Issue 2.1 Will Cordeiro

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…”

William Cordeiro



I’m such a flirt.

My opened pet-

als fill with dew

drops, saucy fillips

down a tube’s lop-

sided top, scalloped

as any trollop—look

like puckered lips,

arched lids, if not

the curves of fish-

hooks or a turned

up skirt. —Oh, you

would spot my put-out

pout in any sputter

of wind with your fine

proboscis & spiffed hairy

legs. Now, I may be over

-done, but I make-do.

Give you lip? You bet.

Honey, I’m really deep

throated & also noted

for my in-folding down

-ward pointing exits, forked

tongue, spoon-like mid-

riff. I’m never a drag.

I’m so fond to lolly-

gag & giggle, a silly goose,

you prolly think I’m Polly-

anna, another dumb blonde

who worries how she cuts

her figure? Why yes I’m used

to always being on the fly,

alas, with sassy rinky-dink

pink dresses loose & frilly.

Some say I’m cute enough

to die for, a potted mouth

Molly, not a gelded lily, but

a carnivore—I have such

taste; pitfalls aplenty to make

you trip down south into

my slick trapdoors.

I could lap your fly-

blown parts, lick sap &

à la carte your spit then

snatch the chance to

slip you down my hatch.

Every boy thinks I’m quite

the catch. I sell the sizzle

and then eat your meat,

your whole heart out.


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