Issue 2.1 Kim Garcia

Forked Roads by John Francis Istel
“How many candles do you see? Mother? How many? Can you see how many? Sit up.

Waking by Karin C. Davidson
“‘Sleep, sleep, sleep,’ my mother says. But I cannot help thinking about waking the next morning.”

The Box by Greg Bottoms
“Danny Glover—a fourteen-year-old white kid from Smithfield, Virginia, not the actor from…”

Form-Fall by Marco Wilkinson
“A tree evaporates into the universe and falls back to earth: timber to paper to coffee cup to compost to dirt.”

Swept by Emily Vizzo
“Startling, this body-bump of asterisks finding its way…

Sea Lion by Emily Vizzo
“The stink of him came to me first, a salty hit of kelp…

Mario’s Grocery Has No Cameras by Chris Mink
“In lane twelve a young mother wearing…

During the Tornado, I’m Thinking of Stars by Sara Henning
“They’re calling them sisters, funnels grafted…

The Dead Wait on the Living to Go on Living by Kim Garcia
“The chairs wide-mouthed and silent in each others’ presence…

Mountain Aubade by Kim Garcia
“Inside a blue-cupped palm, yellow tipped mountain, wild dogwood, pine…

Mending by Ruth Foley
“For once, I am not thinking of a place…”

Doubt is the angel of our time by Ruth Foley
“Of any time, I’d wager—any movement…

Cleansing Flights by Ruth Foley
“The temporary unfurling of the rhododendron…

Pitcher by Will Cordeiro
“I’m such a flirt…

Wild Horse / Wild Deer by John Casteen
“Deep beneath the night, its lidded vault of stars…”

Figure by John Casteen
“As in, cuts an elegant…”

I Saw You by JC Bouchard
“I saw you on the roundabout…”

Kim Garcia

The Dead Wait on the Living to Go on Living


The chairs wide-mouthed and silent in each others’ presence;
the cat crosses the floor, walking to the single shaft of sun.
I have come up the dark stairs, small, like the iceman,
milkman, the grocer’s son, day’s maid, shoulders brushing
plaster. The home breaks down so frequently, the future
depends more than ever on the teaching body. It’s late;
afternoon sun behind clouds the color of pearl and pussy willows,
cars hurtling home. Soon you will come home, hungry;
you will open the fridge and frown, find the milk, pour
a mug and sweeten it. The clay mask you made me
—marble eyes, a purple skin—has fallen under a load of books.
A bell like a buoy marks this window’s harbor. Among the mild
gray attics, all sheep, only the church is steep and belled
—mischievous goat. This isn’t thinking, ticking the world off
lamb by lamb. Cold, counting fingers close my eyes,
two dead coins. But here you are announcing yourself, just
as I’d imagined: “I’m home!” smelling like wood smoke and leaves.
There is something the living say, something under my tongue,
but you’re already past me, shedding your coat, radiating warmth.

Print Friendly, PDF & Email