Issue 21
Contents
- Uncanny Eye Candy: The disfiguring of domestic life by Emma Golden
- A Spoonful of Loving Knives by Grace Willcox
- from Portraits of Imaginary Poets by Susan Cronin
- How I Transform Myself, Looking at Photos in the NY Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) by Carla Schick
- Blessedness by Daniel Lusk
- Turn on the Sink by Amanda Dettmann
- Glorious Debris by Brian Builta
- Field of Blackbirds by GR Collins
- Bear by Laura Bernstein-Machlay
- Sometimes Sainthood Never Comes by Michael Brosnan
Fiction
We found it behind our school, in the alley the four of us liked to roam late into the night, after I dared Jesper to leap into a blue dumpster. “Fine,” he said, boosting himself up, jumping in. He landed with a squishy splash. “Sometimes people find things in dumpsters.” “We have better things to […]The house sat on the shore of the lake with a bald, open face. It was wide and white with a black front door and blacker windows, two gaping eyes on the second story that blinked with the flutter of pink lace curtains. The roof lumbered to a lazy gambrel peak and the siding was […]Non-Fiction
Uncanny Eye Candy: The disfiguring of domestic life
When I was in eighth grade, I spent one afternoon each week with an elderly woman named Raisie who lived a block down from my mother’s house. She paid me to do an unhelpful job of helping her with non-essential tasks. I took a shovel to the weeds in her lush backyard while she supervised […]The turtles in the pond have been decaying since I got here. Since before I got here. I wonder how many soulmates each of them have had. If they feel more than pain, fear, and joy. Surely turtles can love, but in the haze of my confusion I recall that rabbits are the ones who […]Poetry
from Portraits of Imaginary Poets
When it was time, the old woman lay down on the forest floor. She furred with moss; she became the ages of the trees. Each year, new shawls of orange leaves, flowing gowns of snow. She lay waiting still. In all her life, never a sound had crossed through her lips. She spent her days […]How I Transform Myself, Looking at Photos in the NY Museum of Modern Art (MOMA)
no one exists behind the lens no one but another body standing in darkness 1950s streets they called the beautiful women transvestites words hadn’t changed yet. only in the dark would their faces stare out like models only not. I am drawn into her eyes they tell me love is transformation […]“Be very quiet,” advised the Duke, “for it goes without saying.” The Phantom Tollbooth, Norton Juster Old poet wakes to the fable of himself. More snow has fallen and the trees are white. Enter a fox. Now he will watch all day to see what else. In a far different county on the margin or […]Whenever a man follows me too close, I think of my Nana scrubbing out my father’s mouth with clementine soap, like a mudslide in frosted tip southern California, just after the Ham Man stopped by on Christmas Eve to deliver their annual lump of cinnamon crusted gorgeous fat— how when anonymous footsteps don’t pass me […]We should formulate a solution. Perhaps an immaculate contraption to reverse the heartbreak, to unflatten the little rabbit. The tread mixed with red is not a good match for the fur. Your conviction (gulp) that you will endure a going-to-church accident is not unfounded. A little joggle should free you from the muck … [Click […]A man collapses sideways into his wife’s arms, his ridiculous hat falling. But she is not there to catch him. She has already departed for the field of blackbirds. Oak leaves tremble. Lime blossoms drift over the water. Six centuries pass by unnoticed. The man’s house stands vacant, … [Click here to purchase a copy […]Till age twelve, I fear fire like a bear come from the trees to maul me. I shy away from patchouli incense left smoldering by my hippy mother, yahrzeit candles Bubby and Zaidy burn for their dead. Till Bubby huffs in frustration, Don’t hate the beast for its nature, and passes me a matchbox—her twisted […]Sometimes Sainthood Never Comes
To her question about childhood, he shrugged. Couldn’t figure out how to say it. As a boy, he had tried the choir and quit. Served at the altar for a single summer and fall. Once, he pilfered church wine and rubbed it across a small wound to feel for Jesus. He had studied the Stations […]