by Kim Magowan
The first day, I pace the red-light district, looking for a hotel, my suitcase banging my leg. At noon, sick of carrying it, I open it. My maid-of-honor dress, midnight-blue silk, spills onto the sidewalk. A dress I spent four hundred and fifty dollars on, a dress I will never wear. I stuff it into a garbage can, where it billows out, a bloated flower.
by Adrian Koesters
What it means to need this much as she faces a metal bowl
Of boiled eggs in the peels she dips her hand, . . .
by Sam Butler
We found the emu gutted and blind in the southeast pasture, just past the gate with wild oat growing at its posts. The bird made short, harsh croaking noises until we got too close, when it lurched atop its wobbly legs and tried to run.
by Diane Schenker
Take Medea’s cloak of fire.
Put it on. To everyone’s great horror,
wearer burns to a crisp.
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