spring 2017
Table of Contents
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We Could Have Called Him Joe, We Didn't
Juliane Okot Bitek
Romeo, Romeo, WTF?
P.C. Vandall
First Loves in Brevoort Park
Body Analysis
Erin Hiebert
Dear Miss Parker
Dear Mama
Chelene Knight
from Glossary of Musical Terms rob mclennan
Red Sarongs
Clementine
Chelsea Comeau
Inside My House
Gleaning Stones
Onjana Yawnghwe
from Electric Garden
Amanda Earl
Singing in Dark Times
Bhaswati Ghosh
The Lady or the Tiger? Michelle Brooks
Constantly Looking, Admitting Nothing
Paul Douglas McNeill II
A Coke and a KitKat
Spenser Smith
Prayer For Our Past Selves
Esther McPhee
Aztlan Travels Emiliano Sepulveda
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.