The Poem.

by Daniel Scott Tysdal

The Poem began after the waiter said, “Binoculars are against the law.” Indecent was the word the waiter struggled for and the poet helped him find....

Pale Next to This.

by Christine Fadden

I was dressed and ready to go to church when my father plodded down the stairs in his thick navy blue robe, lay down on the couch and said, “We’re d...

The Black Sands of Samyang.

by Joel R. McConvey

Jae-yeun’s mother died on the fifth of April, months before the beginning of tourist season. The heart attack sent her face first into a steaming va...


by Sharon Erby

Right then, there was nothing more to do but sit there at the kitchen table and listen to it. Right then, it was almost comforting to hear it. Roari...


Two Poems.

by E Martin Nolan

  Why Wouldn’t the Moon Feel the Same Way The hospital rises in the path of the ladled moon, all that’s left of the night sky besides the wrapp...

Two Poems.

by George Moore

Sex Lives From behind, I put the cloth with chloroform over her face. struggles only a minute–she is so small–and then I lift her into t...

Two Poems.

by Kristine Ong Muslim

The Discovery of Laughter It comes out of an egg. The eggshell thin enough to crack upon a whiff of breath. It seeps out, a pungent goo with a lopsi...

Thrill Wanting Wormhole.

by Martin Balgach

We’re hiding from a tornado in a supermarket bathroom that smells of fresh bread and shit as if painted toenails and love are the same thing when th...

The Inevitablist.

by Bardia Sinaee

1 If a circle, C, is inside a triangle, T, then it entails that C is smaller than T. The value of C would be unable to hold its end of the equals si...

Two Poems.

by Mat Laporte

Mazey Bear Everything about us ennobles the vast proliferations of Mazey Bear, except her groaning pronouncements to the contrary. These are like bu...


by Richard Kostelanetz

Relax, son, you’ll find another job. Only when she was antagonistic did she feel, as she said, “true to myself.” Help is sought for identifying new ...

Homely World.

by Mark DeCarteret

It had animals including an ape and two trees in a forest which had been known to talk to one another. I used to like to pick them up. The stores th...

To An Old Poet Dying Young.

by William Doreski

In your L.L. Bean crewneck and fizzle of white hair and beard you look as two-dimensional as the maps on which I trace your fractures and seams of t...


“This Book Can Hold Our Whisky”: A Review of Welling by Margaret Christakos.

by E Martin Nolan

  Reading Margaret Christakos, you often get the sense that language is a playground in which all the toys are conscious knives that love to stab and all the playground equipment endeavours to buck you off. Only, you are Wolverine, so the damage is only temporary, and off you go to go at it again. It’s fun! But there is a danger of growing bored watching the wounds recede. And it can be sad, too, knowing that this is the only playground now that you’ve grown up, that the lie of friendly, inanimate toys and slides built only to serve you can no longer be sustained. The poet agrees. But though she shares the difficulty of coping with this mad mixture of joy, boredom and pain, she will offer you no alternatives. You can deal with it, you’re fine, buck up. It’s not always that way; sometimes the playground cooperates …...