Six Prose Poems by Alistair McCartney
When I die, my memory—or do I mean your memory of me?—will dissolve like the Platonic (abstract) form of a cube of sugar in a cup of tea, like the post-abstract expressionist (Neoplatonic) form of the corpse of a boy in a hot pink ceramic tub of hydrochloric acid, correction: sodium hydroxide... Read More
Five Poems by Anna Gurton-Wachter
I get to re-experience / a fly bouncing / off the walls / equivalency began / each time I swell / a cloud or angel / evoked off-hand / I don’t think I would / separate myself / accept love sad art / unanswered / how it is... Read More
Episodes from OMAR by Sam Truitt
0. / Prison / — / the pervasiveness of penology / — / to be inside a thing and unable/unwilling to leave / — / some involuntary but most to varying degrees riding it / — / or climbing its walls / — / the glass mountain and relation to the practice of the open... Read More
Two Poems by Sawako Nakayasu
Girl F’s the getting, and tiredness is the reference, and the other is girled by their initials. There’s the decisive finding, that is, the name-outer, the girl-eacher, the come what may, but there are also some extremely marching shes, which makes Girl J say very well why there was so much Hi, name, fuck, of... Read More
Two Poems by Krystal Languell
I shook out my reading material / asked if it was okay to be seated / then sat comfortably / maybe one more month and / her baby could have lived / she got a tattoo to remember / carved a thin tulip for a skull... Read More
German Letters, 1935 by Dong Li
mild winter no snow it is a sunny day Dölzschen alive the cemetery full of locals flowers laid words left in fogged breath will return after a short walk taken slowly they are hesitant to leave the house Nichelschen the tomcat died last night... Read More
Saint-Ouen | Stalingrad by Marie Silkeberg, trans. from Swedish by Kelsi Vanada
Rashomon. The Demon’s Gate you say. / I understood that it had opened. / Only a few more seconds. And it would be opened wide. / Time would stratify. / It snowed. The first snow fell... Read More
Two Prose Poems by Michael Trocchia
He left the shovel out back, leaning against the elm; he left his radio on, tuned to a static sense of time, a pair of wet boots at the pedals of the piano, and his wool cloak, stained with wild game, draped carefully across the keys, as if to warm the heart of a winter... Read More
Two Poems by Alison Prine
On the shore your face strained / by laughter is washed in sun. / The recognition in our gaze / is cumulative. / Every morning I wake / to watch dawn unfold over the harbor. / At night I crave to go back into / the conversation our bodies have in sleep... Read More
Three Poems by Gail Hanlon
After drones became the size of hummingbirds (and even the size of a grain of dust, it was rumored), we started to reevaluate the whole idea of shame. It was a sort of Garden of Eden scenario. But we could no longer cover ourselves. No longer seek cover... Read More