Heat Index by Brenda Miller and Julie Marie Wade
In the 16th century, shipping companies often paid sailors in rations of rum. The sailors (always wary of the bosses) learned how to see if they were being ripped off…”
Quả Hồng Vàng by Kelly Morse
“That first autumn in Hanoi I didn’t eat persimmons because I’d mismatched books and life. A Chinese apple, your teacher said…”
The Radiators in Ellen Reed House by Liz Ahl
“have been pushing their ancient water
through these plaster walls…”
The Radium Girls by Liz Ahl
“Time used to tick, to trip,
to click between …”
Saturn V by Liz Ahl
“Unlike grief, escape
has only three stages…”
Honeysuckle by Maggie Bailey
“is taste not scent,
Alternative Air Source by Bobby Bolt
“If the ocean is only a sequence of shared breaths,
Then you may dream your way across…”
Physical Geography Lecture by Bobby Bolt
“I hope you’re taking notes: The nature of nature
is to move,…”
He’s a wildflower by Austin Eichelberger
“jaw decorated with soft thorns…”
Heat Wave by Jennifer Highland
“Bronx summer streets
smelling of piss and petunias…”
The Insulators by Jennifer Highland
“We try to keep the weather here controlled,
and so we softly barricade…”
Climate Change my Body by Jenny McBride
“The warmest years on record
and my body is coming into its own…”
Last Day to Save on Sarah Jaeger’s “Throwing and Alternative Video” by Andrea Witzke Slot
“sign me up for the master class of how.
Train me to…”
The Palm of Proprioception by Andrea Witzke Slot
“The sense of touch arrives early, long before the others…”
Unpacking by Larry Thacker
“My father is fresh back from Vietnam.
I see this in a memory I shouldn’t…”
Recipe by Patti White
“Say it began with an oven so hot…”
Boûts-Rimés: God’s Grandeur (1934) by Katherine Williams
“In black-and-white, five children in a god-
forsaken shanty of loose boards…”
For My Father, Who Will Someday Die by P.J. Williams
“Likely because his lungs
have turned umber, lost…”
Candling by Annie Woodford
“Short and sort of defeated even then…”
Melisma by Annie Woodford
“You love the radio,
love the thump & pop…”
Short and sort of defeated even then,
the father of our grade’s only twins
came to class to talk egg production,
proud of his farm filling carton after carton.
He showed us a movie where eggs flowed
on a conveyor belt, illumined for a moment
from behind, dwarf stars with amorphous hearts.
If a chick curled like a carving in a Gothic church
was revealed, or a blood spot, or a blank space
where the clean yolk should have shone, the egg
was removed by workers wearing white cotton gloves.
None of us guessed how hard the years would be—
one twin slipping in the long sleep of overdose
and all our youth fading as soon as it flared.
In the classroom, though, the windows
are cranked out to catch May breath.
The room is dark. We anticipate.
Hair already grey, hands nervous and sincere,
he starts the VCR. Both his boys live,
grave hazel eyes green-flecked and often lit
with a smile they don’t have to show to share.