Meg Pokrass
This hubby, the current, is pretending to be in love with me so that I’ll stop moping. I cried and told him I would leave. Now he pretends.
Read MoreCara Lang
We chug along, the sun rising like a paintbrush dipped in orange, fiery hot. Stacks of wood and other industrial materials teeter on the banks. Water. Waves — are they waves? — ripple calmly like someone stirring in morning's first hint of wakefulness.
Read MoreMichelle Bailat-Jones
She watches them now as they are spread long-limbed over the dirt, their fingers reaching into the redness and the grit, their elbows and knees always dusty, always rubbed a little raw from their kneeling at play, this serious activity of theirs, eyes grave and directions passed between them in sensible whispers, never shouted because her children do not raise their voices.
Read MoreEmma Jackson
There are two stories to this space. There is us, in the evening, making dinner at ten pm. Starving from daily activities. Wearing partial outfits of t-shirts and boxers (be careful not to burn yourself), as we spin in sock feet.
Read MoreCathal Gunning
When I'm good I'm great. I mean it, I get it. I'd want me too. Not to sound– no, happy to sound arrogant, or conceited, or whatever. Extra. When I'm on form everyone in the room, male, female, or otherwise, myself very much included, would want to lick my tight stomach, and I know it.
Read MoreBarbara McVeigh
I remember you dancing at the wedding: your neat feet and fancy heels twisting over the geometric patterns on the parquet. As nimble as a goat. You asked me: “How do they measure the height of a mountain?”
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