By A.D. Capili “President Duterte said kill the addicts, and the addicts died. He said kill the mayors, and the mayors died. He said kill the lawyers, and the lawyers died. Sometimes the dead weren’t drug dealers or corrupt mayors or human rights lawyers. Sometimes they were children, but they were killed anyway, and the
By Kenneth Pobo A yellow orchid just blooming, noise from cars and mowers at the window which I shut tight, a quiet that calls me to come closer and sing softly. Kenneth PoboKenneth Pobo (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press, 2015),
By Gerry LaFemina The field speckled with yellow patches because there’s been one rain in weeks & the temps all record-breakers so that even the canal is parched, even the dandelions growing with abandon on its banks, & the mountain breeze is just hot breath, an upset parent looming but with nothing to say. Sunlight
To the eight-year-old who lost her home in the bombing By Pam Laskin Flesh a bandage for brokenness, gangrened grief you can’t treat since my baby brother died in the arms of Mama and Papa all clinging to splinters of stone once our home. Pamela L. LaskinPam Laskin is the former director of the New York City
By Hilary Sideris I dream I’m a man in love with Vincenzo. We’re in our 2020 Tucson. He can’t see my pistol as he parks, confesses decades of betrayal. È vero— he twists the figurative knife—I love somebody all this time! I pull the literal trigger, toss the gun in the river. I’m old by
By R. Cardenas Colmenares I cannot afford to build a castle in the sky. No. The ruins of my castle have been buried for a while now, so deep in the mud pit. I can’t get them out. Not while the world operates this way,where color pallets are held, cold and sharp,against our throatsto determine
By Puma Perl A red eye. An escape. Or both. I once moved four doors down the block to escape a bad relationship. He never found me. I didn’t even need a plane ticket. Just better judgment. Puma PerlPuma Perl is a poet, writer, and performer and the author of two chapbooks, and three full-length poetry
by Julene Waffle Sometimes I embrace the stillness of winter, let it settle into the threads of my veins, twist itself into the locks of my hair, but tonight I lock it away in the drawer where I keep my lacy things and old letters that belong only to me. I knuckle down and sing
by Elizabeth Morse Monica and Joyce set out for mountains in a beat-up SUV. Anytime is a good time for this much-loved excursion. The radio plays songs from years ago, as though time has been sliced open. They talk, and drink bottled water. Monica pulls back her hair, flicking the fastener once, twice. Their words
by Martin Willitts Jr My mother’s age-ravaged memory before she passed away. What a strange phrase, “passed away,” as if floating off. How odd to be less mentioned over time. Winds come; winds go. Winds blow the moon away. Winds blow the yellow off the finches, scatters leaves, memory, sorrow blows them all into a