~after Edgar Kunz
Two hundred and sixty seven miles southwest, my mother breathes in
ventolin in a state sponsored facility in southern Illinois. A silver cross clasped
in her soft palm. She has a Washington Redskins throw blanket
furled into …
Since 1968
~after Edgar Kunz
Two hundred and sixty seven miles southwest, my mother breathes in
ventolin in a state sponsored facility in southern Illinois. A silver cross clasped
in her soft palm. She has a Washington Redskins throw blanket
furled into …
In the west wing, a glass case
holds the afternoon you never answered the phone.
It smells faintly of dust and oranges.
Visitors linger there,
heads tilted,
as if waiting for something to move.
Down …
54, New Fiction by Ava Truong
“translation
/tranz-LAY-shuhn/
noun
1.“the art of failure,” -John Ciardi
2. The vietnamese words thuong and yeu are often translated to “love.” But the reader would never know that where thuong is generous, yeu is selfish and unbending. Yeu owns the …
“At the rooftops of multiple homes, you can see the holes they dug out of the walls to make a place for the sniper. As you see here at my feet, hundreds of ammunition shells left behind. And of course, …
54, New Art by Safia Latif
54, New Art by Tope Alawaye
Grace walks through a door and finds a man staring at a long-haired cat. She’s at a party where she knows almost no one—hardly knows the host—but she knows this cat. She once spent five …