Three Poems by Zoe Tuck
How do I write our way in without building a wall, a gate? Here I am looking for an answer from your words, forced instead by circumstances back into my inner resources... Read More
My Glamorous Box by Vi Khi Nao
In Vegas, I live in a box. In a beautiful box for 4.5 months. And, it looks like this: / Where the light is miraculous. / There are radiations in my winter. My summer is skydiving. / I have been waking up in a cloud of fog. This weightlessness that is filled with liquid deterrent... Read More
Record of a Tryst In Tokyo by Eisuke Yoshiyuki, trans. from Japanese by Marissa Skeels
The jazz grew fiercer in the colored spotlight’s rays, as if sobbing or adrift on rough beats, spitting tapes of lust as white as seed... Read More
Dear Prudence by Marream Krollos
Once somebody said that these girls we teach are only going to go on to eat homemade pies all day waiting until their fat husbands come home to fuck them. Only a dream for the rest of us girls in the world… our bodies having already split apart with ways men make war... Read More
The Washing and the Clothes Line by Serge Pey, trans. from French by Donald Nicholson-Smith
I learned my letters as I ate my alphabet soup. Tiny letters, without much meaning. For her part, my mother read the earth, because marks on the ground were the writing of the night. From those signs, outside the house, she knew that a fox had passed by along the road... Read More
Fragments from Moon Ring by Annie Le Brun, trans. from French by Alicen Weida
Children of this century, avert your gaze. Lips are no longer on every word. Words climb pell-mell onto the backs of things. And things, wandering in the desert of their own erosion, seek to bribe our bones, the uncertain keepers of a fortified mirage... Read More
Carnelian by Naomi Falk
And not all touches aim to fix. We are forming something anew. I’ve grown my nails so I can brandish them on my lovers; to pass light strokes over their surface out of boredom or to leave gestural trenches of punctured sin. I often confront our seeking of pain during intimacy within the context of... Read More
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
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
Excerpt from Agnomia by Róbert Gál, trans. from Slovak by David Short
Even errantry has paths to follow. One could speak of being freed of the compassion that necessarily follows from circumstances. In her case, this means that when they’re dancing and she’s twirling around them she’s the only one who’s not dancing... Read More