Hannah Silverstein Weather Lately I’ve been trying to solve a problem with my heart, how it clenches, sometimes, as I walk up the street, how sometimes it flares with anger, and then the anger passes, a freak storm so quick, who would notice in this glare, if not for the excess draining down the gutter, […]
Read MoreA.T. Lynne Beyond Vegas In the desert at dawn, a few steps beyond the glittery lights, the gambler—taking a break to breathe real air and count his remaining cash— smells the richly-scented creosote bush that provides shade to the tarantula, a perch to the curve-billed thrasher and refuge to the swift-darting roadrunner, and finds, as […]
Read MoreMargarita Serafimova I love you as the bird loves the seed that she swallows and the air that swallows her. Margarita Serafimova was shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize 2017 and Summer Literary Seminars 2018 Poetry Contest, and long-listed for the Erbacce Press Poetry Prize 2018. Visit here.
Read MoreSteve Klepetar The King’s Fool The king hanged his fool today before sun lit up the sky, before heat roared in, roasting the spindly trees, but the fool returned with his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth while the king kept his back to the sea, which growled in its deep, gray throat, […]
Read MoreSteve Klepetar Red Dogs Red dogs in the neighborhood, here’s how they hunt: teeth on doorknobs, tails mast stiff in a west wind’s blast, every paw a bloody flower on the street. Steve Klepetar misses many people, but has learned not to weep over broken lamps.
Read MoreAllan Lake Law of Gravity Through lattice & leaves in subdued café light I observe her, engrossed in her magazine, nibbling a french fry, dipped in something moist, adherent, unaware someone has quietly entered her energy field, orbits round that heavenly body, captive of her irresistible gravity. Originally from Saskatchewan, Allan Lake has lived in […]
Read MoreAddie Eliades Umbrella Lullaby Sometimes the rain is soft enough to count to sleep. Addie Eliades is an associative slowpoke from Virginia.
Read MoreRomana Iorga The Pond Writing is like fishing in that silt-choked pond behind your grandfather’s farm, where you knew you were unlikely to catch anything, since there were no fish left, only frogs, and maybe the occasional cottonmouth, which wasn’t something you hoped to reel in, and yet, here you go again, stubbornly, religiously even, […]
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