Hotel Gabriel

Richard Foerster I woke in alien dark to a babble of plumbing through the walls and an AC’s rushed but whispered intimacies with the night. Even my own breath’s shallow ebb and flow seemed oceanic in that room circling around some invisible and shaky axis. I was lost, but through the keyhole’s tiny Moorish arch,… More


Richard Foerster To escape the cage locked with combinations long ago set to memory —there’s the trick. But rust can hold fast the once calculated fall of the tumblers, and the self find itself submerged in icy waters. Where then’s the oil of reason, and what contortion can dislodge a skeleton key stuck in the… More


Michael T. Young I learned that in an interview to enter Oxford they might ask how you would describe infinity, and I thought about once being asked how I would describe a paperclip to an alien, that is, to someone who’s never seen one. It was a writing exercise that made me think of how… More


Peter Waldor If one runs out of food up here a blue flower can be eaten for weeks, but another blue flower is deadly. There is a difference between them I have forgotten. Peter Waldor is a poet living in New Jersey. His collection, Door to a Noisy Room (Alice James 2008) was a finalist… More

An Open Window

Richard Foerster Disbelief can sweep like surf across the sill, or what the oaks mimic: shuttled limbs, wind-woven susurrations, which the house breathes in, fabricating a dream through which lovers can raft on the ambient dark, and their minds, relenting, settle, passive yet attentive to the sensuous slosh of sea and air— that’s how our… More

My Mother's Hands

Michelle Lin They are beginning to spot like over-ripened fruit She holds them over her cup, folding in the smoke like fine linen With their fingers splayed, they are lotus flowers, pale white and reaching over sweating kitchen pots for a napkin Sometimes at night, I watch her sort laundry by the bed, her hands… More

Finding Myself Quitting My Job

Linda Back McKay By the lake, just in time. Sweet water ocean tossed over rocks by the moon’s sleight of hand. We warm by degrees, reluctant to give over to change. I feel ornery like my banging first floor radiator. Steam rises to meet a peeled-back sky. Swallowing perfumes of honeysuckle, apple blossom, columbine, I… More