The Blog


Cate Lycurgus

We make amends with letter writing: as sympathy note, report
of a son’s height marked on the door to his father serving 
time. & check for word—days & Sundays—the red flag stays
erect. I tell someone I’ll write you a letter & what I’m saying is
I don’t know where to put my hands. Penmanship stretches
thinner & thinner as though I could switch to wire, wave, light—
alight beneath your skin. I want the letter reminding me 
to not forget lotion, first. That you keep my hair tie 
around your wrist, snapping it all the time so as 
to stun yourself back from ghost. Where both of us step 
to the parking garage, bodies pressed against concrete. Here 
we are, & chapped. Where is the letter for no going back,
of a two-step grown too big, our motion that needs all-caps? 

Together Alone

Alex Dimitrov

We may have been alone together
flying over the coast where we both couldn’t stay.
The gentleman in the novel came into your bed;
one day, without warning, you felt like him too.
Drawing the shades up, by the door with your hair wet.
When we met, you kept me up saying very few things.
As all else, and dressed wisely, we fled our flawed forms.
Are you surprised then that anyone’s staying together? Surprise.
How surprising it turns out to be.
The three of us at twenty or close to the same age.
And no one wore a jacket wherever we went,
like no one wanted love for more than a day.
The boy I buy gin from says you’re next at just the right moment.
I pay him and slip into touching his hands.
In Bastille—on Sunset—late and blurry in Dolores Park.
What does time have to do with us there?


Brian Barker

In the GrowPods colonizing outer space, scientists are observing new and exciting forms of symbiosis. In one, the Abyssinian mud elk has exchanged its antlers for the cashew tree, which sprouts directly from the mighty beast’s pate. Flourishing in the oxygen-rich environment, the branches produce nuts as fast as the golden flightless macaws can pluck and crack them. They drop the meat through the canopy to grateful one-armed sloths. These challenged arboreal browsers emerged from the jungles of Guyana at the end of the Million Year War, but no need to feel sorry for them. Our slow, smiling friends also get assistance from the translucent teardrop ant of the Lost Serengeti. This peculiar arthropod lives a solitary life in a small swath of fur just below the sloth’s eye, grooming fleas from our happy amputee with its retractable, needle-like proboscis.

A Literacy

Prageeta Sharma

We might have had a longer life together: a fine, brassy life in the tropics of a specificity, of roaring endearment: in the throes of a lucid compatibility, if I kept up with the compulsory description. And in spite of this, there was a dry ice marriage kept upwards, as it sat in this illusion. It is now extinguished. Yes, death deceives, and, yes, after the deception of one to the other, somebody lives in forwardness, of what that is. If fine lives syncopated into worded truths that bespoke outside of contemptibility you became the darkest figure before me. I intruded on you, I realize, on your badness and your expensive gray lavish blazer (the one I bought you) when it furled into its tuck, and it rode up your back pain and into your condition. I intruded on your addiction when it hurled its site of pain and took to your consciousness (crept in long ago).

A Waterfall Could Never Be Still

Jeremy Michael Clark

Laid out in a stranger’s yard my brother’s
numbed himself again. Headlights pass,
white as pills on a porcelain sink. 

We’re losing light. His forearms prove how dull
a blade can be. Night coils around us
like smoke from a snuffed cigarette. 

Worry wears my mother’s voice.
Each breath of hers is a candle she cups
to keep lit & all her sentences start: I need— 

My brother’s eyes roll back. A screen door slams,
a dog circles its crate, a lamp switches off
in one house then another. 

I wait beside him knowing it’s best
not to count how long it’s been.
It’s not sadness I feel when I hear the wind 

disturb someone’s chimes, the backfire
of an old Ford. Like my brother
I have a history of doing what I want 


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