Talk to Her

E.J. Levy

What did they expect? That I was just another captivating face? (I do not say pretty, even my mother did not call me that; she said I would grow into my looks and meet my mate, but he never came—or if he did, I was gone by the time he arrived, already taken.)…

The Plague

Leigh Camacho Rourks

When Cora caught the lawn guy smoking weed in the backyard instead of mowing, she wanted to say something cool, to ask for a drag or a hit or whatever you asked for if you were young and wonderful.…

Sudden Death: A Eulogy

Jacob M. Appel

My great-grandfather, Simon Litman, Latvian immigrant, secular Jew, inept businessman, gifted egg candler, doting father, cigar-smoker and pint-sized omnivore who (at least in family lore) could devour his own bodyweight in gribenes, holds the distinction of being the last of my forbears to drop dead.…


Adam Davies

Sheetman finds it hard to keep roommates. They never understand why he won’t wear clothes like everybody else. …

Music In Motion: If One Of Us Should Fall

Ben Purkert

Forget aspiring to the condition of music—Nicole Terez Dutton’s poetry achieves it. Winner of the 2011 Cave Canem Poetry Prize, If One Of Us Should Fall accompanies a touring musician across a “sprawl of club dates from coast to coast, [a] series of sad motels in pastel disrepair.”…

Sinaia, Romania

Maya Catherine Popa

Corridors of calves      cataract of mountains

lands pulled up by the navel      then abandoned

they say         by a dry
god      on the occasion of a drink.

Such Revenges

Caitlin Fitzpatrick

I try not to think about the fact that my son is dead. I try harder not to remember that his funeral was the sixth time I had ever visited him. …

A Volume of Loss

T Clutch Fleischmann

The opening image of Nan Goldin’s The Ballad of Sexual Dependency is “Nan on Brian’s lap, Nan’s birthday, New York City 1981.” Nan wears pearls and a green dress, her arms slung across Brian’s shoulders and one hand on top…

Souvenirs: An Excerpt

T. Kira Madden

Aunt Helen comes at night. Slicked hair pulled back into pins, stabbing a knot behind her neck. She says, How you getting along? The Holmes children know she means if they’re hungry, if they’re feeling all right, any new scars.…

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