Category: Issue 7
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TWO POEMS by Jennifer Givhan
NOCTURNE Then I remembered: Mama wasn’t gone but safe, in her bed, turning in sleep. It was I who went away—from Chopin in the bones, palms heavy with dates like dark purple fingers reaching toward sand, toward fruit sickly sweet…
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WATER AND ISLAND by Jennifer Sperry Steinorth
pressed between blue pages a few hours on our old boat which is not ours my leg over the bow you in the stern with the kids in the stern I’m reading poems you’re not the sky a depression of noon wilting on our way back from the island we did not reach…
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FOUR POEMS by Christopher Kempf
SLEDDING AT HARDING MEMORIAL It was how humans, the future will say, entertained themselves those last centuries winter existed. Cribs of dogwood racked in the side yard. Jarred fruit. Fat in our snowsuits, my sister & I climbed the huge steps & pressed our faces to the gate’s wrought bars.
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YELLOWED by Steven D. Schroeder
The shade we named sidewinder fang hung on a signpost at the main-gate lookout tower— another, tree die-off, we newsprinted into leaflets about how far until the next water supply. None on spyglass lenses could filter the color of a highway…
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ARTWORK by Krithika Sathyamurthy
Back to Issue 7 krithikasathyamurthy.com
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ISSUE 7
New work by Glen Pourciau, Corey Van Landingham, Christopher Kempf, Jennifer Givhan, and more
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TWO POEMS by Airea D. Matthews
SEXTON TEXTS ON INDEPENDENCE DAY Sat. July 3, 8:14 am (1/2) Because there was no other place I went home away from the scene of crazy-making senses came back before dawn in heavy July Sat. July 3, 8:15 am (2/2) my purse wide, thighs wet keys set down bedroom bound where one child also sleeps.
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FAILURE by Glen Pourciau
I’d been holed up with a new project, and it seemed time to get out and breathe some fresh air and talk to people, an outcome that the solitary nature of my work sometimes led me to desire…
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TWO POEMS by Corey Van Landingham
VIEW POINT, SAN ANDREAS FAULT From here, I see the up-thrust of collision, how the Indio Hills have changed through time. In a year, the sign says…
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WHEN I DIED BY FIRE by Scott Beal
my children knew I was the kind of fool who could drop a spark on my coat and wear it burning into the house, fold it over a chair and go on reading as smoke filled the apartment…
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LINE DRAWINGS by Weston Cutter
dear salt dear water scribbling difference between where I can dryly stand+not dear sea dear shell dear Florida from your panhandle I’m staring past seagulls flit +scurrying across sand…
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STEPHANIE SAYS by Alain Douglas Park
A woman stands alone in the surf. She’s up to her mid-thighs in the water, warm Gulf of Mexico water, and she can feel the strong undertow of the sea. It pulls her legs and sucks the sand from under her feet. It’s tremendous—this undertow—a force of nature—powerful. But, she’s determined to stand in it.…