The Imaginary Jew

John Berryman

From The Kenyon Review, Autumn 1945, Vol. VII, No. 4 The second summer of the European War I spent in New York. I lived in a room just below street-level…

Saint

Raisa Tolchinsky

Been waiting for this headless coachman to save me from the cold. I give myself over to pain that smells of papercranes that burn in flight. It’s a summer field…

The Last Things We Said

Kevin McIlvoy

The last things we said to each other after hours of calling out, knocking walls, wild thumping around, pointless strategizing, no cell phone reception, laughing, loud chilled laughing, urinating so…

Sissy

John Kinsella

Where the great wandoo forests abut open farmland, there’s a sense of possibility that can corrupt as much as stimulate mystery. The edge-effect has implications that police and locals are…

The Animals are Undisturbed

Daniel Poppick

Snow distributes script if music                                             Pastes its name to speech, all necking           With its own inflections in the orchard. Winter Meanwhile strings its trinket to your joke before you       Even…

Don’t I Know

Rose McLarney

A man who was not to be trusted once owned the hound. Don’t I know the kind. But I won’t walk the way the stray dog does, head down, side-stepping,…

The Stations of the Sun

Reese Okyong Kwon

1. Another god, another artist According to Chinese mythology, the goddess Nugua formed the first mortals from yellow mud. An artist, she carefully sculpted each limb, pressed closed each fingertip,…

Eve

Leslie Harrison

If the angels came there would be no kindness they are after all also without mercy pity they are warriors soldiers of wing beak and sword griffins of the lord…

A Sort of Infinity

Matthew Baker

Christopher Surrey is at the kitchen table wearing a normal green T-shirt and normal blue jeans and normal white socks and just starting his homework for precalculus that’s due tomorrow…

The Brain Truck

Catherine Wing

He’s all magnet to my brain truck, polarized and pulled in a stark, strange-thoughted veer. Lacks ground and full with impulse. Queer about the eye, occipital. Never blinks but ringing.…

The Ludlum Identity

The premise is everything. Your opening scene? A man floating on the ocean. Of course: The origins of life. Vishnu sleeps on an ocean. It fits. Now have the man…

Metamorphosis

Katherine Larson

It is astounding how little the ordinary person notices butterflies. —Nabokov We dredge the stream with soup strainers and separate dragonfly and damselfly nymphs— their eyes like inky bulbs, jaws…

The Composer’s Lover

Alex Dimitrov

We had an hour without music. A nerve brightly turning in a closed room of the mind— the heart’s black pool, a word that expired into the air and woke…

Black Stones

Amy Bonnaffons

To whom can we turn in our need? Not angels, not humans. . . . —Rilke I. At midnight, Sarah awoke to find an angel hovering above her hospital bed…

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