spring 2019
Table of Contents
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Sophocles
Martin Kippenberger's Bicycle
Charles Kell
Magnetic Resonance
Lisa Mulrooney
Tensions
Orange Bottles
Sean Singer
Across This Body First Generation The Wall Jeni De La O
Against All Odds
Mary Lou Soutar-Hynes
Catastrophe that Nearly Brought Down a Plane
Sabyasachi Nag
Sixteen Weeks in the Caribbean Apartment Laura McGavin
After Dreams Maryka Gillis
I Am Allowed to Break Up With You Amy Kenny
orange socks
there are bad men at the top
Kate LaDew
When the Time Comes
Soothing
Cameron Morse
Terrigenous
Michelle Mitchell-Foust
Six Thousand Dollars
Cole Depuy
After Dreams
For the first time since we were born,
there were no shootings in New York City last weekend.
Only one of us lived to see it.
You died just as the cottonwoods
covered the sidewalks in snow.
I dream of your body in places other than the train tracks,
right after metal collided with your cells too fast.
Don’t picture the blood, how your head must have hurt.
Don’t wonder what part of your young body died first.
If you snap a cottonwood twig, there is a star
where it breaks, dark and unlikely against the woody flesh.
Tell me what that means so we can move on.
I dream of your body in dark rooms, you move through the night
like it’s a river, you’re a branch pulled along
or hanging from the ceiling by twine.
When I awake, it’s almost true.
It was quiet last weekend in New York.
I can say there are no cottonwood trees
in the whole city, and you’ll never know I’m wrong.