Katherine McCord I write a book for her. Then my sister and I dredge up the past. And after the last kid is sealed inside, we ride to the sound of phones. The house and life before me. Like a big fat tomb. The fan fires. The light flickers. An explosion behind the jets in… More


Brandon Courtney Dear Brother: I too, have seen our sister make a rainbow with her mouth, glass of tap water, noon sun. The halo of vapor around her face was magic; the way a carpet burn leaves the same pink scar as a house-fire flame. Dear Sister: Sing with me from your charnel mouth the… More

Three Short Poems

William L. Alton The following are an experiment of mine to write poems of substance in under ten lines. I read and studied haiku throughout the process but avoided syllable counting in order to retain each poems unique stylistic feel. Trauma I had sex six months ago and said I was sorry. The want comes… More


Ann Howells i squeeze my eyes tight make blue neon swarm colors meld like oil on water i crouch bow shoulders jack-knife knees got yer Mama’s nose folks say got her mouth must be they fit your knuckles my coat of colors fades: black to purple blue to green yellow to brown i wear battle… More


Obododimma Oha Was climbing a tree climbing a solar experience Was waltzing the temptations of the leaves Was wing in chlorophyll, greening my pathos Was in the shadows as in the mood of a flowering tan Was reading the spots on the skin of a talkative squirrel Was hoping a Nobel could xylem through to… More


Robert Wexelblatt The black gondola suavely beckons, a luxury not to be missed. So you nod, step gingerly aboard, and let yourself sink into the plush throne. The masked city is sinking too, dissolving in the foul water where even sodden newsprint and rotten fruit are almost ennobled by St. Mark’s dome and those phallic… More

October Gesture

Andrew De Haan Autumn—untying of the knot, uncoiling of life in all its hues and quivers, and I suppose if we cannot have the sun then the trees will do, with all the fruit and flame their dying brings. Two years ago today I was drunk, alone, exploring my dank basement. I found a stack… More

Two Squeaking Ghosts (in a World So Tall)

Andrew De Haan Oh I glowed with you tonight, rode a little hum song, flickering pinprick song of the rippled stratus sky, song of joy from the daily mudly bravery of rolling from bed and taking root in the stark breath of morning. We whispered this little hum song to the laughing river, we peeled… More

Grass Fire

C.N. Bean When children burned in Ben-Hinnom’s valley was it like the hell of fiery red sparks that lit black plate glass and a tired man’s face? Only twice did he race forth barefooted, once the night that followed a day of heat, dry grass burning right up to our door step, the other the… More

Twenty-Four Years After the Refugee Camp, A Renunion

Catherine Strisik Fireworks explode over the Mekong. The restaurant balcony is a pop-eyed gecko damp with pity. Friends drink a second Angkor Beer each. The Khmer puts on his glasses, continuously. Mind wanders between this world and the world. Tonight, the baffled city soothes itself with curious costumed dancers. The American doctor’s heart grasps for… More