"Sunset Reflection" by Sulyn Godsey The Sun is Yours a girl you once loved tells you to fetch her the sun, but only when it’s at its ripest / now you sit in darkness with the great orb in your hands / outside the earth is filled / with the ear-splitting shrieks of plants / the shudders of the oceans as they freeze over / it’s funny how / the sun becomes small as a tennis ball in your hands / just like you, it’ll do whatever she says / but just like her, it still burns your sk

"edge of things" by Matthew Yates WAVES by Nessma A. Elssawy The quiet waves outside my window seem more marvelous than usual tonight. Like a beautiful stranger, approaching after a long night of self-absorbance and disappointment. From my skin to my shoes, I'm made of nature, yet I've failed to become one with it. Something keeps pushing me away, like the current that won't let me touch this bed of sand. I envy nature. I envy its beautiful features that don't depend on my ca

"Fallen Petals" by Stephen Briseño To the Discarded Corn Husks Lying on the Kitchen Table After Christmas Dinner by Stephen Briseño You are el jefe of items important yet overlooked: the snapped bones of chopsticks left in the phở bowl, the butcher paper, muted blood red, soaking up the grease a fatty brisket gives, the bright cap of a Topo Chico. Then there’s you. You are tamale’s girdle, cinching just tight enough, promising: “Hold in there-- the steam es solo un momento; y

"The First Warning" photo by Elizabeth Dickinson Heed The Warnings Of The Natural World (Creative Nonfiction) by Elizabeth Dickinson The ocean’s roiling waves were in a fury, angry beats on fields of sand, the sand caving into itself like a boxer’s stomach after a bloody punch. The fight went on as I watched, taking pictures of high, heavy pounding. An electric sky exploded, lightbulbs shattered, the sound on delay. High season had ended in Cabo Polonio, Uruguay and the eleme

"under pressure" by Matthew Yates Fragments by Tim Duffy He knew the first day would be the hardest to get through. After years of struggling, begging, they had finally told him it was time go. The first thing he knew he would have to do is remind himself that he was a body. Still, a body, even if every thought would ache with the memory of this failure. He would shower first. Hoping to melt away like honey into the drain. He might remark on how hairy and large he had become

Self-portrait of the writer by Charley Barnes Naked, I stand in front of my floor to ceiling mirror. There is a chair wedged beneath the handle of my bedroom door, so I know that we won’t be disturbed. In red lipstick, I write ‘Bingo wing’ along the inside of my outstretched arm’s reflection. I follow the line of too-obvious veins across my chest, up to my clavicles, and I use this as a guide to write ‘Not obvious enough’ along both collar bones. Around each breast I draw a b

Plaid Kitten by Kristin Garth A kitten written wanton, bad but smiles so meek in skirts of plaid. Charcoal, crimson intersects a schoolgirl demeanor, wiles with kinky sex. Blue black outlined yellow sun, shy smiles inside the darkness done. In cream criss-cross on mottled sage, she pouts, a pig- tailed Betty Page. Turquoise gingham, daydream pristine, a freckled cheek, deceitful gig obscene. A tartan twirl to thrill in twill, stiletto crawl towards the tallest stack of b

​​​​​​ "Bent Teeth" photo by Stephen Briseño The Pale Man’s Eyes Never Leave the Horizon by Jack B. Bedell —Lake Champlain When a wave rolls up out of nowhere, do not look down. It is my body shifting under the surface. I will be there in the shallows to hear the people of the woods warn you not to disturb me. My eyes, the size of white perch, will roll back into their sockets at the sound of your laughter. Whenever your children come to the shore aching to disappear into my

The Routine. by Marie McKay My feet on the cold tiles are making me shiver. I am washing with my eyes closed; my body feeling like a dirty sink. My reluctant hands move over clumsy, awkward shapes that could break into pieces to lie fierce and sharp beneath murky waters. A lair. Layer. Liar. Skeletons beneath my skeleton. But I am already shattered; fissures screaming distress signals across my flesh: semaphore flagged up on skin. With fingertips I read the clutter; it tells

Palmistry Kali Rose Schmidt The graveyard was the ideal room for walking to think, or thinking to walk. The moon hung full in the blackness above and fallen rain drenched every blade of grass below. The bodies beneath were getting an au naturel moisturizing treatment. Organic sheen-like mist on their milk white bones. A crumbly stone drew my eye. I can’t say why, but it appeared to me as if the moonlight shone on this stone like a soliloquy in a dark and doomed theatre. The n