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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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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Poetry Kathy Z. Price Poetry Kathy Z. Price

And Gwendolyn Brooks

There was a time—

I could not see constellation of stars, for

rooftop smoke burning from garbage-can

bonfires, could not discern rhythms sifting the

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Poetry Anders Carlson-Wee Poetry Anders Carlson-Wee

Training

When we part the brush and rush the bank

the bodies bob faceup and facedown

in the mountain stream like apples

in a Halloween game. Our headlamps paint

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Poetry Keith S. Wilson Poetry Keith S. Wilson

Augury

I’m close to certain with my choice of pigeon—this one—
under the bridge returning from the Walgreens

where I bought the pill. Its head bulges
with a legacy of green and white

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Poetry Keith S. Wilson Poetry Keith S. Wilson

scrapbook

-after ladan osman

i. look—in the middle distance the siren screams
like a fatherless boy,

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