By Anders Carlson-Wee
Sorting through the chest’s junk, I happenedon this picture of him, a stranger I lived with month-to-month while I looked for something
No car to drive to the dump and too embarrassed to borrow one, you scrape the black mold off the underside as best you can, muscle it onto your shoulder. Spores multiplied to the size
After pulling a score from the dumpster behind Krogers I stroll through sliding doors with egg-caked hands. The greeter greets me as I pass. I scan the aisles like a surgeon studying the mint
By Rachel Eliza Griffiths
I want my web to hold. I want to repairwhat I have made. I was not given the gold hive.In me seethes the silk of invisible worlds. Spinningmy body inside of hairline emptiness, I project
In the evenings, we watched Jeopardy. Wore surgical masks once she got sick.Before that my mother sent me to the storefor cigarettes all the time. Pack of Salem Lights.
I’d come into the room & try to writea different ending on those anonymous walls. There was less time all the timeuntil time changed. You know what I mean.
We had to present proof for everything: My mother was born August 31, 1954. On that day inside the womb of a minute she burst from another woman’s life,
She died & I—In the spring of her blood. I remembermy mother’s first injury. The surprise of unbornpetals curling light, red, around her wrist.
There is no title. There is no title. The body is content. The body is window.The body is container, curtain, chair, grid. Do you see? Bones & shoulders, a spine
By Carl Phillips
There’s this cathedral in my head I keepmaking from cricket song anddying but rogue-in-spirit, still,bamboo. Not making. I keepimagining it, as if that were the same