Photo: Tastwo Photography

The Josephine Pocket

Christine Gosnay

Why had I loved the sea? It wasn’t like the sea I loved in my head… It was trawl the nets, pull the nets, dump the fish, and sift the fish, or be dropped at the next docking without money.


Robert Delaunay, 1938, "Rythme n°1," oil on canvas

of cleverness of osmotic haunting of

Cassidy Viser

Over broken synaptic impulse fire is wait. Is through bleeding color. I am


Photo: Shereen M


Melissa Kiefer

When I was young, I remember my mom borrowing a non-steamy book from the library. The book was meant to be funny—satirical, sarcastic. I didn’t like it.

Interview & Review

Sor Juana-Cover-GIANT

Enigmas: Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz

Leticia Urieta interviews Stalina Emmanuelle Villareal on her translation of Enigmas

The ability to hold in one’s hand a beautifully printed chapbook, like an intimate secret, of poems written four centuries ago is a gift restored to the modern reader.


Kali VanBaaleJacket Photo 2015

The Good Divide

 Kali VanBaale

In the best stranger-comes-to-town-literature, the narrative is less about the actual stranger, and more about the impact of the newcomer’s presence.


Photo: Frank Kozar / Design: A.D.S

This Boy Here. He'll Kill You.

Michael Credico

“We split the money as soon as I’m sure there’s nothing left saving here.”



Two Poems

J. Bailey Hutchinson

When I wake, it is for no one’s hunger / but my own & the bird and the toast are precisely what / I tell them to be. If that is bullfinch and burnt / then so.



On Endings

Johanna Stoberock

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since—the knowledge of last times, the foreknowledge of doing something that you’ll never do again. Would that be better or worse than doing something for the last time without any idea that you’ll never do it again?



A Conversation with Rebecca Morgan Frank

Stu Gill interviews Rebecca Morgan Frank

Poets are often magpies of sorts, we steal little glittering threads of ideas from others and make our own creations of them.



the street has changed

Amanda Huynh

the front yard is empty of snow the bushes do not hold out prickly leaves the front door does not sit unlocked


Photo: leftpalate / Design: A.D.S.

Hear No Evil

TK Dalton

“Are you trying to say you think you’re gay?” My mother asked, just as I was about to repeat the story, in shorter version, to my father.


"Mossy Tiles 2," Poster Boy

When You Wake

Christian Holt

She was the first girl you met who talked about Miyamoto and Kojima as if they were Shakespeare and Faulkner; she seemed at a young age to have been grabbed by the same unseen hand that drew you to these fantastical worlds where things finally made sense.



Pitch & Tar

Devin Kelly

I can feel my lover child growing when I walk between the trees with my sweater rolled to let my child breathe.



Life is Wonderful, People are Terrific

Meliza Bañales

Life is Beautiful is the bildungsroman of the rarest kind: it is for the Queer, the POC, the punks, the drunks, and the rebel in all of us. It is human ordered chaos, rapturous and divine.



Improbable Connections

Tatiana Ryckman

I would argue that less than falling into love, it has fallen into me.



Inadequate Grave

Brandon Courtney

Courtney’s lines don’t flinch from the tension between surviving and being the one who survived.



In a Fallen World

Laurie Kolp

electrical, your fingers/weave through/my tangled hair




Jennifer Audette

Cobwebs hung down everywhere: from broken windows and whitewashed rafters, from the sockets where bare bulbs glowed at night.