Skip to Content
By Naomi Ayala
And now, where the moon
rose behind here,
three stories loom—
By Chris August
America, don’t we love like oil?
Don’t our slippery arms
Pave the pores of those who need us?
By Jody Bolz
Pages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.
By Joseph Ross
If you leave your shoes
on the front porch
when you run
By Natalie Illum
The first time I saw these activists turned
acrobats, I was immobilized as they arched
through hoops, twisting like DNA.
By David Keplinger
Lincoln, leaving Springfield, 1861,
Boards a train with a salute: but it is weak.
To correct it, he slides his hand away