by Robert Wrigley
The last thing the old dog brought home
from her pilgrimages through the woods
was a man’s dress shoe, a black, still-shiny wing tip.
by Natasha Sajé
Ursula is sure hybrids are sterile, like mules. I say
ligers and tigons, those spotted and striped hybrid cats,
aren’t healthy, and they’re confused about whether to hunt alone . . .
by Roy Jacobstein
I guess I’ll be up there with all of them,
Allah, Krishna, Yahweh, God, speeding
along, shooting the shit with the Hims . . .
by Rebecca McClanahan
If you are anywhere near my age, you are familiar with the Routine Procedure, that unpleasant, potentially demeaning event every conscientious internist urges you toward as you approach your fiftieth birthday.
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