Listen to a reading of “No. 787899″ by Jenifer Park.
this friend this friend is an ice cube can’t melt is cold is cold is temperature below me his shade his undoing his remarkably resistant past his past his passing into bars bars unlike music unlike sound like him bars like him each vertical line like him him with no utterance
you sit you sit alone you sit light succumbed your light demurely you sit bored bored in jail so your mom asks me to write a letter a letter to you
think of think rockets of how they blow up blow up always publicly then privately of flight the wings the many bodies the ineffable spread of migration think of the waste of a song a song you are but also what’s been asked of me
» Continue reading No. 787899 by Jenifer Park…
I’m a kind of stupid marvel prophetic as an ancient
black crow insect old metal boat so old
my body grows velvet
green rivers branch
into and out from the sea
I mean I was made by children I go
out to the wharf to eat black spots
my lynchpins light up in this fog I wear
a dirty fur
the dead are around us
sacks with their eyes glide
past me sacks of light
follow me as I raise my arms walk from this sea out.
About the author:
Jessica Comola is an MFA candidate at the University
» Continue reading [I’m a kind of stupid marvel] by Jessica Comola…
His car was already running
out of gas. The sign outside missing vowels.
He has no idea what she wants, the aisles are hieroglyphic—
the cashier has fermentation in her eyes
between her cheekbones— He has one girlfriend
and three different brands of milk.
Here, in this town his father used to bring him
to ice cream stores with tubs the size of small dogs.
Funny what we makes us carnivores. Funny what we love.
About the author:
Emily Grace Bernard’s poem have been published or are forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, Wilderness House Literary Review, Dressing Room
» Continue reading Substitutes by Emily Grace Bernard…
When I was nine, the dog with no name bloomed hives across my body. His saliva left me collecting ribbons of skin underneath my nails, but I loved him the way I love the relief of scratching.
One day I came home from school to learn he gained a new home and a name—I think it was Brownie— it doesn’t matter. He had a name, and was no longer mine.
The year I fell into some girl’s body like a lost boat, the year I followed the burning building instead of the lighthouse, I started waking from the thickest hour
» Continue reading THE HAND THAT FED by Hieu Nguyen…
An elderly couple lathers
on lawn chairs as the bruised
bellies of tilapia
bob like poison apples.
You say there is nothing
to do here but die.
I walk toward you
About the author:
Erin Rodoni is a poet, massage therapist, recovering nomad, and new mom. She is a recipient of a 2013 Intro Journals Award from the Association of Writing Programs. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Colorado Review, Verse Wisconsin, Antiphon, Kindred, Mah-Mag World Literature, Serving House Journal, and others. She is an associate editor for Web Del Sol Review of Books and an
» Continue reading Fragment of a Honeymoon: We take a detour to a dead sea by Erin Rodoni…
Hair Cropper Shies
A tough year for follicles, where you work, atop my head. Neither of us is happy, Farmer Hanley. You cringe at other crops passing high, plateaus of wealth, healthy scalps, neighbors smiling for snapshots, bowing next to their behemoth locks, junior perched on top, gapped front teeth like an oil well, black and oozing.
Our barren bald spot blinks its betrayal. The neighbors see, suck in lips, click tongues, say, “How his hair is growing thin.” No thicket to hide in, your overall buttons flash rescue through sparse stalks. But I can’t save you, or me, nor
» Continue reading Two Poems by Dustin M. Hoffman…
*** The body. The body a descendent of fat fornication. The rubbing Of two molded jellies filled with animal organs. The black rain Of fluid sex. The body is covered copious in baroque folds. From the outside the body is a stream of pure anal images. In a carnivorous gaze. The body is made continuous by stranger Eyes. Is cellulite reverberating as discrete matter. The body is. Is the carnal disposition of creature material. The quickening Breath of pores full of grease. The body is packed with fryer lard. Pudgy bubbles secrete through cells, pores, fissures. The body Enters the
» Continue reading Queer Fat by Aaron Apps…
Listen to a reading of “Standing at the Museu Picasso in Barcelona” by Tasha Graff.
I learn that if you don’t count the la, three de’s, a los and an y, his legal name was fourteen words long. I rehearse while looking at his study of doves. Pablo, Pablo Diego, Pablo Diego José, Pablo Diego José Francisco, is there a lisp in Francisco? I try it out. Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula, Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan. I read it over and over again, like the rosters I review on the metro in September, trying to make
» Continue reading Standing at the Museu Picasso in Barcelona by Tasha Graff…
Listen to a reading of “What to Do with a Rabid Boy” by Suzi Garcia.
What to Do with a Rabid Boy
He best sit, say, screech— teach him. No stop unknown, cause ‘scuse me, stop. Stop gale, stop god. No crackly pissing god, no Hova, no new ustedes, I’m talkin’ scot-free catechism. Posture a lean boy,
besame. He can’t kneel. Is pristine in the past? Stop-gap. Is there a spare hell dealt to scare me? This is lamb’s milk, retrograde New York in snow domes. Recreate
in odd creases of gods’ beds, tie in stealth drugs, craven docile exoskeleton—
» Continue reading Two Poems by Suzi Garcia…
We set on this voyage to discover we are seven parts water and three parts flesh.
We abandon unmitigated longing with the bleached-white salmon cartilage
beached on the pier. We find more colors in our voyage than pores in the space between pupil and brow.
We crossed the river outside El Dorado, the pyramids a silhouetted V on the horizon. We slept
at the letter’s apex and searched our bodies for lakes in pitch night. We dragged our rivers
with fevered hands and ecstatic hipbones. We spoke the language of pallid flesh and crevices.
We learned we
» Continue reading Opalescence by Ryan Bollenbach…