Birthday by Miriam Åkervall I dream the girl again, lashed to the stern of a tractor. The number on her forehead, the rope in her mother’s hands. I wake in a glass sleeve of sweat. Words gather at the heat like moths, or smokers warming their hands in the night. I ask...
“The part of you that speaks in your mother’s voice,” your therapist asks, by Eben E. B. Bein “is it you or her?” A Mourning Dove lands on the air conditioner outside the window. Inside, two strangers, two chairs, and an empty side-couch—a contingency for...
[i’ve always loved to dance] by Jory Mickelson I mean I’ve always loved to dance— even though I was a pathetic little thing loved the way it made me feel athletic. At last...
Emergence by Megan Snyder-Camp Springtime: the drying rivergives up bottlecaps, bullets, washing machines.Once upon a time a line redrawnmeant a self made sensible.If it were art you’d call these muddy revelationspentimento, little seed, stumble-root,what I meant not...
