by Conrad Hilberry
I like to think words go
their own way—like waterspout
or sleep or Aztec soup—
by Nancy Vieira Couto
and they double
up for warmth but also for distraction,
silliness, the small jealousies surfacing,
the women with their perms, perfumes, and clip-
on earrings acting coy . . .
by Geoff Schmidt
Their father in his gorilla suit crouches in the middle of the corn rows, a hundred yards from her sister Tasha and the Parrish boy. Her father’s fur gleams in the moonlight. He cocks his head, listening. His dark eyes roll up toward the sky, but he does not seem to see Janet up in the tree. He sways to his feet. He moves uncertainly toward the sound of their coupling. The corn obscures his vision. They roll like seals in the crushed tomatoes.
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