by Melissa Monroe
needs a drum where he can play
possum for a spell.
by Richard Lyons
My father is wearing a raincoat, lofting an umbrella.
He’s wearing a priest’s collar, white tab at the trachea.
It looks as if he’s hearing the moon’s confession.
The moon is the long red jacket of an Angus.
I wish I were making this up.
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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