More »
By Al Maginnes First story: separation. Little songs navigating waves of air. Clouds redundantin their mortality and reformation. Consider that a kind of proof.The coffee maker spits into action. A woman standing in frontof an open window breathes in all of creation her lungs can grab.Then lets go. Thirty two floors below, a man holds
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By Adriana Beltrano I’ll die in the Keysduring a hurricanenamed Farrah or Claudette or perhaps Odell.The storm will splay long-nailed fingers and scatter the wind,drawing waves toward the Sun. Today, I’m wrapped in something white,long, flowing; I’ve been heaved overboard.There’s nothing waiting for me.When I hit bottom, sand will bite my knees.When I rise, light