spring 2018
Table of Contents
Return to Home PagePush Armamentarium Adrienne Gruber
Trump As a Fire Without Light #665 Darren C. Demaree
First Ultrasound Second Ultrasound Stephanie Yorke
Never the Desired Absence Nick Alti
Ice Skating in Holland Carol Hamilton
The Path Discoverer Taylor Bond
Like André Derain David R. Dixon
Sea Room / The Adrift Exhibit / Queer Lynx Joseph Spece
Dear Chepe Wilbur Melissa Weiss
Wet Parable Duck Carver Nathan Curnow
Synonyms For Shelter Jill Talbot
He Ring Liar's Dice Confluence Derek Thomas Dew
drowning man is not a superhero Aidan Chafe
Grim Reaper in Therapy Brandon Marlon
an understanding Natasha Zarin
Cracked Fabergé Egg Of Yes Lauren Turner
Naming Cow Field Danielle Hanson
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.