On My Street This Summer.

by Marc Apollonio

When Dad saw the blue knapsack, he asked what it was for. I told him I had things in it. I’m pretty sure I went red when he asked, but I kept a stra...

Getting Better.

by Melissa Kuipers

Aleesa Prins had no armpit hair. She told me once—or did Tyler tell me? Not even a little peach fuzz. At the time I felt it made her seem more evolv...

The Half-Life of Salvador Barbary.

by Andrew Boden

Tinka Barbary didn’t have to push at all. Her baby slipped from her on a pink amniotic stream into the bright, warm lights of the delivery room, at ...


Denial Sonnet.

by Lynn McClory

  This first statement delays us to survey the lounge. In this statement, we have hidden our present, or forgot its location. Light makes no se...

Three Poems.

by Matthew Tierney

  IN THUNDERATION Sandwiched between trailer and movie, a comet heads for earth while field phones in the front lines muddy meadow grasses. How...

Gerundium Flowers.

by Sean Braune

    Abating in the twilight, backdating death by calculating junk bonds while dating Xs and Os; eating dirt, fabricating stories at storyt...

The Taut String: A Glosa.

by Anna Maxymiw

  “And I quietly abscond past upturned jars on the wooden fence into the silent rows behind the house. No-one cares; hidden in cornstalks that ...