• Cross-Genre

    “The Foghorn” by Rosalind Palermo Stevenson

    1.  sound of the foghorn and the ocean
    _________________loud, persistent, repeating
    2.  view of the ocean from the cliff
    3.  closeup, waves over rocks
    4.  wind, reeds, water
    5.  ocean, front to side
    6.  ocean, front to other side
    7.  ocean
    8.  waves to shore

    The dream is true. All dreams are true.
    _________________________
    (Antonin Artaud)

    9.  long shot over rocks
    ___________
    first appearance of the younger woman
    10.  

  • Poetry

    “Improvised Compost” by Anastasia Stelse

    All summer we tended tomatoes: staked
    stalks as verdant leaves unfurled, veins
    spreading into the fingertips of new growth.
    We watered, fertilized, filled plots with love
    tokens and improvised compost—crushed
    eggshells, snippets of hair, orange peels.
    When the first leaf wallpapered itself
    yellow, we plucked it. Washed our hands.
    But leaves kept turning, curling. We snipped
    branches. I didn’t think I’d lose the plant.
    *
    Anastasia Stelse is a native of southeastern Wisconsin,
  • Poetry

    Three Poems by John Findura

    “Nineteen Minutes Ago”

    This morning I am here
    Nineteen minutes ago we might have met
    But we missed each other, somehow
    It is raining very hard but there is no thunder
    Where there is no thunder there are few thoughts of you
    Instead in their place is a stop-motion film
    Of wooden hands playing the piano
    Think of that – those wooden fingers on those ivory keys
    Pictures of a famous actor with a bad haircut
    An actress playing three roles in the same film
    None of them are stop-motion like the wooden hands
    I read a book about volcanoes 
    And the insistence of lava over everything else last night
    And as you know if it didn’t happen there it doesn’t happen here
    Or maybe the reverse,

  • Prose

    “The Tracks” by Felicity LuHill

    Kim stared at her feet and silently counted her steps. One, two, three… 267 steps between lampposts. One hundred and fifty steps between mailboxes. Forty-two steps since the last time she passed a dog—a small, beige terrier, unafraid to yap at sulky teenage girls. She counted to remind herself that she was another step closer to her bedroom—to cool pillows, beef jerky, and documentaries about ships discovered on the bottom of the ocean. 

    She wondered what she would say to Stella, her mother, when she got home. “How can you forget to pick up your own daughter?” was an effective sentiment Kim frequently used.

  • Poetry

    “Beavis & Butthead Do English Class: Guest Starring the Memory of John Ashbery in a Thought Bubble Floating over Instructor Bodaggit’s Fedora” by Tom Kelly

    Beavis, like, bangs his head against the desk
    because the four-eyed fart-knocker by the podium
    forgot to button the bottom of his shirt,
    so when he blabs, his exposed belly does that thing
    where it jiggles like grandma’s gelatin mold
    & I say his navel looks like the Sarlacc Pit
    but Beavis says it looks like the hole in a Krispy Kreme donut
    but I say it looks like a nook where Beavis can stick his snout
    but we agree that if we squint real hard,
  • Poetry

    “The Spider Spins” by Sean Karns

    In its foliage, the spider rides the vibrating
    web. It is patient and waits Buddha-like,
    as if it knows something greater—
    that survival requires less consumption,
    that survival is basic— therefore its needs
    are minimal. When its hunger is met,
    it is blessed, so much so, it wraps its dead in silk.
    It seems simple, the spinning of the web.
    The spider’s world is instinctual—
    it ignores the chaos-order beyond its web.