The city is a two-headed lizard scaled with private parking, the mist is full of drones, particulates
and used blue gloves—
but here, may we get super SUPER weird.
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Fix By Sage Curtis
I stich pills with gin,
think in pink things,
pinch sticky skin if his Irish shirt clings right.
It’ll fix my mind.
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Fellowship Application by Joseph Rios
His other hand enters my space with fingers out
like he’s flying or the birds are flying or we’re flying or the truck is
flying; we’re birds now and I still can’t get this shit lit.
How Briefly the Body by Chelsea Dingman
Two Poems by Sasha Pimentel
A man outside a café is putting his gloves on slowly, tugging
the leather over his wrist, and he is, perhaps, waiting for me
to put my knife and fork down, to come out from behind
Wishing that There was Another World that Isn’t by John Gosslee
Mae Young Has Always Been the Heel by W. Todd Kaneko
Screw that—I’ve never seen a woman
I couldn’t lick, never a man I couldn’t
hammerlock and stomp into the canvas.
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The Coltrane Substitution (Naima) by Michelle R. Smith
Letters to the Editor Regarding the Death of Public Discourse by Sara Biggs Chaney
You say there are ashes in the water. I say if you want my new sprinkler system, why don’t you come and take it from my cold, dead hands.
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Two Poems by Heather Lang
here’s a lastingness / of to crease and an ambiguity / of to fold.
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Two Poems by Rachel Inez Marshall
I read someone stole a frieze from Santa Croce
over the weekend. And given my sense of Florence
or elsewhere is less than impressive, I thought maybe
you and the thief may have passed on the street.
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Two Poems by Katrin Tschirgi
I'm tired of being cute. On Tuesday,
I wore nothing but an apron and dismembered
an orange as though it were an oyster
or a man.
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Three Poems by Felicia Zamora
Fingers to keyboard, cyber-minded
when the photo hits your inbox—
Hexagons burnt into wood: a pattern
innately inside the bee, graffiti-ed
by human hands.
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Four Poems by Nathalie Handal
I asked you not to hurt me
the way history did
Three Poems by Annie Woodford
Prisms spin in the hardwood floor.
My daughter glides and chops, skate-shod,
Her little girl legs a perfection of knees and narrow thighs.
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Three Poems by Dahlia Seroussi
Four Poems by Priscilla Wathington
”I was a ghost in a strawberry field for five years,” he says.
“The ghosts were plentiful, ‘la fruta
del diablo,’ as they called it, also--
faakiha ash-Shaytan.”
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Three Poems By Laura Wetherington
Soft solid visage, followed by reflection.
If only each cavity knew oblivion.
The eye, preceded mostly by footwork,
waves into pain. The right to feel the lights.
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Two Poems by by Melissa Stein
Everything served up / on a silver charger. / Even the air conditioning, / even the sink fixtures / hold the peculiar/ inevitability of flawless / design.
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