by Steven Coughlin
I wanted my brother to die, or I wanted the wires stuck into his arms to wrap around his twenty-one-year-old body and never let go, the white hospital sheets enough to finally make him good.
by Elizabeth Gold
I tell you I saw this once—tangle
of typewriters piled up
on a city street like a pyre
waiting to be lit, . . .
by Andrew Peery
Raphael wonders what butterflies eat, but he is only seven, and there is no one obvious to ask. His older brother, Ortiz, says everyone knows in the fifth grade.
by Gary Fincke
But some are splayed sideways, skidding across
What seems to be a cloudless, wind–swept sky.
Some are seated on nothing, plummeting
From unseen planes. Or they’re twisted, headfirst,
Bright smiles lasting to the floor where their legs
Still pedal air, . . .
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