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Farthest South by Ethan Rutherford
Farthest South

A post-apocalyptic story about a sea captain who parents alongside a penguin at the arctic center.

One Poem by Suzanne Richardson
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I cannot feel my cat’s fur / with my left hand. / Of course / I also cannot feel / my children. with my left / hand. Their throats. I cannot / feel my own body, the soft / candle wax of it. I cannot go where / I used to.

Three Poems by Ariel Yelen
Dbowman Mine

My second job was waiting in a window / behind the window of the job I was on // the clock for. My third job was scheduled / for that evening, but not yet // confirmed. My fourth freelance job wasn’t active / per se, but I was actively // pursuing clients.

One Poem by Jon Ruseski
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Maybe // There is // A genealogy of suffering // How // This morning // I read // Minimalism is the aesthetic code of gentrification // Really I want to say // Make less art

Two Poems by Sarah Sala
Bottled  Water On Mars  Slopes At Horowitz Crater Graphite On Paper Elizabeth Devlin Elizabeth Devlin Art Com 2015

A public cafeteria, the ghost of my heart gorges herself on spent ammunition // The Orlando medical examiner processed each of the 49 Pulse victims apart from the gunman. / Even amid gravitational collapse, surviving atoms couldn’t reanimate with him.

Falling Crows by Beth Piatote
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The boy who is coming home with part of himself missing is the man’s nephew. The man, Silas, receives the news and hangs up the phone, numb. He wants a drink. He doesn’t want a drink. He wants time to move backward.

Two Poems by Xandria Phillips
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we consummated our marriage / on a bed littered with sour faces / of dead presidents, liberated livestock / sweating through the dollars.

Teresa by Paulina Flores
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She was coming out of the library when she saw him. Their paths had crossed a couple of times before. Three, to be exact. More or less under the same circumstances. He was riding an orange bicycle, and a little girl was standing behind him on the pannier rack.

Nearly Any Two Things Can Cohere by Asiya Wadud

The condition of most of our lives is that of continuous flight, in some manner or form—flight from faulty logic, from place of birth to the place we alight, from situations that no longer serve us, from political precarity—flight, as in rupture.

As Donna by Divya Victor

This is a story of? / a woman lying on her? / a back?—aback—with her? / a face hidden and a?

From Scorpionic Sun by Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine

I disrupt the concupiscence of tube worms / where your snowy owl eye consults among white crusts / the venom of my gymnodactyl eye / which bribes the slag of trilobites

Bosun by Paul Yoon

During his twelve years in New York City, Bosun, who went by Bo, got into some bad business with an import-export company in Queens. It turned out the company was dealing in stolen goods, and Bo, who drove a truck for them, was eventually caught one winter on the bridge between Manhattan and New Jersey.

From Harbart by Nabarun Bhattacharya

“Let him sleep. He’ll be alright if he sleeps.”

Harlem Is Hijaz Is Havana Is Harar, Or: The Whole Point of the Black Arts Movement Is That They Were Moving by Momtaza Mehri

Poets really think they’re doing the most with the least …

Counterpoint and Apocrypha by Raphael Rubinstein

Her concerts, broadcast the first Thursday of each month at 9:30 PM Cairo time, brought life to a stop throughout the Arab world.

An Hourglass Experiences Ego Death by Kyung Me & Harry Gould Harvey IV
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A collaboratively drawn comic.

Two Poems by ​ Eleni Sikelianos​​
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just a note; artist to artist by ruby onyinyechi amanze & Wura-Natasha Ogunji
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The Dead by Ayşe Papatya Bucak
Two Poems by Matvei Yankelevich
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