By: Simon Heathcote Others Can’t flowers be silent & birds sing?A late breeze kisses a single bladesetting off a Mexican wave of Irish green — a tsunami for little things to learn panic.I don’t see so well but I listen.There’s no escaping…
By: Grzegorz Wróblewski ### Grzegorz Wróblewski was born in 1962 in Gdańsk and grew up in Warsaw. Since 1985 he has been living in Copenhagen. English translations of his work are available in Our Flying Objects (trans. Joel Leonard Katz, Rod Mengham, Malcolm…
By: Arvilla Fee Building Bridges hand me a plank;I’ll hand you a saw;together we will builda bridge across this chasm;we’ll all be brothers and sisters,sweating together beneath a sunhung in the universe for all mankind,drinking water from our father’s wells;we…
By: Margaret Marcum Fifteen and afraid. I made my family go away.And I record the days carefully in mycomposition book, as if knowing givesme control over disappearing, as if I’m ascientist of my body observing the durationof its disappearance from…
By: Mike Turner I stand upon rough, worn wood deckSalty tang of sea spray upon my lipsEying starched white canvas arching aloft against azure skiesEyes burning and watering from the reflectionFeeling rise and fall of straining hull against rolling wavesCool…
By Taylor Dibbert Someone speaking loudlyOn the metroTrying to sound importantBeing obnoxious,It’s all so gross. ### Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fourth full-length poetry collection, was published in May.
By: Nattie O’Sheggzy ECHOES ON THE RIVER BANK The moon carries a lonely shadowof the fully fledged tree behind the gazebosentinel of the ebbing clouds in its bosombut all its head is gonethe distance between sight and flightthat distance is…
By: Tom Ball I, Mike, said to Tina, “Many men have tried to win your love, yet you remain a virgin.” She said, “I’ve decided to sell my virginity to the highest bidder. I am the most famous virgin…
By Thomas Sanfilip There is no question the diary can be adapted into other literary forms of narrative—it has been done countless times over the centuries and lent its form particularly to fiction, yet the cheap, first-person narratives that litter…
By: Anthony Paolucci It finally happened. Or did it? Theo couldn’t be sure. Not yet at least. He needed more time to mull it over. Maybe a few days. Or a few months. He was there when it happened….