We box in the park and when we hit, our first faces crack and shatter. Underneath, now, I see his second face. Narrow and deep.
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The Nightfly by Libby Cudmore
She poured coffee from her thermos and pulled herself closer to the microphone as her cue neared. 'Nina the Nightfly here, with tunes to get you through the long dark night. My lines are open, so call me up and tell me what's on your mind. I bet I've got a song that'll fit how you're feeling.'
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Pigeons, Again by Hannah Gregory
A pigeon. The LED on its collar blinks. Kendra cups its body the way she holds her coffee to warm her hands. The message tied to its leg is unanswered.
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Filet-O-Fish by Wynne Hungerford
We had become fish in time. I smelled my shirt. It smelled like fish, like fry. It smelled like where we had been.
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Body (mine) by Amanda Leahy
We supposed / you were / mute, or / dying. We threw you / to / wolves; / they / didn't want / you.
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Two Poems by E.C. Belli
Fog can be an atmospheric condition or / a type of bewilderment— / I am asked to think of ways / In which I can keep it / From settling
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Three Poems by Ceren Ege
My mother chose to place his lungs in rice long before the doctors decided to / tease the tumor. Let the grains pull
out the chicken stock from its veins long before she stopped / cooking. My father was a quiet man.
Stinktown by Matthew Goldberg
In Stinktown, we scavenged for trash. That was our big industry. We’d sift through huge mounds of garbage, searching for stuff we could use for trading purposes.
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A Normal Interview with Kelly Gray by Shelby Pinkham
If I can line up visuals that allow you to connect to your grief, your anger, and imagine an alternative life force, while allowing you your own autonomy in thought, that feels far more consensual than me telling you what you should see, feel, do.
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No Country for Daughters by Sarah Twombly
They say this is the age of monster hunting, and we are the monsters: mothers and daughters, heroines and crones. The stench of us riles them. The sight of us sets them to howling.
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Spontaneous Abortion by Nancy Beauregard
shut / off the lights climb back / into bed place a pillow / under your knees ask / forgiveness
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The Students by Harrison Cook
At recess we didn’t move our feet on the playground. What was the point? Some of us rubbed the tattoo under our arms like chimps, or rubbed the spot just above the belt line, scratched the back of our shoulders where wings would grow.
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Two Poems by Lily Rose Kosmicki
A satisfied end eludes me / The hysteria of locution becomes me / Charred brain crowded and crowned / with fleshy angles feeding / of the mouthparts, crazed
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Hot Shit by Amy Kiger-Williams
We walked around the neighborhood like the queens that we were. We licked our fingers and touched our asses. Our fingertips sizzled the moment they hit the denim. We smoked cigarettes behind the shed, then took long showers and brushed our teeth, even our tongues, to get the smell off.
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Orange Beach by J.A. Bernstein
It catches me, the smell: this ocean drift, tinged with salt. Pungent as seaweed. Sulfurous, perhaps. And for a moment I’m brought back in time: the smell of Galt Drive, Fort Lauderdale, 1983, and the cream-colored pants that my grandfather wore to his chest.
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The Shark Catchers by Margaret Redmond Whitehead
The men believed they were the shark. They saw it as a mirror: on one side, power taut behind silvery skin; on the other side, hard teeth inside predator’s mouths. Their incisors were remnants of a shark-life. The slick of their lips were meant for water.
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Banished to a World Without Magic by Annie Tupek
Gone. The farm was gone, too. And the castle. All that remained were his vague memories of that other life and his magical self that had lived it. That missing self knew his fairy godmother.
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Mr. Plimpton's Revenge by Dinty W. Moore
So I imagine my rickety-clickety little car didn’t frighten him much. I remember that he was thoroughly gracious. And tall. Very tall.
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The Playground at Night by Nick Story
They had never had a playground like that. They had had to work from a young age and played with rocks and sharp pieces of wood. Their lives had been hard, and it was difficult to see children whose lives were so lucky.
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Thera by Kristian Macaron
I know I am not empty -- life inside me / is grit and blood and a light buried in / sinew which has made me this star
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