Carl Swart Night has carried her breath from her Like gypsy moths dancing in snow, That floated down the lattice while she dreamt Of pink-tinged canna lilies opening at sunrise, And out in the field a hollow bell rang, Its song drifting over the red wheat. By the moon’s dim lantern, her mother’s Storm-filled throat… More

Suburban Metamorphosis

Bill Neumire It’s not a science, this still-cooling story: Nora was a woman who became a couch. Tim, defeated, clipped the fringe from her ankles and wore it as a laurel, artlessly microfiber, though blessed with a middle-class honesty. Why does anyone lose who they are? The atmosphere, it gets heavier until it congeals into… More


Bill Neumire I am a left shoe, no laces, on the Maine coast; a kingfisher somehow owes me its life. I didn’t choose this sea’s flagrant shift from green to blue. I didn’t choose rogue waves or the clot of storms. Why then the ballistics of love, the freckle, the artistic hips? On Tuesday there… More

Connective Tissue: Part II

Glenn Ashley Paterson In a forest of starlings there is no sound. This worries me. Should there not at least be a muttering? … I once read— this was how you died, in whispers that you did not hear— but I only heard the last blood returning from her fingertips. … Last night I spent… More

Que esta queimando?

Peggy Dobreer Everything. Everything is burning, quiver and bow. All things coral or pink, held in a box with a fan on top. Even the silk kimono is burning, two cranes preening at the hem. The shamisen, its body up in flames even as the plucked note quarters, even as a hand strums the belly.… More

Jones Beach

Guillermo Filice Castro Naturally you can’t hear me Over those boys Who’ve hung a momentary eclipse Above our blanket With their soccer ball. In lieu of conversation We watch and shiver; they yell and grunt. What carries all of us through? A tremendous bounce Toward the sun. And just as fast, of course, The fall.… More


Guillermo Filice Castro into a hole something      of the self always disappears light    mother tongue into mouths and this morning that bunch of hairs peeled off the drain and dropped into the toilet almost as mournful       a gesture as a wreath laid in the ocean Guillermo Filice Castro’s work… More

Whole and Steaming

Donal Mahoney Dingle, Ireland   The bathroom carpet, wall to wall, is blue, the lightest blue, to complement the bowl and ceiling. Apropos the moment: I bend the waist and heave the gristle from last evening’s steak. Tomorrow I shall row again to see those ancient men in caps and coveralls stand like statues while… More

Ode To This My Undead 2

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. Like divining rods that tremble at the sensing of some hidden wellspring I stretch my tired arms, lay them down, slowly, like a pilgrim with a heavy wreath of cross on my chest hoping to still the undead fountainhead of these Tears. There is a river deep kept raging by the… More

Miss May’s Predicament

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. In many ways she is more like the vase that holds the flowers she tends with backbreaking care in the backyard you’d never see her take off the ring her gnarled finger had outgrown; about time, maybe, someone taught her how to use search engines online Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. is… More