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Sheila Black We come at the wrong time of year by a hair
or a week, and the brown birds flying onward,
out of reach. My son tilts his head.
Nickole Brown When I press my face to the painted box,
the sound is
not buzzing, is not
a mob of wings.
Jessica Jacobs Arkansas is aspic with last-gasp summer, making running
like tunneling: the trail’s air a gelatin
of trapped trajectories.
Matt Daly Everywhere I go, people are shouting
at one another, people are shaking
their fists at one another. Everywhere
I go, I see someone knapping
an edge to a stone.
sam sax sometimes i wonder what happens to people’s hands when they disappear
in their pockets. of course, my rational brain knows they go on being hands
but there’s still the question. i wonder if object permanence isn’t the biggest
trick of them all, a scam, a way to ground the brain in its thin bath of liquid
Tara Hardy They call it dissociation.
I call it THE NINE (children)
who live inside me.
Each of them encased
in amber, frozen in a mosquito-pose
Tanya Paperny click on a live stream
of a memorial event
to commemorate victims
of Soviet terror
M. F. Simone Roberts Begin with da Vinci’s hybrid
of spring and top, of wood and iron,
and completely non-aerodynamic,
then crystallize the blue of the lagoon
Jeanann Verlee In a humble, godless house
you moved through youth like any girl.
Dolls & other toys, yours,
Ellen Bass Today is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—