by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright Evening stoops under its sodden shawl. A siren broods; its caterwaul snarling over blackened roofs. Someone’s on the run. Wet tires whisper to Avenue C. “I’m lost without you,” they swear. I wanted to be a matador in Manhattan, dancing with horns. I wanted to be a genie smoking in your
by Barry Wallenstein A mark on the calendar – the first anniversary of when his heart failed to allow him another day. His body conspired against his self for a too long lingering while, and then the muscles failed. “Time to leave,” he would say, drawing on a cigarette – “don’t get me wrong” –
by Sarah Sarai “Pantyliner Notes.” It’s yours, my hands are washed for at least twenty seconds. “Girl with a Pearl Jam Earring.” “Tess of the Rosenthals.” Confidence lost in bluster is gained by belief in cohesion. Sense is altogether different and who cares not me. “Dombey and Son from Another Mother.” “A Midsummer Night’s Cream.”
by Reneé Salandy against the backdrop of a cradled moon footprints across the sky—they gone too soon and galaxies like shutters from within eclipse the earth and block the devil’s sin what happens to black souls after the day? botham, atatiana, freddie gray philando must’ve greeted them with food known as one to be far
by Carrie Magness Radna An Aerostar arrived in Charles de Gaulle Station, fresh with London rain. The Parisian clouds looked tame and people strode out upon the wet streets, bravely. I dreamed I lived in Paris for a while before I headed home to America. My heart felt thick as clouds, but my worries were
by Sarah Nichols I am the girl who had my mouth sewn shut. I whir in swarms, all teeth and unquiet, my whole body, all shrieking, all radioactive, a ray of night. I am the woman collating bones. A nervous system brought back to life, a little disaster burned up; a trigger of childhood, a
by Paul Robert Mullen and most folkstayed at home // followed the rulesprayed for an end in sighttook up new hobbiesbinged on Netflixhad a lie-in (or two)spent valued time with the kidstook a deep breath // time to stare at the wallsmade phone-calls they’d been meaning to make for monthsstarted to write (…there’s a book in
by Joseph Mills Most dances are sexual,pretend otherwise all you want, but there’s also the violence,the alpha aggression and animalistic desire, which we appreciateeven applaudas long as its stylish, rhythmic,coupled with the music. Let’s be honest. No one wantsto be Peter. Even the Wolf fantasizesabout being the Wolf. Joseph MillsJoseph Mills, A faculty member at the University of North
by Bruce McRae Print neatly or not at all Name: My name is Legion. Address: That which cannot be found. Age: Time is relative to motion. Sex: Inexorable. Education: St Gary’s School for the Marred. Previous employment: Carrier of water, hewer of stone. Keeper in a dark tower. Qualifications: I am that I am. References:
by Cathy McArthur Today I’ll sleep– comforter, flowered nightgown—dark beneath. At the hospital, three interns lifted sheets and peered inside me. One said, “incomplete;” I didn’t think it could be me, but covered myself with a sheet under the overhead light. Before then, alone, I tossed lingerie in the sink, the water ran around with