what do we have? a hologram of blood / sanctimoniously held on a pedestal with too much pride to neglect.
Read moreThe Disciple
By Wong Chun Ying
She was surprised to see that he still smoked the same cigarettes, after all these years. It was what she used to run to get for him, when he started getting jittery and started pacing in the editorial room. Marlboro Black Menthol “without legs,” ng jiu goek.
Read moreTwo Poems by Jonathan Chan
the misty layer bears no forethought / of sorrow. it hovers over the / clearing and the stream, just as the / yawn of daylight scatters over / vines and fans of leaves.
Read moreTwo Poems by Jocelyn Li
Kindle our fury, keep us bubbling / in a wok of absurdity for too long / and nothing will astonish us anymore.
Read moreOur Mother
By Ned Carter Miles
This year was my turn to light the fire, and I chose to do it on top of a rough black stone that looked unmistakably like Ernest Borgnine—the same roundness and folds. No one else knew, but earlier that day I’d come to the beach in our mother’s car and caught a mackerel—which I hadn’t done since I was a child—gutted it with a pocket-knife, wrapped it in foil, and buried it under a layer of flat stones before resting Borgnine on top.
Read moreTwo Poems by Sharon Black
Like a loaf of bread in a birdcage you chase me and I run / like a sheet of beeswax rolled into a candle.
Read moreHow We Will Remember
By Ploi Pirapokin
What happens after a fire? Who dusts, sweeps, and tosses the remains out into open fields, to sow, replant, and tend to new growth? Do you need to know how a burn feels to recognize what it is like to be soothed?
Read moreThree Poems by Nicole Lee
In the house that he built as / the 60s were turning I / find myself standing where I was / once a smart alec kid going / places who sort of looked down / on her parents who wanted the / life reached by climbing a stair / that began somewhere else
Read moreThree Poems by Allan Popa
By Allan Popa / Translation by Bernard Capinpin
There will be days when you’ll shed tears / over breakfast, dipping / the bread into coffee / like when you were a child / because who could’ve imagined / it possible still.
Read moreTwo Poems by Isla McKetta
Child of Reagan, what if the Russian boogeyman / is my blood?
Read more
Cicada 