Mark Butler Dead Minus e = Dad It’s grim work this feeling nothing when your father dies 40 years after you last saw him, his turned back spurning you more familiar than his face ever would be, as if you’re mourning not for him, but for grief, yet another thing he denied you. Born in […]
Read MoreOri Fienberg Deserting Our Ancestors Land grows up and loses its parents: the wetlands forgotten for low-slung shrubs– and here’s another beach, orphaned by the water, trying to find purpose. Ori Fienberg’s poetry and prose have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Essay Daily, and Subtropics, among others: read more at <orifienberg.com>.
Read MoreNeil Creighton A Beam of Light Scoff, you cynics, you observers of the here and now, but we are only our dreams so why shouldn’t I, with prophets and seers, float out of my darkened window on a beam of pure light, soaring high above the swamp and desert to see, just over the horizon, […]
Read MoreMeghan DePeau Memory -for survivors Memory is a slippery fish perfectly still just below the surface, flashing silver as it darts to a crevice, eyes always open. Meghan DePeau gets along well with kids, animals, and many adults.
Read MorePhillip Luke Sinitiere Emotion’s Oxygen I want to crawl inside your skin and touch the imprint of what I have caressed only from a distance, which is to say, brush betwixt and between the glistening canyon of familiar terrain in which blistering lava’s silence speaks a language all our own. Phillip Luke Sinitiere teaches history […]
Read MoreMaia Evrona Hidden Yiddish Perhaps there is memory growing out of oblivion, a miracle happening on a journey, as the nightingale sings an aching soliloquy buried in the forests of Poland. Maia Evrona would not dream of disturbing the mystery.
Read MoreJohanna Donovan Ancestry My mother’s hair lives on my head now, no happier than she was to live on one continent. Johanna Donovan is a woman of few words who loves this medium.
Read MoreDavid Adès On the Cusp of Another Birthday Shopping again at the Department Store of Loss — pockets full of the currency of memory — I talk to myself to breach the silence, marveling at how the stock has grown though nothing is on sale here, nothing is free, and at how easy it is […]
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