spring 2017
Table of Contents
Return to Home PageInside My House Gleaning Stones Onjana Yawnghwe
Prayer For Our Past Selves Esther McPhee
Romeo, Romeo, WTF? P.C. Vandall
Aztlan Travels Emiliano Sepulveda
from Glossary of Musical Terms rob mclennan
The Lady or the Tiger? Michelle Brooks
from Electric Garden Amanda Earl
Dear Miss Parker Dear Mama Chelene Knight
Red Sarongs Clementine Chelsea Comeau
Constantly Looking, Admitting Nothing Paul Douglas McNeill II
First Loves in Brevoort Park Body Analysis Erin Hiebert
A Coke and a KitKat Spenser Smith
Singing in Dark Times Bhaswati Ghosh
We Could Have Called Him Joe, We Didn't Juliane Okot Bitek
box cars paper plates annie ross
Constantly Looking, Admitting Nothing
I look over at my wife as she walks into the room.
She’s wearing her worn-out, faded, striped tights
—and nothing else.
She looks down at her gut,
then back at me.
“What are you looking at?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just lookin’ at you.”
She looks me up and down,
pausing briefly
—in the middle.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. “Just you.”
Is this marriage?
I wonder.
Two people.
Constantly looking.
Admitting nothing.