lick the sand
from my wound
than hope
good things will come
to the corner
of my heart
where someone built
a temple
without my permission
my wound is simple
always there
unlike that relentless
god who
comes and goes
like a tide
leaving the beautiful
and broken
behind
-
Issue 66
-
Editor's Note
-
POETRY
- Lindsey Bellosa
- Chase Samuel Berggrun
- Mark Jay Brewin Jr
- Stephen W Carter
- Stephen Cramer
- Elizabeth B. Crowell
- G.S. Crown
- Jacob Cumiskey
- William Grenfell Davies Jr.
- Robert Haight
- Zebulon Huset
- Betsy Johnson-Miller
- Lillian Kwok
- Devon Moore
- Mary France Morris
- Dan Murphy
- Kathryn Nelson
- James B. Nicola
- Thomas Osatchoff
- Supritha Rajan
- J.C. Reilly
- B.T. Shaw
- Eva Skrande
- Catherine Stearns
- Don Thompson
- Ross White
-
FICTION
Issue > Poetry
Parable of My Body
a wasp hides in the ark
of my ear
a peach settles in my throat
to rot
o lord how long
must my skin entertain this coven
of spiders
today is Wednesday
you'd think tomorrow
would be a different day
of my ear
a peach settles in my throat
to rot
o lord how long
must my skin entertain this coven
of spiders
today is Wednesday
you'd think tomorrow
would be a different day
The Beast Years of Our Lives
coos moved quickly
to udders
owls we stayed awake
until our young
climbed on us screaming
sometimes with delight
for now we roar
our love and frustration
but I bet we'll become
marmots
you tell me
when it is just the two
of us again taking baths
in every sun
too soon we'll turn turtle
all that slow
time for you to gaze
upon my soft neck
tell me how are we supposed
to do it
in such old shells?
to udders
owls we stayed awake
until our young
climbed on us screaming
sometimes with delight
for now we roar
our love and frustration
but I bet we'll become
marmots
you tell me
when it is just the two
of us again taking baths
in every sun
too soon we'll turn turtle
all that slow
time for you to gaze
upon my soft neck
tell me how are we supposed
to do it
in such old shells?