Familiarity

Jonathan D. Scott It took me a few seconds before I understood that the girl was talking to me. She stood on the step above where I was sitting, bent slightly, casting a shadow over my textbook. “Joe!” I looked up. She was a white girl. Her light brown hair was pulled back behind her… More

Chalk

Aleksey Porvin Translated by Peter Golub Memory moves, like chalk on asphalt, drawing us: back and forth, again forward and back – how the ocean is born, the sky with a bird’s wing in the window. And white light comes to the still face. Sharp contour, bright eyes, the way it was here, will remain… More

John Hemingway

John Hemingway sits down with Ben Evans to discuss his writing, childhood, and grandfather Ernest.

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Meditation on a Chrysanthemum

Alan Gann Molly, lotus-legged in Chinese silk, sits till unseen tumblers finally click— Lets eat; Lets dance; Lets screw till we’re silly. And Molly lets you watch as she reassembles herself, walks with you toward your favorite little café, but when you step fast to cross with the light she turns left and is gone,… More

from Angel Sex

David Brennan Sore at the knees, dulcet Rain-spelled afternoon Delinquent in its misery, Fuzzy line between film And the theorist’s projectability Easy to know, how I open my mouth to your doubt, You gloze for me still, only Melody where the itch is, The perfect music solemnly Is broken, may we hear it again, You… More

Which Poem Comes Last?

Terese Svoboda The dark one with the orange pincers behind. The o-shaped, all resolution. The two-legged, the forewarned, the explicit, the red-by-accident. Always a line short. ABABA. Always failing the sunset in compelling insouciance. What must finally be said? Ah, beauty–or, I get it? A catastrophe of silence is what a bird fills. Inured, casual… More

The Tree, Shaken

Terese Svoboda Each dream bears a nut these days: She is cruel. Was she always? The nut opens: Inside is the suicide who walks herself to death, and a friend, drinking in the living room. Or is she the mother? It’s time to forgive her her hemlock, its sloppiness, its anger. She’s happy. I wait… More