But listen: Roger sat on the bench outside the library on Spruce, smoking a cigarette and wishing he was as clever and as thin and as skilled with women as…
A Reimagined-Translation of “Dicen Que Soy” by La India For Elba The curse of some lonely witch Suspended above her cauldron-glow. An oar in her hands to paddle the wish.…
She had changed into things before. A speck of stardust falling into the waters, becoming fishlike, uncoiling, big-eyed, like the forms found in stone at the tops of canyons. She’d…
First, realize that this is not the country. This is not the great stretch of green-yellow-gold fields, the big sky, the whole world. This is the city. This is a…
the way Oma taught us, we are all partly made of snow. We steal the sky’s aimless black, nest in the great wind that lifts our hair. When we bruise…
Snow covers the park. Clouds cover the sky. One hides green; the other blue. You understand the snow and the clouds have been working together for a long time but…
Murder is as soundless as a spout of blood, as regular and rhythmic as sleep. —Eudora Welty Listen to that chasing: caterwaul, growl— the cats sprinting the length of the…
In the room, you will see either an easel or an egg. If it is the easel, you will pick up either a freshly sharpened pencil or a freshly severed…
I wouldn’t be the first woman to fall for a jackass. I swear, I’m cursed in men. Those ears, that nose, the beer gut, the brawls— you behave like you…
She gives the remembrances back. The letters. The birthday cards. His dress shirt she wore at night. The stuffed animal from the fair. The mix-tapes. The bracelets. She boxes them…
Gingerbread House Lit Mag 