• Oxide

  • Howie Good ~ Foreboding Music

    On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being the low­est, how severe is your pain now?” the boun­cy young med­ical assis­tant asks with mis­placed enthu­si­asm. Fifty-eight friends on Facebook offer their thoughts and prayers. But just –more

  • Ali Zarbali ~ Sundays with George

    It is on Sundays that I have a chance to lunch with George. If I don’t count the ran­dom vis­its from my agent, then for the rest of the week I am all alone. Only on this day, George is com­plete­ly free and tru­ly will­ing to –more

  • Peter Leight ~ Three Poems

    Self-Portrait as an Absent Person Who’s Not Even Here

    I’m not in trouble
    or anything,
    I’m putting on some eye­shad­ow and pulling the shad­ows over my eyes,
    pulling up my hoodie,
    pulling back my hair
    to get it out of the way:
    absence isn’t just turn­ing away or being –more

  • Daniel J. O’Malley ~ Stones

    She liked the feel of it—dirt—warm under bare feet in the gar­den, though it wasn’t hers, it was the neighbor’s dirt. The woman had no gar­den of her own—no car­rots, no let­tuce, no pep­pers, pota­toes, onions, toma­toes. –more

  • Juliette Enne ~ This Most Daily and Basic of Rituals

    Nanna has a blue bruise across the left side of her face. It is drain­ing now, there are splotch­es of pur­ple on her neck. On her head an egg-shaped lump, still no scab. Three bro­ken ribs, a frac­tured shoul­der. If we do not –more

  • Steve Gergley ~ New House

    My wife and I bought a house, an old Dutch colo­nial with a hand­ful of dormer win­dows and a stur­dy gam­brel roof. These were words I had nev­er heard before and didn’t know the mean­ing of, despite spend­ing the last thir­teen –more

  • Roger Camp ~ Three Poems

    Gum-ball Jump*

    Racing to the gum­ball machine
    it came crash­ing down
    its glass dome cracked
    like Humpty Dumpty
    spilling four pounds of rainbow
    brains, red yel­low orange green
    black and white stampeding
    down the side­walk,

  • Wilson Koewing ~ Marrow

    In the Summer of his 72nd year, ill­ness came for the famed archi­tect D.B. Welk in the form of bone can­cer. It was said to have reached the mar­row. For six­teen years, Welk had lived on the west end of Oak Island, North Carolina –more

  • Bruce Robinson ~ Six Poems

    Terms and Conditions Apply

    The evening’s wind­ing down
    and for hours now the passerines

    have been out of their trees,

    per­haps some glob­al event
    has added to their miniseries,

    or pos­si­bly just a cat,

    pos­si­bly the retort
    of a ram­bunc­tious muffler,

    or was that the neigh­bor’s child upstairs

  • Erik Kennedy ~ Two Poems

    Descended from Peacelords

    Some lah-di-dah grandees
    are descend­ed from
    famous warlords
    and like to tell you
    about their butch escutcheons

    the pow­er of the past

    where­as I

    to the best of my knowledge

    come from a long line
    of peacelords

    peo­ple who led drudg­ing lives
    not armies

    who want­ed –more

  • Cow Bell

  • Jason Sebastian Russo ~ Gym, Tan, Laundry

    My for­mer broth­er-in-law once told me that he and his friends spent Friday after­noons at the gym, the tan­ning salon, and the laun­dro­mat before going out to clubs, which made me think of the women in those clubs—full of sad­ness maybe, will­ing to be –more

  • Ken Massicotte ~ Five Poems

    The Only Ones Left in the World
    First Months

    It was win­ter and snow­ing hard. I was dri­ving to get the oil changed but came to a church. I went inside but at the Eucharist felt too alone and had to leave. I’d left the car run­ning, and the pine mir­ror, which I’d refin­ished years ago, –more

  • Jennifer Shneiderman ~ Trouble

    I know there will be trou­ble. I don’t want the sil­ver fin­ger bowls. I want the gold Limoges plates. The gold paint will flake off with use. But they are exquis­ite and I will love them and use them and they will nev­er see the inside of a dish­wash­er. –more

  • Kayla Jean ~ Appliances

    My mom lugs the Nutribullet to the curb. I trail behind her, bare­foot, with the blender’s var­i­ous accou­ter­ments. I pick hard­ened straw­ber­ry smooth­ie bits from the rim. She sets the Nutribullet down in the patch of grass between the side­walk and the –more

  • Glen Pourciau ~ Two Pieces


    Rooftop par­ty at our house, drinks, famil­iar guests, view of the sun­set, but Case strays from the group, strides to the east across the flat white roof, stops close to the knee-high rail. My friend Gaspar, like me, takes notice of his move­ment, and –more

  • Kathleen McGookey ~ Workshop

    Once I offered a poem that con­tained the phrase “mist shim­mers” to a table full of peo­ple. One man said, Mist can’t shim­mer. Fog shim­mers.  Mist drifts. His name was Paul. I said noth­ing but thought many things. Paul had dark bangs –more

  • Alle C. Hall ~ American Mary

    Bali in August was way hot­ter than I’d planned for. The bag­gage claim was out­side. A backpacker—could have been thir­ty and shaved his scalp or fifty and bald for real—lifted my pack off the rotate‑y thing. He said things like, “ … George,” –more

  • Charlotte Hamrick ~ Tell Me Why It Was Bad to Execute Myself

    I spent my late teens dust­ing antacid bot­tles and con­dom box­es (quick­ly, before the boss could crack a dirty joke) in a strip mall drug­store. I filled out hun­dreds of Medicaid reim­burse­ment forms by hand, space by space.

    I watched my mid­dle-aged cowork­er –more