Thomas Morton Prize: Fiction Winner.

The Edge of Mercury.

by Aurora Brackett

  She was making a list. Too many things had been disappearing and Emma believed in ghosts. She looked up at Henry standing at the sink. He’d used too much dish soap again. White foam freckled his arms and dripped into the basin. He was so attentive with his chores. She thought of getting up, of grabbing hold of his arm. Numbers were scribbled on the pages in front of her. Last week, on the way to the mailbox, she’d heard a voice distinctly saying her name. It was a man’s voice, half-whispered but urgent, as if he had something important to say and wanted her full attention. She supposed it was the wind or a flight of fancy, but there were so many other strange things. They’d been happening more and more. The bath left running when she’d gone to answer the phone was turned off when she returned. …...


Darién Gap.

by Meghan Rose Allen

I The car stopped after we crossed into Panama. “It went farther than I’d hoped.” Marianne shrugged as she pulled the keys from the ignition. “Now w...

Daddee 2013.

by Jim Smith

—From a poem Kim1 was next to walk over to the car as it sat grumbling, trunk open, a plaid shirt hanging from the open trunk. He held out the shoeb...

Thomas Morton Prize: Poetry Winner.

New Pastoral.

by Nathan Slinker

  I. When Asked What the Hole Was For, the Child Said It Was a Grave To be in this body with a rucksack and wet flesh on a wounded planet’s back. Solutions: the one-bullet gun, the riding whip, or the lost gauze. I chose not the first and saw some world: Orchard trees sewn into hospital gowns grasp at dusk, at each others’ appaloosa leaves. And each dusk the same— the botched sun, the moon nuzzling our flea-bitten galaxy. Down all the rows, bees build mausoleums under gurneys. Gods of the abandoned silo, blackbirds dance and caw through a broke tractor. The mule rebuilds himself from a farmstead’s rusty machinery—heads out for another go at the golden hills, the earth moist with dead medicines.   II. On the radio in a white city I built from planet-skin, the pretty voice describes who have dug their last ditch and used …...


how to enter a dress.

by Wanda O’Connor

  Wanda O’Connor’s poem, “how to enter a dress,” is presented as a special PDF supplement. “how to enter a dress&...

Birds of the Holy Lands.

by Anthony Ramstetter, Jr.

  Anthony Ramstetter, Jr.’s poem, “Birds of the Holy Lands,” is presented as a special PDF supplement. “Birds of the Ho...


by Athena G. Csuti

  it is easier at night slip in spill words in your car on a Thursday under orange streetlights and I am stripping. you said you didn’t know wh...

A Dirge for Yesterday.

by Bola Opaleke

  We came back home covered in delusional, decorated giggles boastful and sententious, seeking your approval. For our plastic bones crumpling l...


by Kilby Smith-McGregor

  1. SWIMMING LESSONS called eggbeater imagine an eggbeater in the kitchen an eggbeater hand mixer in the back of the cupboard there’s a wheel ...

Mother’s Day.

by Katie Fewster-Yan

  Tomorrow is Mother’s Day, and Fitz, my upstairs landlord, is fussing with the fence again in the backyard. I can see him through the uncovere...

Two Poems.

by R. Kolewe

  OVERPAINTED PHOTOGRAPHS I had hoped for more. I had hoped for calculus, or image, or oracle. I had hoped for definition. I had hoped for more...


by Hannah Peck

  Repair yawns into disrepair. Sheds, sway-backed and molting, unclench into the slump of entropy, escape use. We measure time with a star that...

Three Poems.

by Adam Seelig

  Adam Seelig’s poems are presented as a special PDF supplement. Three Poems by Adam Seelig        ...


by Gary Singh

  concrete expressways spread their tentacles cul-de-sacs, wool-coloured stripmalls, tract-house subdivisions seasonless weather suggests the t...

Three Poems.

by John McKernan

  NEW SHOELACES EVERY MONTH The red and white peppermint-colour ones The stringy lime sherbet-tint ones Hard-to-tie extra long licorice ones Th...

Four Poems.

by Jairus Bilo

  AIRBUS INFINITY so many care bears here sometimes I wanna eat gas or pillow myself some vapour the whiteout held itself and then i remembered...

Two Poems.

by Bänoo Zan

  TORONTO 2012 You answer my call by calling me What does it mean to mean nothing? Life inhabits the geography of time and parentheses open the...


“Out of the Well”: An Interview with Bruce Bond.

by Adam Tavel

  Bruce Bond is the author of nine published books of poetry, most recently Choir of the Wells: A Tetralogy (Etruscan, 2013), The Visible (LSU, 2012), Peal (Etruscan, 2009), and Blind Rain (LSU, 2008).  In addition he has two books forthcoming: The Other Sky (poems in collaboration with the painter Aron Wiesenfeld, intro by Stephen Dunn, Etruscan Press) and For the Lost Cathedral (LSU Press). Presently, he is a Regents Professor of English at the University of North Texas and Poetry Editor for American Literary Review. The following interview was conducted via e-mail in the summer of 2013.   Adam Tavel: What were the generative forces behind Choir of the Wells evolving into a tetralogy? At what point did you realize that it wasn’t merely several individual manuscripts, but rather four interconnected books conversing with each other, and how did this decision inform the book’s completion? Bruce Bond: As with all my books, the generative force was actually many forces. The challenge with …...