Issue: 2018

Good Morning small room with no windows, folk punk and three birds squawking at me— I slept on the floor last night I dreamt of running a potluck without contributions and barely any food I quit my job, spent all my money on chard and italian cheese I … Continue Reading

This was his fifth day working on the front line of the Colorado wildfire; the smoke and heat tearing through his chest had begun to wear on him. He coughed as he reached for his bandanna, which had slid down his face and was no longer covering his nos … Continue Reading

Last Valentines day                            a boy                 wrote me a poem                            titled                                          “feces”                                                    it began:                         … Continue Reading

Ada B. Wells is not her real name, but she talks about Ida B. Wells who refused to give up her seat on the train long before Rosa Parks could even ride the bus without her mother. We had just met, and her furry top hat sat over her hair. She was lament … Continue Reading

A dandelion, disguised as a sunflower. You can do so much better than to focus on a weed like me. … Continue Reading

there is a story my mama used to tell me when she lay in two feet of snow in the middle of a field somewhere off Rt 9. she lay in the dark and watched the stars so long she couldn’t feel her body, the snow around her clean and wide. she stayed until sh … Continue Reading

with you: an entrance when you open your eyelids glitter specks of fever dream and its a buzzing day a day to burst and fruit a winged seed in sun hips knife and writhe, soft hair filling fist   … Continue Reading

It’s winter and There are bees in you. They push their way out of The corners of your mouth When you grin, a driven mass. Bees in your eyes, they crawl Out of your ears like slow honey. Their bristle legs are sticky From the things between your teeth. … Continue Reading

Once she lived in Arizona and she got an award, so her mother sent her an azalea. It was pink                   and pretty, so out of place in the apartment of nubby beige and ochre chair covers,                   cigarette smoke, monsoon grit. All her … Continue Reading

I’m here, in a small moment looking for windows to break this isn’t rebellion I tell my mom I broke a jar on asphalt picked it up with my hands I listen to melancholic silence in big rooms I nod and sweep by people I don’t hand out flyers, or paint t-s … Continue Reading