I’ve had the words, “shelter in place” as a backdrop to other thoughts.
Meet the team.
The first thing on Jane’s mother’s list was the UPS store. There was always something to send back. Not all items passed muster. “Too yellow,” Margaret had said, handing the opened box to Jane. “And I sincerely doubt there is one natural fiber in that blouse. Silk, indeed!” Jane printed out the return form, bundled… Read more »
It was hot the day my wife came back to me from the dead.
Daphne’s left rib glistened with aquasoft, a thin layer over her fresh tattoo, an outline of a maple tree.
The child never stood a chance, born in a thunderstorm in the back seat of a mid-sized sedan.
You are either alive or dead
one or the other
there is a clear boundary
distinct like the River Styx
An impact of two black holes is said to produce more energy
than all of the suns in the universe. And we may observe
Love is a melody
that in the silence
Isn’t this what we all do, sooner or later,
try to take back the mistakes, the words said
in anger, the sins that haunt our dreams?
where all their lost, original songs
squeeze the bellows of death,
sing with mouths of sun & flint
such lullabies of dread
Deep fried everything, buttered biscuits, hot grits with syrup,
black-eyed peas, corn bread,
bacon drippings collected in coffee cans
After the wedding, as bride
and groom depart, you muddle
your legends and turn yourself
into a pillar of salt. A glimpse
We could get away by ourselves when we turned twelve,
could necktie beach towels, corsage the octagonal badge, the
get-away made on flip-flops if we lived closed enough.
as they link in
70s raincoat logic
She’s away from home,
but won’t say for how
long. Her husband is out
The markings of the world:
disc of desert blur,
concentric sphere imagining itself
divided and conquered.
A man’s rusted compass,
a woman’s hint of blue shadow.
Silence won’t stand
for itself. It won’t
And so he began. And for the first time saw
the boy whose bicycle sped by his porch,
then the yellowing leaf on the back step.
They fly in flocks at dusk,
shrill caws of mourning
echoing through the still sky.
in tender onyx,
the sun spits
it’s splits onto
the ship that
We never spoke of my father. Nobody did. Her first marriage was strictly off limits. When I finally did build up the nerve to ask about him, she abruptly told me that her current husband was my father.
First, thank you to Sam Snoek-Brown and Chuck Rybak. Without the two of you as editors there wouldn’t have been an Issue 10. Also, thank you to our new editorial assistants who volunteered to read for the issue. Finally, thank you to the Hendrix-Murphy Foundation for supporting creative writing in the community.