Henry Kearney IV “Shotgun Elegy”

Even now, wouldn’t it start like that?
An empty plastic milk jug peppered with buckshot
as we learned the art of destruction.
Do not say there is no art in that . . .

Uljana Wolf (translated by Sophie Seita) “on classification in language, a feeble reader”

the bending of our gender words began early as a set of pines near coastal dunes—lithe with level roots, androgynously grown. a settlement of expansive sight, in which we caressed, buffeted by creaky singsong of der die das. cassettes of our childhood! i almost said boyhood. we were more whorls than girls, you twirled me until my needles kneaded veins, compact, compass. which way did they point . . .


“Follow-Up” by Chelika Yapa

Her skin is the color of milk-tea but Anusha wears it like an embarrassing birthmark that covers her entire body. She walks slightly hunched, her shoulders rounded and, these days, often with her arms crossed against her chest, as if she’s bracing against a cold, north wind. It started when Anusha had a drainage tube attached to her chest wall and the slightest movement made her wince. . .


“All the Fierce Tethers” by Lia Purpura

I used to think “how sad,” maybe even “how pathetic,” our small lives in houses or apartments, with children or not, and each morning everyone putting on clothes, working their jobs . . .

Artwork by Laura Bell