Ashok Niyogi tigers saunter in for Western Union from their non-resident children oak forests have walked away and left behind a two-blade ceiling fan a hundred years ago here Corbett shot a man-eating leopard in the kitchen garden the ‘India Post’ cottage on the ridge has an artist postmaster with gerbera and carnation in his hair grey with time deposits that fathers bequeath their sons and diesel fumes that the hill-girls now carry as...

Howie Good True, but wouldn’t you rather jerk awake to the beating of invisible wings and later, if the light is right, watch a river scratch itself until it bled? And as to the example of those who keep their feet firmly on the ground, like a telephone pole, or a feeding trough, or a tombstone – when you’re in love, you’re happy to board the wounded plane last seen disappearing over the mountains and never heard from again. Howie...

Megan Jones It takes many figures to make a daughter. Following the lines, shadowing the forms drifting from center, braincomb cycling through the seasons, sharp caesarean scissoring black digits, sharp numbers dancing toward a hole no larger than an eye a hole that listens like I wanted you to listen to the song in the statistics to the hope in an unbalanced equation to me. We are accidental as blood choking on the prayer of division: we...

Megan Jones “They who have put out the peoples’ eyes reproach them of their blindness.” – John Milton Hanging between the mystery & tender fury we are seeking our truth and finding our void Floating one breath away from the broken code our chosen vocabulary is whittling reality down to politics and separation Now there is only that twist of precision concealed and the price of seeing is silence a truth we are slow to...

Howie Good Birdsong alarm don’t cry I can feel broken idols change trains upturned hands forfeit fire uncle decay still trying shhh tree sleep Howie Good is a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz. He is the author of seven poetry collections, including Tomorrowland (2008) from Achilles Chapbooks in print and The Torturer’s Horse (2009) from Recycled Karma Press online. He has been nominated three...

Ben Nardolilli Late for work, think this week, We’ll hang out at Richmond airport, No one else can like to take me, I am a fan of the end of revisions, The low sky is satisfactory, No need to apologize over the limited, Finding the place to take me, I need this evening to kick the empty Out of me, all the residue of wishes That would like to take to rise, shine. Ben Nardolilli lives in New York City. His work has appeared in The...

Howie Good Ever since logic fell into disuse, I wake up every morning in the same room but a different city, the buildings a bright blur, like something out of a secret policeman’s florid conception of heaven, a place where millions anxiously spy on each other from between their fingers and all you can hear is the yapping of small dogs. Howie Good is a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz. He is the...

Christine Herzer X FOR SUN X SINGLE ANOMALOUS RASPBERRY X My offer, since last Saturday, is to allow people to die in their beds, That is the wish of most people, and now it is possible in Germany X WOULD THRIVE IN A SOMEWHAT SHADY EXPOSURE X MOSTLY MONOTONE, IF A MITE COMMERCIAL X BRUISING, SWAGGERING, SURPRISING X have you married the bookseller? curb your dog here, X feucht brown bird, who sings X and after it has been done to the...

Carolyn Evans Campbell Man stares at his reflection in his morning coffee balances on the edge of a sugarless death hides behind a shy day the wine mark of his birth the spilled wine of his life fears demons swinging on the trapeze in his brain, sizzling on the high wires How is it then, he gathers the tatters of his life about him everyday steps out into the morning postures and puffs with pebbles in his shoes feathers in his mouth knowing...

Ashok Niyogi immediately after lunch though for ten minutes depression almost drowned me facing curtained French windows my blissful gods ebbed away women’s crooked feet walked over my face into my hair I could hold my expression no more I let the anguish bend my fingertips backwards and was conscious of hunger in the leaves of shade giving trees just then your mimicry of off-tune drums cracked cymbals and debauched voices came and took...