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Three Poems by Andrew Gillis

gut grief there’s an older man, i know, who sleeps among this thicket with a face like mine, eyes like mine, corporeal form curled behind the curtain of shadow at the heart of spiderweb oak. i have seen the night turn over in its sleep, a wide black, no forgiving star to cut the even…

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Persephone’s Handmaiden – By Sarah Navin

my friend’s inflatable trampoline floats in her backyard cove. black mesh swallows the sun and bites at our bare skin till we fill our hands with lake water and douse our tethered island in it. we’re playing sirens again. not exactly mermaids – the estranged cousin, maybe, of that sort of nymph. in lieu of…

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In Flight – By Henry Dane

I was a six year-old meat missile. My parents drove their car across a parking lot into a mattress store and were killed instantly. I landed in soft, goose-down feather bed. *** I was adopted by my father’s brother, Uncle Luke, a self-taught, self-employed carpenter outside Chicago. When I was eight Uncle Luke had an…

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Three Poems by David J. Hills

Canticle for University Parks, Oxford When the sun finally breaks and the air is soft and muggy enough to swim in and the sidewalks are cracking from foot traffic and the brutalism of Wolfson is weighing on the soul you will find us between willows older than God, along the forearm of the River Cherwell,…

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Winterhaven Park – By Jesse Albatrosov

When I make my way back to the edge of my earth, it is here that I fold myself between moist graduals, in search of grounding where I cry out to the waves please wash me of this series of mistakes each one withdrawing as I inch my naked feet near receding elegantly into the…

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River Man – By Sandy Coomer

We swam the Tennessee River with your dead eyes open to us, silent within willow fronds on the surface, green tendrils reaching down. Your body hung there, suspended for days. No one knew you, or counted you missing, or turned the shore end over end to discover your ending. It was an accident – finding…

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Seven to None – By Rhea Dhanbhoora

They can’t book the baug because they’re a mixed family and the husband hasn’t had his Navjote, but their eight-year-old wants to be like the other children in the colony, so they decide to have a ceremony on the terrace instead. She’s more interested in gifts than prayers, she says, twirling desperately in her polka…

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Years Later – By Sieghard Jiang

Ten years ago she was pursuing her Master’s degree in sociology in a Chinese university. She and another classmate, Gang Chen, worked as volunteers for a non-governmental organisation. Their tasks were to explain to sex workers how to protect themselves from HIV/AIDS, and to give them free condoms. Her motivation of being a volunteer was…

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As Novelas – By James Brodows

The novela Celebridade leaps from the Brazilian televisions and streets. At last week’s Flamengo soccer match the fans shook homemade signs: Quem matou Lineu? (Who killed Lineu?) The question on everybody’s mind after the soap opera murder. And this week with the revelatory episode looming: Eu matei Lineu (I killed Lineu) Eu sei quem matou…

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Knuckles – By Jessica McDermott

A friend once told me the only part of the human body that doesn’t turn to ash after cremation are knuckle bones – like little Jacks, small concaving squares with the durability to withstand temperatures reaching above 1,5000 degrees Fahrenheit. My dad’s knuckles are fat. From growing up on a farm and playing basketball for…

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