by Allison Collins If I had guilt I would unzip the suit of my skin, undo the hooks, the eyes, cull out the soft matter, dismantle the bones and soak those relics in a bath of bleach, clattering and sudsy. And, like a toddler heavy with building blocks or a clumsy surgeon in that game,
by Lawrence Ernest Bridges I settle in my chair slowly, locks clicking to the infinite and everything’s right with the world. My shadow-body is carefree, pulsing out of me with my living body’s outline, in waves. The little I’ve done doesn’t worry me, yet done a little still and morning isn’t here yet. I raged
by Bruce Parker Years ago while I was in boot camp, my mom hocked my typewriter to buy vodka. I saw it again in the Taos home of D. H. Lawrence, quiet, on a little desk in a corner, the shock— That’s my typewriter and awe of the famous writer using “my” machine. More years
by Liam Strong in elementary i couldn’t contain my cursive between dotted lines, the blue-white high- way strung with prayer beads. like my legs informing that yes i know what it means to curl my tongue yes i know the hand bears its own dialect yes i know how the abdomen of a
I met Maureen Holm more than 20 years ago when I submitted a prose piece to BigCityLit. She was the prose and essay editor. She called me on the phone (!) to tell me that she thought my story would work better in a poem. I was not writing poetry then. She directed me to
TO THE LIGHTHOUSE by Nicholas Johnson All families have their lore, their mystery and nostalgia to put on movie screens. My Lady of the Cinema still screams out for revenge, love, abuse; she leaves me to contemplate the ruins, the old house and sea. Where is the bright light sent to intervene and save us
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.”