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Issue #147: A Throw of the Dice by Lucy Ives

When we were first married, he went out and bought a ball gag.

Laker Gold by Kwame Opoku-Duku
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Laker gold is how Pops describes it. To Little Man, though, that motherfucker is yellow. Canary yellow and dirty. Little Man knows it’s a Westview Public Works truck, even though the WPW tag was zig-zagged over with black spray paint.

From Vincent and Alice and Alice by Shane Jones
Vincent And Alice

We’re walking through the centered skylight spaces of the mall. I drop back on the cloud-white floor tiles, holding my phone up to record a video. Beautiful in its own way to watch in reality, but when I replay the video, following Alice into a store selling soap, the video doesn’t show Alice, only oval shaped air heat-trembling at the edges. I replay it three times, shocked each time when I’m unable to see her.

Intention and Chance by Joey Perr
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A selection of pages from Hands Up, Herbie!, a graphic biography of the artist and educator Herb Perr.

From What You Have Heard Is True by Carolyn Forché
What You Have Heard Is True By Carolyn Forche

A Memoir of Witness and Resistance. 

There Is Water by Maggie Umber

Painted on Yupo paper with water-soluble crayon, watercolor pencil, water brush, paper towel, and Q-tip.

Lovely Guns of Glacial Shifting by Jasmine Dreame Wagner

A CAST of eight: ACTOR, CHEF, COMPOSER, DANCER, FILMMAKER, PAINTER, and siblings: SISTER and BROTHER. If necessary, ACTOR may be played by a PHOTOGRAPHER.

from The American Museum of Water by Natalie Diaz

A recording plays from somewhere high, / or low, through the falling dust-light: / I can’t tell you anything new about the river— / you can’t tell a river to itself.

The Cabin by Brenda Coultas

coffee cups / stirrer sticks / napkins and cookies / on the tray top / satellite tv / an office in the air

The Cult of Mary by Laura van den Berg

As we entered Arezzo, the guide pointed out the prostitutes lining the road. The women looked like awkward, flashy birds, teetering in bright spandex and spiked heels, cheap gold jewelry flashing in the summer sun.

from Oval by Elvia Wilk

Anja skidded down the slope, which was becoming muddy from overuse by feet. It still hadn’t been paved or even scattered with gravel, since Finster didn’t want to admit that the state of the pathway could no longer reasonably be called temporary.

from Northern Light by Kazim Ali

From 1975 to 1979 I grew up in a temporary company town made up of trailers in the boreal forests of northern Manitoba. My father was one of the hydroelectric engineers working on a joint project between the Canadian and Soviet governments to dam the Nelson River at a place called Jenpeg.

Saltscapes by Ragna Róbertsdóttir
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Icelandic artist Ragna Róbertsdóttir mines the land and seascapes of her country to create sparse and delicate works.

An Artist’s Guide to Herbs: Kelp and Exile by Harmony Holiday
Kelppp

The ocean’s iron lungs.

Three Poems by ​shireen alia ahmed
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Sick and smelly / I dip my finger into my belly button / and it seems to go forever // Not a shallow cup this is just / AttemptS just attempts to remember / what it was like to be pastel

Issue #146: from Return to the Yakne Chitto by Monique Verdin & Raymond Jackson
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From Return to the Yakne Chitto: Houma Migrations (Neighborhood Story Project, University of New Orleans Press, 2019), a collaborative ethnography of Houma lifeways at the ends of the Louisiana bayou.

The Madeleine Machine by ​Megan Hunter
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What was the earth like?

My sister asks this every night, leaning back on her pillow. The question is part of our routine, along with brushing our teeth, peeing, pushing our legs into the soft holes of our pajamas.

Three Poems by Allyson Paty
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In English the burning city / Hecuba dreams in my hand // Come man with cup / and hard-luck pitch // Upstream the brunch rush / shines upon our heads

One Poem by Mike Lala
Roxy Music Band

Out, like fireflies, from the inter-dimensional, / silver disks at edge of picture hover over Hillary / with swaddled child, John Podesta counterpose beside her, / in a painting I’d like to paint, had I been a painter, / trading in detail from the too-smooth desert

One Poem by Ben Pelhan
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a surgeon takes / a shirt off. / a struggle. / a shrug. / a shrinking /    blinking quiet. / give him his bottle / so he can suck on it.

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