Author: cicadamag

  • Two Poems by Tam Nguyen

    what do we have? a hologram of blood / sanctimoniously held on a pedestal with too much pride to neglect.

  • The 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.

  • Two 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.

  • Two Poems by Jocelyn Li

    Kindle our fury, keep us bubbling / in a wok of absurdity for too long / and nothing will astonish us anymore.

  • Our 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…

  • Two 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.

  • How 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?

  • Three 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

  • Three 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.

  • Two Poems by Isla McKetta

    Child of Reagan, what if the Russian boogeyman / is my blood?