by Norma Marder
Mama was a little tired that day, more than a little tired, but she walked six blocks to the doctor along tree-lined Brooklyn streets, leaning on her shopping cart. Late afternoon, the end of September, leaves falling. She was eighty-eight, a small, tough woman, half deaf. “I don’t give up,” she liked to say, “you know me.”
by Elton Glaser
It’s one of those mornings when you
Feel you were born
In some little horse-piss town in Texas.
by Dara Wier
I’m afraid of your teeth, your riding
Instructions, and your skirt.
Your tread boards and your newels
Liquefy my muscle and bone.
Your opaque balustrades frighten me,
Your transparent ones cut me to the core.
by Bob Hicok
What does the Internet know that it sends me
unbidden the offer of a larger penis?
I’m flattered by the energy devoted
to the architecture of my body.
Brain waves noodling on girth, length, curvature
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