Issue 35
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The Big Empty
By Philip Jason
photo by Adam Gonzales
Schrodinger said the cat exists in the space
between two states, but there is a third state
where you open the box and find only yourself
-PlatoThe butterfly in October was not supposed to be there.
In October, the butterflies
live in our dreams. Nonetheless, I saw it
where it was, and decided I’d lost the taste
for whining about the human condition. -
“Hehasnoname, 1-5, 7” by Sharron Hass Translated from the Hebrew by Marcela Sulak
photo by John Peter Apruzzese
Where are you going? Not far from here.
Further down the slope of the corridor.
There despair will be defeated.
I’ve nothing against it but father’s dead body.
Poetry (I still don’t know what it is exactly)
and the shadow that changes its names since my birth.
מּוזִיקַת הַּנָתִיב הָרָחָב
שרון אַס
לְאָן אַּתְ הֹולֶכֶת?
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crabapple tree
By Sera Gamble
photo by Huie Dinwiddie on Pexels
I.
he makes a fist.
my world splits:
the truth / the thing
that makes it stop.
lying is easy
as slipping
into a silk coat.
but we become
what we practice.
who was he before
his father?
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500 Days and Counting: Memories from Ukraine
by Clare Cannon
photo by Tungsten Rising on Unsplash
Day 7
“Bomba. Over us,” my friend Anya, who cat-sat for me in Ukraine, typed into Messenger. “Pray. We are in corridor.” I slumped in the wooden chair where I sat at the Spear Physical Therapy clinic in Manhattan as I read, “Rocket was here.” My world exploded. My physical therapist Nada brought me a box of tissues and a cup of cold water. “My friend just got bombed,” I sobbed.
“Clare, I’m so sorry,” she said in her lyrical Egyptian accent.
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Someone Mentions Wild Geese Were Kept in Greek Households to Warn the Family of Fire or Intruders When Father Was Off at War
By Christopher Smith
photo by Ekaterina Astakhova on Pexels
Wade far enough into the valley, the sun marks banker’s hours.
I sit some shade of darkness two-thirds of every day.The figure I relate to in the Phaethon myth: that downy little greenhorn
presses Phaethon to prove he’s the chariot’s child.Who can buy even their own fables about their father?
Portraits of him waving down a sunbeam. Personal oliosof corporate fishing retreats, wood block watchtowers, the empty chair
at back of the theatre. -
Box Negative
By Tamas Dobozy
photo by Karl Griffiths on Pexel
Your locket terrified me as a child. You were an
old lady then. It swung back and forth as you
bent, pouring tea, knocking against your
breastbone below where your dress, always red,
parted at the neck. I kept asking you to open it,
and you did, out of tiredness. Open it again,
please. Open it again. I had no actual desire to
see the photograph inside. There was nothing
special about it,
