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Issue 27 | Winter 2021

Memory Theater

By | Poetry

Can’t find my shoes. Forget them. Torn sheet? Forget that. The soft quilt drifts, my cast-off reading glasses tilt sideways— slippery sheet, blind glasses, orphan shoes: a stage for drunken love though I’m sober.

Issue 27 | Winter 2021

Mother

By | Poetry

The truth is I will never again see the mother I know, the one always halfway through four different books, or making the light on the water perfect in her pastel landscapes.

Issue 27 | Winter 2021

A New Kind of Paper

By | Poetry

Soft light lands and pops on your clavicles like soap bubbles. The restoration crew comes and goes like field medics

Issue 27 | Winter 2021

Soma

By | Poetry

Her heart two-steps, now flesh, now metaphor, while her mind—the brain when it blushes— gently nets a halo: thought bubbles and unlit bulbs.

Issue 27 | Winter 2021

Duck

By | Fiction

The scrubs are itchy and tight and he feels ridiculous with the stethoscope draped around his neck. He wonders if it is real but he would feel even more ridiculous putting it in his ears, pressing whatever the thing is called on his chest, listening for the soft bump of his own heartbeat. He wonders how much of his life has been spent in exactly this way, standing to the side, offstage, waiting for the Rabbit to show him up again.

Issue 27 | Winter 2021

Goat

By | Fiction

A few days later, while sitting on the rocks that served as the front steps, avoiding work, Arturo, Leo, and Adriana saw their father coming up the mountain, and on his shoulders was a goat. Adriana let out a shriek that Arturo was sure had startled the goat, because he could see it jerking and thrashing on his father’s shoulders, attempting to get free.

Issue 27 | Winter 2021

In the Country House of Ash and Broken Glass

By | Fiction

My wife’s uncle lived in a county known for exporting glass, colored sand, and lung disease. When I said the time had come to export her uncle Clarence to a place where professionals could tend him, Misty threw a bronze statue of a cat at me. I ducked, and it demolished our mantlepiece display: a village of ceramic, Victorian houses with quaint, frock-coated residents. I swept up the shrapnel while Misty drew up the grocery list.

Issue 26 | Fall 2020

Someone to Talk To

By | Fiction

One of them had asked Cheryl once, “Do you like children?” Cheryl had chuckled. “Who doesn’t?” It was an easy, polite answer. And it was the right thing to say given the context. The real answer, though, was much more complicated.  It wasn’t that Cheryl hated children. They simply didn’t interest her enough. What would she talk to them about? What did one talk about to someone who had lived for such a short time on this planet?