i want to keep in touch

by John Compton we are rust or maybe rustic * our hands are searchlights our lost bodies’ buoys pulled & pulled * years find us searching backwards too late to mend too stubborn * we fight the current to have space still separate: our shadows between waves John Comptonjohn compton is a 33 years old gay

Called by Name

by R.T. Castleberry I used another name last night, took initials and a ringleader’s bandanna into calibrations of changing moonlight. I carry knives in every pocket, a coin lucky for the week. Loose on my hand, the signet ring is a stranger’s fit. I use Crown Royal to share my voice, a shoplifter’s Mont Blanc

Children of the Desert

by Emily Browne gather to see the bones that spell out met-a-mor-pho-sis vertebrae drifting in single file stars one hundred and two feet down strewn across the bottom of a dried-up well the blonde boy without history names dead stars in the order of their collapse what songs there are are of deserts sand wind

Do You Like Coffee?

by Carla Botha It always starts like this: with coffee somewhere —               coffee shops               coffee trucks               ice coffee               on breezy summer days               on lush lawns               hot July days it always starts like this it never ends like this. Carla BothaCarla Botha completed her MFA in creative writing at New York University. She currently lives and works

Bisecting Paths

by Madeleine Beckman I was at the Mudd Club you were too                   probably watching or with another young artist high (most of us were) on something potent          but not as potent as youth. I was probably dancing (what I did back then). Music was my drug, movement my master – every muscle, tendon taut, tantalized in

Convalescence

by Nicholas Johnson When you came and sat on the edge of my bed, lowered and raised your voice, I knew your voice was the best medicine. It conjured up visions of our recent holiday, the houses spread out at random, the jazzy blues of the meadows where the inhabitants always awoke at dawn with

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