spring 2020
Table of Contents
Return to Home PageHow Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Nachos Jessica Covil
Communion of Tongues Hege A. Jakobsen Lepri
Another Vision Patricia Nelson
Breathturning Chris Checkwitch
Family Dinner In Which I Re-name My Father Poem Containing Only Words I Hate griffin epstein
blue light Stephanie Yue Duhem
A Symptom of Resignation The Gee Whiz Element of Tropical Storms and Symphonies Jen Karetnick
Supermarket Lobsters Robbie Gamble
Tchaikovsky, Age 52, Finds His Inspiration John Barton
Like the best myths Medusozoa Sarah Lyons-Lin
Moon Turned Her Half Face From Me Lawrence Feuchtwanger
There Is No Substitute for Good Planning Erin Kirsh
sold separately Lesley Battler
A Twohanded Cut The Tornado Cut The Pandora Cut Torben Robertson
she is in the kitchen now Nora Pace
Six Gray Moons on a Screen Eleanor Kedney
Stem of Old French Creistre, To Grow Of Stinging Nettle Page Hill Starzinger
Monologue of a Fly's Shadow Monologue of a Cow's Shadow Danielle Hanson
Humid Weather Me of Me Catherine Strisik
Like the best myths
this one has two tellings.
For Sophocles: A looped rope closes in, scavenging. Pressure snakes under the jaw. Shining moon of Jupiter, uterine beast—her body mutilated by its own hands. Scratches flowering the neck. Eyes still open heaven-wide, her head snap-stem crooked. Hung, her shape is a woman, then a mother, then a witch.
For Euripides: The woman turns to magic, transforms her guilt into an array of bright fabric. Endures. Renames herself blame. Endures that defiling love, that husband-child, and follows him still—into isolation, into the wild, into bondage and a hollowed version of herself.
Both are the story of men.