Listen to a reading of “Elegy for Myself in an Antique Store” by Marty Cain.
I descend into the endless basement, ash-stained sofas stacked to the mildewed ceiling, & the old woman hovers by me as I go down. How about an armchair? she says, we got loads of armchairs, and I say no thanks, just a desk— how about this mirror? she says, and I stare at my scratched reflection with pink flower stickers stuck in corners, & say, I just want a desk, somewhere to write. She points me to one, & I slide open each drawer, the
» Continue reading Elegy for Myself in an Antique Store by Marty Cain…
My ex would send me ads for engagement rings I’ll never afford, models in wedding dresses and tuxedoes at an exotic resort where the weather is always plain. The supple curve of the bride’s hip, the stubble trimmed with exactness on the groom’s cheek, That is what romance was to her, two mannequins on vacation forever.
I don’t even know what romance is, but it can’t be these constant updates. Some girl I met at a party just took a long walk, a best friend from school had twins, my brother is sick of women, a guy I worked with got shot in the back over cocaine, someone is getting married
» Continue reading #Trending by Terry Belew…
She breaks an hourglass over her knee, white sand canonizing the grooves in her legs coming down in the rhythm of a prayer to puddle at her feet.
The city’s charm is that it’s the only one for miles; finally there are bridges to jump from, drifters and granite tongues come to cut themselves.
They speak in barbiturates, confessions,
the low murmur of a wasp nest.
It’s scripture she says the way I feel in the shadow of a train. It’s so reassuring to see a bird could live here, too.
We Could Have Been Atlantic And when
» Continue reading Two Poems by Stephen Donald…
Listen to a reading of “The Gravity of a Clear Blue Sky” by Lisa Mecham.
From one-hundred-and-ten stories high, the difference between the wind in my hair and the wind in the trees is the infant’s soft grip and his bite at my breast. Still, it could have been cloudy that day. Rain smells like blood long before it hits the earth. On the table, a molten bowl, a splayed raven picked raw for wings of feather and wax. Even the woman who jumped tried to make a parachute with her skirt.
About the author:
Lisa Mecham’s work has appeared
» Continue reading The Gravity of a Clear Blue Sky by Lisa Mecham…
For Justin Torres
You’re right kid. We are animals.
Upstate Puerto Rocks. Wepa!!!
Comin’ up in a land of Big Dick Trucks. raised by gringas, knowin’ more about Genny Cream Ale than Medalla.
But yo, we can eat rice and beans with our buffalo wings all day!
And I was drinking Adirondack Cola when my cousins was drinkin Maltas.
But my godmother’s moms would come up from Loisaida and make some mean pastelillos on the weekends. So it was all good.
But people who ain’t animals can’t understand the way riverbanks replace beaches, and smallmouth bass replace el sábalo.
» Continue reading We, Animals by Victorio Reyes…
Listen to a reading of “Narrative Submissive to Its Ending” by Moriah Cohen.
When we discovered the headstone, the ghost the day we moved in, we dressed him in story. Mostly, he slept in the lot next door like a boy avoiding a broken
fence, though once I found him on the stoop practicing a soft-shoe. The maples had just frozen, their glass limbs stretching a canopy farther than we could
see in both directions. We gave him a bed, fed him somniloquys until nights peeled like wallpaper, and beneath, our housebroken failures wagged their tails. Sometimes I
» Continue reading Narrative Submissive to Its Ending by Moriah Cohen…
Listen to a reading of “Black Pepper Sonnet No. 67″ by Talin Tahajian.
In the kitchen, a black widow falls into the sink, lands on a bubble
of dish soap. Charlie begins to cry. A sparrow flies into the window
above his highchair, breaks its neck on the glass. The spider drowns
in a cereal bowl. I wipe Charlie with Kleenex, scoop the spider
into the wastebasket. I sing to him, lock the door, run my left hand
through his curls. Charlie points toward his father’s armchair, thinks
of highways, the grey. Thinks of blood or something like it, rolling.
» Continue reading Black Pepper Sonnet No. 67 by Talin Tahajian…
Listen to a reading of “Two Poems” by Sara Biggs Chaney.
Etiquette on the Occasion of Being Interrupted By Your Interlocutor
In which the lady will receive instruction on how to offer the most fitting response to an over zealous discourser.
Never demur. If you lack a healthy instinct to aggression, then adopt one. Let her be Odin’s orphan, born in Hecate, wandering feral till you took her in. Imagine the sorry wretch before you dared to seize her cup of opportunity and dash it to the ground. Show all the mercy of a viper avalanche. Give rage a tongue
» Continue reading Two Poems by Sara Biggs Chaney…
We are all creatures but you are an animal. It’s not unbelievable fucking prick hour at the local mixology bar, yet here you are, all your heavies heavy— dabbing salt on the rims of overturned wounds. Not just any, mind me, but the kind mined from Mediterranean seas whose salinity brings bodies to float. Flesh bags buoyant in the vast cobalt, coarse crystals from the gourmet aisle at half a gas tank or (round up to) four tubes of waterproof mascara a pound. Wouldn’t I be tickled to know you named this one Tequila Mockingbird or (still mulling over) Agave
» Continue reading The Wetness by Kristina Ten…
Listen to a reading of “Let Me Try to Explain Myself” by Becky Fink.
When the Doberman tackled me, and tore my scalp in two, my mother says my forehead fell over my eyes. There is innocence in every emergency. They strapped my small body to a board, shaved my head, gave me 33 stitches. Sirens always say the same thing. So do ringing phones. I am tired of explaining myself. The edge of dice are supple, roll over green felt. I want to be somebody’s lucky charm. I will never say this out loud. Each time the city holds
» Continue reading Let Me Try to Explain Myself by Becky Fink…