Of Iron

by Hilary Sideris I know ligo, a little, Ellinica. I make a pot of avgo- lemono feeling a fever coming on, pray to small gods called saints who do favors & specialize. A semi- colon is a question mark in Greek. Sideris means blacksmith like Ferraro & Eisenstein, but siderenios, of iron, said to a


by Laura Zaino We take our medicine carefully. We dole it out one measured dose at a time, ever mindful of the side effects, the after effects, the longing. ​400 mg ibuprofen ​.25 mg xanax ​4 oz whiskey ​15 mg adderall When I step out onto the sidewalk I look up at the sky, trying


by Elisabeth von Uhl At once, we are strangers — the memory of the wind blowing through stark, golden sugar maples on the side of a hill at my grandmother’s farm — you will never know. I keep this locked, a recollected pattern of neurons, hallowed, reversed, and stripped of color, like a funnel of

Digging Graves

by Elisabeth von Uhl Bodies are fragile. A universe wrapped                  inside molecules inside particles of magic, science, and a divine always choked by a political doctrine: you have always                  wanted new bodies; yours never had enough beauty, enough resilience, enough white. So now, you will wish for bleached perfection: bodies that never broke                  and needed

Home, Snail-Mail Me

by Hibah Shabkhez Home, snail-mail me my ghost in card-backed brownPaper, with your name scrawled on the back. FrownAt termite-tunnels and spider-spun webs,Pry me loose from their sands as time’s tide ebbs;              Home, snail-mail me my ghost. Send me old pain, sepia-soaked, to crownThe numbness of exile. These blank walls drownAll my forced mirth. Send our

Solstice, Lake Shore Drive

by Carol Sadtler The Queen of Spades looks up at me from a chilly city sidewalk— I put her in my pocket—one stray card with two faces—does she signal vengeance and evil, or benevolent, intelligent power? At the end of this ragged year, before the longest night, it seems important to know. Eight lanes of


by Pema Rocker I wonder if my mom tried to kill me in utero. I wonder if I almost died at birth. I wonder when I became I, when soul slipped between stitches, into limbs, in-breaths. I wonder if I ever formed, or if it hovered always around edges of mother father am-them. I wonder the sound when I slips


by Brian Rihlmann I first discovered the limits of photography in 2003, after climbing Longs Peak in Colorado. Elevation 14,259’. A “Fourteener,” as they say. I scrambled over boulders and through a notch in the ridge known as The Keyhole, emerging on the other side to dizzying emptiness a drop-off of a thousand, two thousand feet.