by Albert Goldbarth
The four-year-old is sleeping
in the field, and a butterfly
—a monarch, one of those living
stained glass windows the color of
tangerines flambé—is somehow snagged
at the tip of a tendril of her hair.
by Melissa Monroe
needs a drum where he can play
possum for a spell.
by Solon Timothy Woodward
To the open waters. To the open brown waters of the Nacogdoches. Pooch takes a look at his brother, Remmy, and the road pitches in their stupor between gelatinous walls of trees, foliage. The truck lurches—“The transmission is fucked”—and the nails of the pit bull, Sammy, click frenetically across the metal bed.
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