by Hailey Leithauser
More than mere spasm
or when focused mind
and game heart combine
as mechanism, . . .
by Naeem Murr
I write fiction, but poetry was my first love. It seduced me into the word. That and a davy, hippieish secondary-school teacher called Mrs. Fowles. This woman dismissed all the so-called great writers, warned us that reading too much would impair our originality, and had us write a poem for each class.
by Caroline Finkelstein
we lived in a hermetic house tiny house claustrophobic endless
we hid ourselves from other worlds we did it so deliberately
up ahead the end is dusty awful I apologize . . .
by Christopher Torockio
She had finally begun to get her figure back, so when Roger suggested an afternoon at the beach, she thought she might be ready to attempt something like that. She looked out the living room window where a fine blue-white sky shimmered above the near treetops. The air conditioner had been humming all morning; the baby’d been asleep for the past ninety minutes. He’d wake any time now.
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