Poetry

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Tessa Kale

The Strange Masks

                                                                 Admit it though there are hands and feet, there are no bodies— this is why they are frightening! behind is only emptiness.                                                                  Hands grasp a ...

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Lily Brown

Blue Machine

Shelves of cloud stacked down. Then the brighter break. The mountain’s dirty load. The building’s touch gives the wind its pitch. And experience? The critic sharp upon abstraction? Anything’s that. How C bends the hand or hisses out from teeth and tongue. The soft craft of these heavy clouds is wet in the fist. And the boat I’m watching rock across the range—a blue machine that breaks and opens, breaks and opens and shows me when to change. ...

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Lily Brown

Documentarian

A storm rolls color around / the mountaintop, sky given over / to the deeply hued. / The river, stirred to sultry, / carves the village up.

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Jane Huffman

animal

a yellow minnow swims up his esophagus and kerplunks into the the bowl. he licks the bile and Listerine from his sour lips and tastes his breakfast and the woman who bought it for him.

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Abigail Zimmer

Russian Grandmother Kills Wolf With Bare Hands and an Axe

Left with a bandaged hand and a living calf which she calls dumb one and my sweet, stroking between its milk eyes, the woman is not surprised to see November fall upon the yard, snow steaming from an empty body. It happened in quiet, rounding a corner to spot the familiar crouch and intention, how her father’s face snarls at her so many years later, how the first blow slid beneath the shoulder blade, how the palm reader said “Do not become red,” how we dig feet in and hold and who will win? She who is called grandmother and neighbor on the next farm over, the lost names of daughter and malyutka. She ...

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