spring 2020
Table of Contents
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Supermarket Lobsters
Robbie Gamble
blue light
Stephanie Yue Duhem
she is in the kitchen now
Nora Pace
Six Gray Moons on a Screen
Eleanor Kedney
sold separately Lesley Battler
Moon Turned Her Half Face From Me
Lawrence Feuchtwanger
Monologue of a Fly's Shadow
Monologue of a Cow's Shadow
Danielle Hanson
There Is No Substitute for Good Planning
Erin Kirsh
Breathturning Chris Checkwitch
A Symptom of Resignation
The Gee Whiz Element of Tropical Storms and Symphonies
Jen Karetnick
Another Vision
Patricia Nelson
How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Nachos
Jessica Covil
Communion of Tongues
Hege A. Jakobsen Lepri
Humid Weather
Me of Me
Catherine Strisik
Stem of Old French Creistre, To Grow
Of Stinging Nettle
Page Hill Starzinger
Like the best myths
Medusozoa
Sarah Lyons-Lin
Tchaikovsky, Age 52, Finds His Inspiration
John Barton
A Twohanded Cut
The Tornado Cut
The Pandora Cut
Torben Robertson
Family Dinner
In Which I Re-name My Father
Poem Containing Only Words I Hate
griffin epstein
Humid Weather
—after Lucie Brock-Broido
On Google, when you search, you will find me
well-mannered with the linen handkerchief,
the one I used to get away
with dabbing. I strolled in Crete, sweating
in the agora with iced fish
and Greek men, some of whom leaned
to touch me. Church bells rang. I did not count how many.
I chose the companionship of the distant
foreigner because he
wrote tongue-tied and slept tied
to me and remedied me
to the flushed body and then
to terra cotta. In humid weather I am
raw to the primal.
No white beans, no straw, no woman’s cycles, only
the Ottoman house,
the crazy owner’s singing rising
inside the high walls’ missing stones
of phyllite in the decrepit alley in the neighborhood of Lakkos.
This week the humidity in the agora is so thick
no one sees me as real.
On Google, on one of the links, you will read about me
as a paramour on the flat rooftop
in my fragrant garden,
in tiger lily chiffon, my bared feet, my hymns,
the evening star—nothing hidden, I
sightsee for pleasure.
Curious, does he? Is he warmed by the wind
at the very moment I am warmed by the wind?
Curious, is he damp, somewhere, in haze?