Issue 154

Summer & Fall 2018

Image from Wings and Wires

Poetry George Kalamaras Poetry George Kalamaras

1 + 1 = 0 / Body Time No More

The days elongate into shortening hours, into the stiff guard hairs of a dog

Each breath breathes into and through the obstacle of its own breathing

Body sometimes body

If you asked the meaning of an aphorism, I’d say the widening tail of a peacock on fire

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Poetry Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach Poetry Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach

Rust

Bridges have fallen from less.

And boats bicycles train tracks the buckle

on our suitcase the grinder gears beneath

my grandfather’s left hand.

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Fiction Jen Julian Fiction Jen Julian

Attachment

I’m told I should get a new husband. This one has gone dead, as they always do. No matter how much I prod him, there’s no response, no way to tell if he can feel it.

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Fiction Alexandra Fields Fiction Alexandra Fields

The Tennysons

My best friend Mickey’s mom drives a hearse. A 1989 Lincoln, black on the outside—which seems obvious but I have seen silver ones—and black on the inside, with headrests in the front seat that you can pull off and put under your feet as a cushion.

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Nonfiction B. Pietras Nonfiction B. Pietras

Both and Yet Neither

When I was thirteen, another boy at sleep-away camp—a boy whom I had never spoken to, but who had heard me speak—fixed me with his blue eyes and asked, “Are you a hermaphrodite?”

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Poetry Irène Mathieu Poetry Irène Mathieu

archival

after Monica Youn

when my grandfather speaks from the couch
the iPhone screen is reeling forward
its pixelations smooth nearly as flesh

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Poetry Diane Louie Poetry Diane Louie

Flying Colors

Ceci est la couleur de mes rêves. Joan Miró 1925

This is the color of my dreams, Miró tagged forget-me-not blue. Miró, faceless,
has taken my hand. Before we named it, we did not see the sky. We still confuse
each other with ourselves.

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Poetry Jericho Brown Poetry Jericho Brown

Deliverance

Though I have not shined shoes for it,

Have not suffocated myself handsome

In a tight, bright tie, Sunday comes

Again to me as it did in childhood.

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Poetry Jane Zwart Poetry Jane Zwart

A Sidling Fire

My oldest asks how one knows

when things that aren’t metal or people

get old, and he is four, so I do not say:

Books fox. Clocks lose time. Flowers

molt and bricks mislay their edges.

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Poetry Michael Lavers Poetry Michael Lavers

Alberta Georgics

1

Of chinooks smooth-talking small infinities
of wheat; of tar-tanged topsoil,
and of fraying permafrost; of fire’s falsetto

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Poetry Carlie Hoffman Poetry Carlie Hoffman

The Women of Highbridge Park

It’s noon on Sunday and they gather

around black milk crates placed in a circle

on tattered blue fishing tarp. It’s not quite

March, but it’s one of those fluke

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Fiction Richard Schmitt Fiction Richard Schmitt

The Trestle

Crossing the trestle is trespassing. A black and white sign: DANGER KEEP OFF. We don’t. We run the tracks, two Mikes, Debbie Martelli, and me, high-stepping every other tie, avoiding the gaps, trying not to trip and tumble.

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Fiction Amy Purcell Fiction Amy Purcell

The Five Stages of Writing a Story

I. Denial

A mother, a daughter, a son, and a priest walk into the funeral home.

The daughter thinks this could be the beginning of a really bad joke, fodder for a story she will write about another daughter’s life.

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