Online Exclusives

Three Poems by D. C. Wiltshire

April 28, 2017

“I am the outcast” I am the outcast of the day aloft on shrill gusts up near the quiet cirrus, who dangle their legs in my long, thick hair that tickles in breezing past. Behold the shepherd whose sheep go home each to his own den, away from the wind, and I to my humble abode, too small to house them all. I who stand creekside

“Absolution Among the Hail and Blackberries” by Christine Nichols

April 28, 2017

I am open, in the field. I offer the hail my belly, a thinly lidded eye, a curve of arched neck. In the air, the trill of a lark’s song, its voice— a fountain, bubbles in darkness. I wait for the sin.  It’s coming.

“#BlackLivesMatter)” by Keri Withington

April 28, 2017

For the good of the Fatherland,               i know why the others aren’t here the girls with               purple-black eyes the boys with boys the priests               who sermonize and the Jews the Jews the Jews               houses sit empty stare not one says any thing no               one trusts … READ MORE…

“A Guide to Violence” by Kandace Siobhan Walker

April 28, 2017

have a body.1 abandon the gender you were assigned at birth.2 name social structures which shape & govern your reality. name trauma. name the classes who inflict trauma on bodies like ours. remove a history book from its shelf and light a match. practice empathy.3 walk naked into the street, demanding reparations. adopt english as a mother language, when you’ve no other choice. disobey the state by giving birth. talk in dialect, like you never left the motherland. learn to … READ MORE…

“It Was Alright” by Matt Zambito

April 28, 2017

It was alright to meet you that first night is an understatement what Analogy exams are worth a whole lot of nearly nothing is to overstatement. Really: What could be more radically ideal than the whole forsaken universe being

“Praise Where I Can” by Derick Ebert

April 28, 2017

Chalk lines stretch across eroding black top, pandemonium is tasting soot in the mouth, names become ash when memories are buried. The earth can’t save the hum of voices, the way Pompeii can cradle a body from extinction, I’ve learned home is where death is least likely I cannot live here.

“Boxcar” by David-Matthew Barnes

April 28, 2017

A screenplay for a short film Adapted from the one-act play BOXCAR EXT. AN ABANDONED TRAIN YARD; A SMALL AMERICAN TOWN – NIGHT The night is providing a false sense of calm. The hour is late. Beyond a quiet, remote gas station is a cemetery for trains. Stillness blankets the train yard. Empty, rusted rail cars litter the space, discarded and long forgotten. Beyond the perimeter of a broken chain-link fence, the landscape is sparse and the horizon is endless. … READ MORE…

“The Tall Grass” by Sharif Shakhshir

April 28, 2017

The tall grass grows at the northern edge of the peninsula where rodents scuttle like electricity. Mom says, “There is evil out there: monsters, thieves, gamblers, and people who aim to gain from your failure. But there are no badges of honor for staying home. The way a brush must leave the pallet to make something great, you must leave.

“The Theatre Department” by Christine Stoddard

April 28, 2017

When you study acting as a biracial girl in the South,             you will never portray Scarlett O’Hara,             only ever Mammy             because your program head does not think “protagonist”             when she sees a mulatto. You are an accessory, like the dogwoods that dot a plantation.

Werewolves: Poem by and Interview with David Aristi

April 18, 2017

by Seth Copeland, Publishing Editor Sydney Vance, Senior Poetry Editor Werewolf Viejo By David Aristi Gold been beaten outta me by Every passing year, lo que queda Funciona despacio — what’s left Works slowly. The beastly things I miss, but in war, South Central, or in Juarez Juárez La Jodida Or think Aleppo, those goat & sheep sins would be laughable Today Confieso porque me he vuelto demasiado viejo para presidió — I confess because I just turned too old … READ MORE…