When I sit on the toilet, my thighs,/ purple and mold-green, file against / each other, mercilessly. My neck hairs / rise, dandelion-like, aware of her thighs
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Malus by Geoff Anderson
I find the last crabapple—rotted, not fallen
from the branch but buried up in the leaves.
What has stopped the cankered globe from falling?
immigrant treatise by Bernard Ferguson
the sun is retreating from yet another day that wishes to lay claim
over our bodies & my friends have taken to the streets in my name.
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Two Poems by Robert Krut
And as the curtain above turns
to black with the absence of time,
we lie here, backs on grass,
dew climbing up and over our thighs.
Two Poems by Jessica Guzman Alderman
Like all beasts wandering on the edges of cities, I turn my head
toward the highway. The sun sets across six lanes of idling engines.
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Tiny Worlds by Molly Gutman
When the Devil comes for Christmas he brings
a casserole. He wears an argyle crewneck,
too expensive, pilling, starting to smoke.
In the Grove of Self-Charging Trees by Jessica Jacobs
It is early enough that fog still skeins, / like moss, the highest branches. / And twining each tree: a cable / rough-creped as wild grape vine, / with both ends socketed / into the trunk.
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Houston: The Satellite Bar, Wednesday, 1:13 a.m. By JP Allen
The city is a two-headed lizard scaled with private parking, the mist is full of drones, particulates
and used blue gloves—
but here, may we get super SUPER weird.
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Fix By Sage Curtis
I stich pills with gin,
think in pink things,
pinch sticky skin if his Irish shirt clings right.
It’ll fix my mind.
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Fellowship Application by Joseph Rios
His other hand enters my space with fingers out
like he’s flying or the birds are flying or we’re flying or the truck is
flying; we’re birds now and I still can’t get this shit lit.
How Briefly the Body by Chelsea Dingman
Two Poems by Sasha Pimentel
A man outside a café is putting his gloves on slowly, tugging
the leather over his wrist, and he is, perhaps, waiting for me
to put my knife and fork down, to come out from behind
Wishing that There was Another World that Isn’t by John Gosslee
Mae Young Has Always Been the Heel by W. Todd Kaneko
Screw that—I’ve never seen a woman
I couldn’t lick, never a man I couldn’t
hammerlock and stomp into the canvas.
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The Coltrane Substitution (Naima) by Michelle R. Smith
Letters to the Editor Regarding the Death of Public Discourse by Sara Biggs Chaney
You say there are ashes in the water. I say if you want my new sprinkler system, why don’t you come and take it from my cold, dead hands.
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Two Poems by Heather Lang
here’s a lastingness / of to crease and an ambiguity / of to fold.
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Two Poems by Rachel Inez Marshall
I read someone stole a frieze from Santa Croce
over the weekend. And given my sense of Florence
or elsewhere is less than impressive, I thought maybe
you and the thief may have passed on the street.
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Two Poems by Katrin Tschirgi
I'm tired of being cute. On Tuesday,
I wore nothing but an apron and dismembered
an orange as though it were an oyster
or a man.
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Three Poems by Felicia Zamora
Fingers to keyboard, cyber-minded
when the photo hits your inbox—
Hexagons burnt into wood: a pattern
innately inside the bee, graffiti-ed
by human hands.
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