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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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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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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 mammoth…

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TWO POEMS BY MOSHE FINE

Of Course You Can Go Home Should the seasons mistake themselves for wolves circling faster, and the sun chase the moon around the center of the universe ten thousand times an hour and should the sky be scribbled bright still it is so long until an ending and should knees always joint up, heel to…

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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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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…

Teressa Ezell
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In Praise of Mud by Teressa Rose Ezell

And what of this wind-whipped, soggy, savory day with its cloak of grey and its stinging drops, brown grass and bare branches, stark naked but still in glorious, dancing majesty? There is no train of hopeful, athletic feet running through the park now; just my husband, myself, and our wolfish dog, trudging. My husband’s loafers,…

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Selfie of March as Infatuation by Lori Lamothe

Selfie of March as Infatuation Change, as always, arrives late to the party. The pines in the yard stand ringed around stasis, the tips of their branches dripping dirty rain onto snow’s faded carpet. Even the sky stands off in a corner ignoring the small talk of crows, its gray coat draped over its shoulders….

Jennifer Martelli
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The Tao of Virgil Sollozzo by Jennifer Martelli

The Tao of Virgil Sollozzo   Look at my veiny hands. Look at the bare trees’ branches— we’re holding up the winter sky, giving it back its darkness. A pack of menthol cigarettes, a half empty bic lighter; cleaned out clam shell found on the beach by the stone calendar. In the movie, the doomed…

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