Simon Perchik, Celestial Recess 2

Simon Perchik You wipe the way the moon once warmed the Earth caressed your arm with shapelessness and the fever left over from some fiery beginning half shoreline, half waves still flaring out staking their claim and memory –inside this path a brain, left behind to deal with the scent smoldering leaves give off –you… More

Simon Perchik, Celestial Recess 1

Simon Perchik Its power comes from this froth –never mind there’s no caldron to make sense, you drink listening to bubbles work a cure are healed when the fountain touches you, smelling from gauze and nursing homes –the old have no choice, they let the faucet run and for a while wait at the sink… More

The Credits Say 15th Elf

Chloe N. Clark He was cast as a minor Elf, the one always at the edge of the frame, running into battle or contemplating grave proclamations. His children tried to find him, point him out with ecstatically jabbing fingers, but they were always wrong. Years later at a bit players’ convention he laughed with extra… More

He Was Always Almost Something

Chloe N. Clark Sometimes he’d write words on blackboards solely because he liked the way chalk dust softened his fingertips, paled them into some color not quite living. Once he ate earth, accidentally almost, it tasted bitter rich like too dark chocolate drenched in coffee grounds or ash. He never drank flames, though he meant… More

Breadcrumbs

Michael T. Young I keep believing in the fresh start, keep turning back as if to begin, but there’s no going past the push of hunger. As a child, I filled jugs at a natural spring, my hands rich with the scent of moss, the rocks gurgling, the smell of wet soil saturating the air… More

Scrawl

Michael T. Young He likes to repeat to himself a phrase from a Keats letter: I will clamber through the clouds and exist. It steadies him like leaning against trees, or brewing coffee to a thick brown resistance. It’s that kind of private refusal that helps him push on, dress the children for sleep, clean… More

A Plague of Cottonwoods

Laura Powers June, and they stand in flowering frustration at either end of my yard. Cottonwoods (geneus populus) are gendered and must be planted accordingly to avoid the outrage of unspent catkins (desiderium). I learned this too late to now keep seedpods sticking to the laundered sheets I’ve strung to dry between them like a… More