fall 2015
Table of Contents
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The Stale Cold Smell of Morning
Angela Rebrec
a rose is a rose is a rose manhattan Nikki Reimer
Can't Stomach Mitchell Grabois
In the Cyberspace Icicle Changming Yuan
Saturday Night
Charles Springer
revenge/reincarnation annie ross
Darkening Over Still Water Richard King Perkins II
(Ouverture) Garry Thomas Morse
Alcohol
Fast-slow Continuum
Peycho Kanev
the neighbors knew i divined water
Hell is hot
Allison DeLauer
A Fire Hydrant on Camino de la Amapola
Good to See You
Eleanor Kedney
Why, And for What Purpose
Is There Something
Ace Bogess
Word on the Street
Henry Rappaport
Fault Vodka / Blame Juice Jamie Sharpe
The Story of Chitin Giri Zoe Dagneault
The Insidious Susurration
A Conversation
Marie-Andree Auclair
Girl I
Girl II
Carolyn Supinka
QED A Moth In Rain Christopher Patton
what do you talk about
desire derives pleasure
aren't we missing every thing
gary lundy
A Monday The Devil Valentina Cano
The Day Everyone Realized Ron Riekki
Brains Lost to the Earth Melissa Nelson
Yellow Flowers
The World Dream
Ann Filemyr
Girl II
She is that drink I stir. That field we pass
on the way home every night. It is a clearing
rimmed with white birches, stark lines of tree bodies
like steam escaping from cracks in the soft earth.
She once said she saw a phoenix rise from that clearing,
and even though she was making it up we could see it too.
Think of little girls picturing a phoenix.
Who told us about these birds on fire?
I didn’t picture it on fire, but glad.
Whoever gets to burn like that must be glad,
rising like clockwork. That field.
I think it would be cool. I think it would be soft as blue velvet,
impervious to wrinkles and time.
The fabric of that field stretches in my mind,
offers its body as a blanket for me to press my cheek to.
It’s a place I’ve never been, but I want to return to, again and again,
until I have a reason to stop, and let myself in.