poetry

The search for the perfect needlecontinues, the thread acquiredin a deal that saw you relinquishthree quinces, your grandmother,and a draft choice to be named later.Between sips, what was once ryein your shotglass seems to havebecome amaranth. The prieston the stool next to you claimsno possibility of transubstantiation;you withhold judgment. The ritualis still on, your roommate …

The Alchemists, the Squirrels, by Robert Beveridge Keep Reading »

The train flows through the midnight of tunnels,hums inside ribs.Raindrops wink on the windowas they say goodbye to platformsthat give them a grin full of bones of cobblestones.Rustling leaves wrap around fingersthe monuments of the abandoned stations.Bezpráví,yearning of wires, mires in the mist on the glass,bared teeth of the lightning-catcherthat swallows the autumn like a …

The Train, by Ivana Svobodová Keep Reading »

I am preparing for an unforeseen death of my mother:I am dressed in all red.I am letting prayer beads dry my tongue.I am planting devil’s helmet over my bed.I pretend her body is not here anymoreand only communicate to her through old pictures.I open the lid of the casserole and bury my noseinto it like …

Grieving rehearsal, by Akash Ali Keep Reading »

            Hip swagger,black coat,bellyful of kittens—             sun-shadow brume of chimney-ash dander—tightrope-walking fencesthat lean like drunks beyond the water’s edge,             crooked, corroding—salt-battered,wind-battered, time-             battered thingsthat keep exactly nothing at bay—queens of the things that make our acquaintance,             masters of that which allowus command. The block, a plague-timeferal’s kingdom—backyard plots             & sea grass—Felis catus makes do with specters …

Bronx Tiger Tests Positive for COVID-19, by James Edward O’Brien Keep Reading »

17, rubbled in his family’s Liège apartment, throat like sawdust, half hoping to die & wondering if he already had. Before that a missile peeled a building, a home, a family away. Before that a V-2 rocket launched from the Baltic made gravity a chump. Before that prisoners hungrier than him welded its casing together. …

I think of my grandfather, by Jonathan Duckworth Keep Reading »

i.      The Ocean        Gilded crests and metallic prisms        are shattered now, transmuted now:        emerald to tanzanite to sapphire to silver        in accordance with nor’eastern alchemy.        Like birth, the horizon becomes distinct bodies;        you watch as sea splits free from sky.         And there, between—a line across deep water:        an ouroboros loop betwixt past, present, shore.        Serpentine, it ribbons on the backs of swells,        incorporeal and hazed. …

Owl’s Head, 1980s, by M. Regan Keep Reading »

Mortals, my father says, come twice before they finally hitthe eternal rest button. By this he meant, a man is to two gravestones,that a man drowned in the slave ship with his dreams, his masterand the sailor can be gifted a chance to own a tomb in the afterlife.That the bodies burnt by a country …

A Man is Two Gravestones, by Blessing Omeiza Ojo Keep Reading »

She took a dip in the healing watersof Lethe, rubbed the ashes awayuntil her arms were pale and gray with cold. She stepped out, and then began the procession of lotions andlate-night pomegranate trays.Deep breath in. She thinks to herself:The past doesn’t exist exceptfor what its ghost hand has etchedon my body. Breathe out. And …

After the Fire, by Ada Navarro Ulriksen Keep Reading »

sea girls are wrestling red tigerfish while Margaretgathers upwet bones in a basketwith a howlof wind blowingcicada shadethrough dank and damp cornersof deep-mouthedocean caves her oars dip in and out of shallow water the hot wheezeof hazy, humid daysbreathe inbreathe outthe bathwater tidesroll inroll out sailing by shore, she waves at white skeletons in forced …

Shipwrecked, by Gretchen Tessmer Keep Reading »

I My great-grandmother’s house didn’t diewhen she left. They took away her onlyring, the moldy zines, the chairs andcoffee tables she had collectedfrom green rubbish bins.When that failed, they took herghosts as well. II My mother slapped my arm when Itried to press a hand against the wall.It is bad manners to wake a housefrom …

My Great-Grandmother’s House, by Madalena Daleziou Keep Reading »