Late October

On the couch together, in the casual light of the afternoon, my legs draped across her, and both of us sipping tea, she reached to brush a bit of dirt from my forehead, only it wasn’t dirt, it slipped back up into my hair, and neither of us wanted to believe it, but it was … Continue reading Late October

On the couch together, in the casual light of the afternoon, my legs draped across her, and both of us sipping tea, she reached to brush a bit of dirt from my forehead, only it wasn’t dirt, it slipped back up into my hair, and neither of us wanted to believe it, but it was true, I had been scratching for days. So, because I wasn’t home for long, with no time to waste, we did the whole thing, just as in childhood: bathed my. . . Read more
Anna Sudderth
Old Lyme

Someone in the classroom has written their report on Lyme disease, and speaks with earnest gravity about prevalence, arthritis, the climate, guinea fowl. Talented birds: they hunt lawns, peck at the stone walls, eating ticks like potato chips. The presenter calls this the urban legend of Martha’s Vineyard. Now we look back at the deer, … Continue reading Old Lyme

Someone in the classroom has written their report on Lyme disease, and speaks with earnest gravity about prevalence, arthritis, the climate, guinea fowl. Talented birds: they hunt lawns, peck at the stone walls, eating ticks like potato chips. The presenter calls this the urban legend of Martha’s Vineyard. Now we look back at the deer, all of the deer and dogs and white-footed mice. We switch slides, go through our neighbors with the same afflictions, all watching the ground with sideways eyes. Here they are:. . . Read more
Olivia Noble
Sun

Back before I knew the politics of walking with your chin up When I was bright eyed and 20/20’d I’d sneak to the outer orbit of the playground nestle myself between the comets and leftover kickballs and watch the sun sing itself purple Like a tuning fork wobbling into place, The sun would sway somewhere … Continue reading Sun

Back before I knew the politics of walking with your chin up When I was bright eyed and 20/20’d I’d sneak to the outer orbit of the playground nestle myself between the comets and leftover kickballs and watch the sun sing itself purple Like a tuning fork wobbling into place, The sun would sway somewhere between sapphire and emerald Shedding stained glass over my sight It was a parade for the patient…and the reckless for the kids who wait till greenlights to play hopscotch the. . . Read more
Sidney Saint-Hillaire
Two Poems

ROOTING DOWN It sounds like a room of tiny bells, the wind coming in through a small, stained window Butterfly shells pucker their lips and recede White birds bury orange beaks in the folds of their chests We are in a rounded world sun setting into darkened line between water and air You are wearing … Continue reading Two Poems

ROOTING DOWN It sounds like a room of tiny bells, the wind coming in through a small, stained window Butterfly shells pucker their lips and recede White birds bury orange beaks in the folds of their chests We are in a rounded world sun setting into darkened line between water and air You are wearing rose on your wrists, in your hair And I am staring as the clouds swallow the sun whole SNOW ON THE AIRPLANE WINDOW It rains, and all for you, Of. . . Read more
Rachel Kaufman
On a Tuesday

Here, now, a half-dozen people are nearly touching one another under the rubble of the Salvation Army thrift store. By evening, I have exhausted the coverage. There’s a photo of a family standing at the edge of the cluttered lot. To their left, an excavator rests with its head down. Dust coats the daughters’ hair. … Continue reading On a Tuesday

Here, now, a half-dozen people are nearly touching one another under the rubble of the Salvation Army thrift store. By evening, I have exhausted the coverage. There’s a photo of a family standing at the edge of the cluttered lot. To their left, an excavator rests with its head down. Dust coats the daughters’ hair. They’ll be gone as soon as the light changes. Their car is just around the corner; with the walls gone, you can see it. What surrounds the car is full. . . Read more
Griffin Brown
Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree

A poem by Rachel Yalowitz

I was the shadow of the Kookaburra hanging on my windowpane. The glass superimposed my toothless smile onto the blue crescent of his wing. When his eyes overlapped mine, I revealed my teeth in laughter, and he echoed me in a round. I laughed louder; he cackled and called me insane, but I was the shadow of the Kookaburra slain. Kookaburra sits on a rusty nail but where is the hammer, where is the axe that turned the old gum tree into the window frame.. . . Read more
Rachel Yalowitz
Wait What’s the Question?

A poem by Pablo Uribe

I got us a mystery and I need you!   I’ll say when Can you make magic with how about this? The mountain is not preserving    I don’t care about the dirt in my mouth I need to grab on to this rope of yours Is the water broken?    Is that a tree or a grave? Yes   without a wing it’s not a ship    but I found all the animals on that day Who here can keep promises? Nobody    Throw. . . Read more
Pablo Uribe
Lubbert Das

A poem by Elias Bartholomew

The doctor is bent at the waist, working furiously, his instruments plotted around him like counting-houses in the town square. The patients wait while a flower unfolds from his open head. Soon, the doctor will break for a light lunch. Outside, the freeway is under close scrutiny, the birds floating so peacefully they might be drones. They pass through arches inscribed with the compact names of the sane. Even the serifs look muscular. I feel like I have a kitchen funnel on my head! and. . . Read more
Elias Bartholomew
Mispronunciations

A poem by Jake Orbison.

We cannot tell anyone where we are going, but they all know we are lost. We walk from the mountain to a café to another café talking about what foundations are best to build on. We make guesses. Respect, money. It would have to be something unlike bricks that can evolve with the structure it creates. Love. No, not love. Anything but love. We know we are more or less talking about affection. We stay nights on Duluth and enjoy pushing the sounds through our. . . Read more
Jake Orbison
pickle jar apology

A poem by Charlotte Ferenbach.

pickle jar apology Because gratitude is finite and because apparently, there was never remorse to start with, what I get instead is handed a jar of pickles. I sit on the floor in front of everyone. I accept because I am on a floor and it is in front of everyone. I eat and am silent. The muscle brines. * I would have preferred them the afternoon the birdwatcher showed us how to look, When he tasted the way leaves do if they’re new and. . . Read more
Charlotte Ferenbach