On the Death from Consumption of Anton Chekov in a German Hotel Room, 1904 by Gary Duehr This, or this A telephone’s insistent scratch or a large black moth hammering away at a shutter From the sitting room a champagne cork’s...
Dawn by Joi Haskins Like milk in the mouth, the sky is infantile, each cloud a bubble, each disappearance east and west a corner of the lips; this is a thirsty world, and the ticking is its gurgle. Joi Haskins Joi Haskins is a poet and medical student from...
The Low Tide Nocturnes by Daniel Brennan 1. At High Tea, they take turns. They devour one another in a bathroom stall, crammed in its clown-car tightness. One says less teeth and the other merely sings his libidinous submission. I listen as they trade miracles, as a...
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...
