Spring/Fall 2020

AuthorSarah Pape

My Guardian Angel Was a Crow and God Did Not Blow Me a Kiss

by Martha Silano but the flags were stiffly blowing, but the grass wasn’t dead.I couldn’t find inspiration in an ARCO/AM-PM sign, in the cashier’ssharing she starts work at five am. Listening to Cannon Ball Blues in Battleground, Washington, trying to imagine three back-to-backnine-hour shifts in a convenience store off Interstate 5, who and whatwalks through those automatic doors, what’s...

Emergency Room

by David J. Bauman a new constellation waiting for us to map it—Richard Blanco, “One Today” A uniformed officer guards the doorin this low-lit corner of the hospital.Through the shatterproof window, I see you sitting up in bed, calm now.In her text, your mother said that youdid not want to see me. So, I seek her out instead. She is speaking witha doctor in a green smock who nodsfor me to go in. A...

Shrine Keeper is Trapped in Owl’s Nest

by Baba Badji Shrine Keeper is trapped in a body hanged in baobab. It is not dead.He was afraid to speak for acacia leaves & blown up secrets of shrine.It is said he caused shame for villagers. Tribes drift with wind digging for them,old memories. Villagers’ terrors! My God! He begged for his life. He was innocent?Now, I wonder how to drag every baobab tree to a sacred place.Cassava garden...

In the Warehouse

by John Struloeff Left with a sleeping forklift operator,he stood alone beneath the two-ton funnel,nozzle neck-high, its stream of seeds creakingthe conveyor as they flowed into the machine—the jostling of screens, the sifting,the augers that could catch a sleeveand draw his hand into corkscrew blades.The dust was a haze at night,hot and gritty in his eyes.He stood in the musty shadows, sound...

Grandma, in the Mountains

by Alison Terjek Some days—I sprint up hill to slowmy runaway pulse. Sometimes loss chases me over bouldersuntil I can’t wring out the pain. It rolls down my chin as hot teamouth—refusing to be blanched by silence. Some evenings I can’tstore anymore words in my body. I’m an oversaturated towel—stretchedacross the mountains’ shoulder. Your name climbs out of my throat,shakes my hands—sounds like...

Einaan See Eight

by Sujash Purna Probably all my encounters are existential jambalaya—Terrance Hayes long gasps of smokes                                       filtered through a grilled window...

Aarthi (आरती)

by Marco Harnam Kaisth Come come come— I will share your weight like sweet-toed deerlilt across the borrowed lawn. I desire endlesslyliving, I desire endlessly dark. For you, my middle, I’ve swallowed my tongue and eight fingers; I’ve founda cave in the pure mountains; I will turn my bonesto harmonium reeds fluting your breath. Come as a stolen thing and I will hold you tight undermy...

Hunger

by Kimberly Glanzman now is the winterafter the war. we dissentwith the sunrise, wreck our hands in frozen furrows,weigh the taste of dirt-crowned ginger against the hollowsounds that surface, sprout like weedsfrom within our throats. Kimberly Glanzman was a finalist for the 2019 Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story Prize, and a 2020 Pushcart Nominee. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming...

Baelo Claudia

by Paul Pickering The waves, dimpled and sun-shellacked,Make a floating mosaic of golden lightThat breaks on the sandAt Baelo Claudia. The same lightThat for millennia has been the provinceOf warblers weightlessly flittingAbove the Roman road. Even nowSome rise to dart over the forumToward the great stone basinsOnce used to render for the empire,Garum, a sauce derivedFrom the intestines of...

Spring Supper at Acorn Glen

by Laura Cherry commences at four-thirty becauseold people like to eat early, orso they’re told. Slowly they flockto the same tables, no variations,like white-haired middle-schoolers.Susan, Patricia, Linda, Elizabeth,and Janet have scored a windowwhere they can line up their walkersand discuss whose children broughtgroceries and magazines. Whosehave not come in a month, a year,or ever. Whose...

Spring/Fall 2020