Meditation on Need

Winner of the Writer’s Foundry Prize in Poetry by Despy Boutris Any I want you makes me want to run& hide. I never know what to dowhen my body turns feral. If lustis a kingdom, how kingly I become—large as the mustard blooms smearingthe hillside, all that yellow impossibleto break through. All wild& inhuman, noContinue reading “Meditation on Need”

The Book of Ash

all that remains of Joshua by Katie Manning long agoyour peoplecame to the sea theycriedfordarknessandhe brought the sea over them you saw with your own eyesthen you lived in the wilderness for a long time then youfought against you your handsdestroyedyouput a curse on youblessed you again and againanddelivered you after these thingsyour goddied youburiedContinue reading “The Book of Ash”

on the headlands, across the harbor

by Deborah Pless the bonfire must have reached sixty feetover the roofs of Bearskin Neck and the wharfbefore the lobster boats idling in the harborwere put back to use by men with sleepy eyesand pounding skulls we saw it, cracked and spitting, fit to consumeand from the rocks you asked me: why go to allContinue reading “on the headlands, across the harbor”

Summer for Peaches

by Seth Amos I like summer for peaches, not for humid, breezeless days. July 28, 2019, 11:10 a.m.,Brooklyn, I ate one.Eating a peach requires planningor rogue carelessness.I ate this one over the sink,shirtless, waitingfor the coffee to percolate.My teeth pierced its cropped fuzzand perfumed flesh. Juice camelike a watering mouth, drippingdown my arm and plunkingintoContinue reading “Summer for Peaches”

Evening bike ride to San Antonio Juanacaxtle

by Lisa López Smith There are the last whispers of the jacarandas’ pale purple glow,fields faded, the soil freshly turned.There are the houses half eaten alive—naked, brooding & dark,and the gusty roarblinking back tearson the downhill.Past the Cataluña gas station where the white stone colossus,Christ the Redeemer-style, has outstretched arms to embracethe Pemex gas pumpsContinue reading “Evening bike ride to San Antonio Juanacaxtle”


by Grace Li Every year the ladybug migrationwould pass through my father’s housewhere hundreds would trapthemselves in the cozyof our sunstreamed attic,tucked away with thewinter coats and pressed intopages of report cards.Every year my father would takethe phonebookfrom the kitchen cabinetwhere he kept all the billsand call a white manwho, every year, would leave ourContinue reading “Rehabitation”