An Anniversary

Gary Fincke

Before I pull off the four-lane highway, I make sure the shoulder is wide. Amish families live in the area. They drive their buggies along this road, and yet, despite the paved shoulder, I pick a spot where an open field seems level enough to take my right-side tires as insurance. When I open the door, there is plenty of ... Read More

Manon, Christophe, and the Sea

Stephanie Dupal

Whenever Manon awoke from dreams in which she still played for l’Orchèstre Symphonique de Montréal, the feel of the cello lingered between her knees, and the whitecaps of her life—the echoing arcs of before, during, and after the accident—came crashing in her thoughts once more. The instrument remained with her throughout the day like a phantom limb. It was still ... Read More

I mention the deer 

Tina Barry
I preferred my friend’s father. Mine sat silent in cigar smoke, suave in a cheap suit. Hers, a suburban cowboy, weather-worn in plaid flannel, loud with love. “Aw, girl,” he’d say when I visited, patting my cheek, “you’re so darn cute.” On warm evenings, he’d walk with my friend, head bent to listen, one hand holding their mutt’s leash, the ... Read More


Sid Gold
for Arnold Gold, 1922-98 I am certain that if I heckled you long enough, chuckling sarcastically, supplying a few particulars, you would eventually recall those final games of one-on-one, the two of us alone in that schoolyard in Rego Park. You brought your A game that day, the lickety-split moves in the paint, the soft touch, playing better than I’d ... Read More

Interview with Anthony Moll

Jona Colson
Anthony Moll is a Queer poet, essayist, and educator. They are the author of Out of Step: A Memoir, a queer coming of age story about their experiences in the army, which won the Lambda Literary Award and the Non/Fiction Collection Prize. Anthony is a Ph.D. candidate in English, and they hold an MFA in creative writing & publishing arts ... Read More

The Northern Lights

Naomi Thiers
stunned me. I wasn’t the same after I stood by a lake, saw white plumes rain and flare like ghost


Ken Autrey
My hands have become his: freckles, prominent veins, wrinkles where fingers crook. Oh, how it holds his scent: motor oil,

Two Poems by Monty Jones

Monty Jones
The affects and the qualia are more than I can manage, I who strive just to keep the light

Senseless Violence

Christian Aguiar

Official and unofficial regrets flitter around, bemoan the way the bullets went, having never tasted life: handmade pasta pressed just

Self Portrait with Tigers

Christian Ward
Tigers slipped out of my hot saké while London quietly exited. Taxis and long winding streets jungled around my ankles.

This Is Why I No Longer Eat Chinese Food in November 

Paul Beckman

It’s 2 a.m. and since I’m a back sleeper the blood is dripping from my nose down my philtrum over

For Carmen’s Sake

Karen Regen-Tuero

When the police came, Frank was out making a soda run. He had already added seating to the living room,

Old hands

Martin Malone
Vein-braided landscape Like some satellite snapshot of a tangled delta Stippled now with brown pools, Ridges risen between the inlet

Less than Frank

Bayveen O’Connell


Trespass through the fibers of me. Take a red pen and scissors to my diary. Blot out all mention

The Last One

Peter Cherches
The clerk told me I could find it in aisle 7, but as much as I looked, up and down