Poetry: “Story,” by Giles Goodland

The unnamed narrator coats the stones like rain. He says: There is logos inside the logo, logic in the log, but watch the long-sleeved willow in autumn as it sways: willow, hold your suede over the colossus of loss, your shadow strides the forest seeking seeking. He says: Where the blackbirds fire songs a story […]

Prose: “The Oneironautics Conference,” by Nemo Arator

The Oneironautics Conference was scheduled to begin at eight o’clock Saturday morning in a city two hundred miles north of the town where I lived. So Friday night after work I set out, driving until I became too tired, then turned onto a dirt road and parked in the approach to a farmer’s field. I […]

Poetry: “What You Say When You Die,” by J. R. Forman

you think of hot evenings watching cottontails scatter
at the yip of waking coyotes
you think of watching clouds of heat lightning
glimmer like pearly gates
you think of baseball fishing in the pond

Poetry: “Strange weather we’re having these last days,” by Jane Wiseman

Startled awake, I left my frayed brain
resting in its head-case as I floated away
up to the ceiling, out of the long window
into the northern hardy redbud just outside
beginning its flower, tight pink nodules

Poetry: “Eldest daughter’s first solo trip to New Jersey,” by Z. Z.

In Newark, spring opens its mouth, yawns
across the Manhattan skyline, like a promise.
Yesterday, I asked what love was beyond
laughter skipping on broken vinyls, hands
on the steering wheel, beyond umbrellas. I

Prose: “Yellow Shift,” by Mary Lewis

I couldn’t believe they’d put all of us into this cramped basement room with stone walls and tiny windows too high to see out of, but maybe that was part of the therapy. A dozen people looked up from their chairs at Dr. Ward who stood on this little platform, jerking his arms like some sci-fi […]

Poetry: “Idyll of the Sipsey Wilderness,” by J.R. Forman

a broken arrowhead—its tip
cut off—depressed beneath the clay
five hundred years emerges after

summer’s heavy rain—I rinse
it in the basin carved in limestone

Poetry: “SUBURBIA, ON ANY GIVEN DAY,” by John Grey

Steve is comforted by the fact that humans are top of the food-chain.
His sister Keri’s greatest wish is for some cute guy
to stand beneath her window and sing Harry Styles songs to her.
If it’s the actual Harry Styles, so much the better.
To their mother, Harriet, everything is a matter of life and death.

Poetry: “Coming Up Jesus,” by Jeff McRae

Jesus had it going on for a good couple of years,
like Billy Collins—followers who said mmm when
he hit them with a perfect image, event attendees
who snapped their fingers and played bongos,

who caught him up when he took the leap of faith,

Prose: “The Diagnosis,” by Sam Ramos

I never like to give this kind of news, but we ran some tests, and you have cancer. You also have long COVID. And diabetes. And rabies. And tapeworm. And athlete’s foot. And moody spine. You have boredom. You have bleeding. You have really thick hairs on your forearms. You have dropsy. You have hysterical […]