Build, Now, a Monument

Matthew Olzmann No longer satisfied by the way time slips through his life’s work, the maker of hourglasses yearns for a change. He elects to construct a staircase instead. Rather than grains of sand, he’ll manufacture one stair after another to lament every transient second. Look at it now! It rockets upward, almost vertical, beginning… More


Elyse Fenton Let’s be a little less brave together say the zinnias to each other, heads like olive frittatas sliding unbroken across the pan. Down the block it’s chickens chickens and a ruminant wind bringing autumn back into the equation. Choose instead the tractor’s absence, bankruptcy of hives, the universe bending down to pull a… More


Scott Hightower “a murder of crows; a hell of guns” Oh, Vatican, have your bank clear our way to guns! We need them in our beauty shops, our schools, our class rooms, for our children with soft bodies. If we are going to transform our way of life into an arsenal, we need guns in… More

Shortly after dying

Ely Shipley I wanted to come back but the world didn’t want me. Your face was a blank bullet that still terrifies a blanket that hides a face erased page sheet we might have slept beneath without touching. Before I died, I cradled an infant. I sang it lull-a-byes. Aren’t all songs? But it kept… More

Cider Garage

Christopher Keller The garage is full now. Glass apple trees, a great flood of fermentation and an aroma of old tools fawning over tannin. These sweets breathe through the foundation, their sugar cocooned and ready to emerge in industry, or wilderness – whatever makes the taste best. Our acidity is threefold: that of abandoned Oregon… More

Stuck in Waco

Nanette Rayman-Rivera When I want to be in Eretz Israel— And the intermission, the maybe-tomorrow that I felt everlasting, the antipathetic, the affirmative action that made lightning rods out of me, after months in beige flatlands the seam between the worlds cracked and I ceased to be. I become the intermission, my intractable-alone affliction hidden… More


Allison Grayhurst I know the vines that pin a desire to the dirt. I walk the miles of compulsive destruction and the weeping despair that laps all light from the stream. I sit bound to the spot. In and out of days with blood under my fingernails and hands that can’t stay still. Have I… More

Flipping (Bulimia) with Isaac Murphy

Jacob T. McCall They say my hands are strong enough to draw blood on the bits in a colt’s

 mouth. They don’t notice
 how I will only eat collards 
 for a month before the post-date.

 As trainers pace chestnut geldings and smoky colts over   the Kentucky clay, training them for the derby, I… More