Issue 8

what time doesn’t heal is a lantern

what Mary’s
son allows (or leaves to the wide
& terrible discretion of human self-
allowance) is not unlike a mirror

I was perfect, two small hands
clasped in prayer, just waiting
to become unmade—

I have 206 bones in my body and most/
could be my friends or people I envy

ripeheavy, dim citrus breaks
the back of its elastic grace;
it begs

Endings Endings, like beginnings, mystify. Sometimes to be mystified is to sense a returning, without knowing why or how far, or even when exactly, as…

baby, the day’s ghoulish. nicked my knuckle on it.

Flames bite and spit. The forest will not burn.

The pigeons sound like doves
because they are doves. The television sounds like war.

Vanished/ by chance/ a scorch/ of hair/ a trench/ of maps/ almanacs

My horse is dead, again

When the sirens went off, some walked to their balconies and gazed at the ocean, its
far horizon. Most discovered that they wanted to be somewhere else.