spring 2018
Table of Contents
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First Ultrasound
Second Ultrasound
Stephanie Yorke
an understanding
Natasha Zarin
Cracked Fabergé Egg Of Yes
Lauren Turner
Trump As a Fire Without Light #665
Darren C. Demaree
Never the Desired Absence
Nick Alti
Grim Reaper in Therapy
Brandon Marlon
He Ring Liar's Dice Confluence Derek Thomas Dew
Sea Room / The Adrift
Exhibit / Queer
Lynx
Joseph Spece
Push
Armamentarium
Adrienne Gruber
Synonyms For Shelter
Jill Talbot
Like André Derain
David R. Dixon
Naming
Cow Field
Danielle Hanson
Wet Parable
Duck
Carver
Nathan Curnow
Dear Chepe
Wilbur
Melissa Weiss
The Path Discoverer
Taylor Bond
drowning man is not a superhero
Aidan Chafe
Ice Skating in Holland Carol Hamilton
Confluence
A dusty grand piano falls out a two-story window into a water fountain below.
My father threw orange peels at coyotes in the dusk.
Red rocks. Mast passes slow behind shafts of river cane.
Walter, the first time you scratched my shoulder is in the desert.
Where the rock swallows the river, viscacha meat.
A chimney for the first time. Letters in erupting kilns.
The man walking the valley knows the pickaxe nightpale music.
They fought Apache for that hill so we could live and perfume the doorways.
They probably don’t have a word for piano in their language anyway.
Little orange peels are not meteors. They dry like armies into hymns.