Issue 20

Talal Alyan

the miracle is there are

none. sixty feet and rising

over a Dakota that has

gone to bed, she likes to tell

herself the miracle is

Albuquerque in a highway

motel, a final call with

fewer characters in the

plot of her life. the miracle

is there is no plot

like this plot of land below. half-

asleep, casting details into the

terrain, recycling the same dream

and each time she came to

felt like surfacing from water,

gasping for air, remember this

remember this remember

the last time you flew into

O’Hare, circling the sky for

the better half of an hour,

trying to redraw the hospital

chart in your mind

the miracle is a radio

commercial, a taxi driver

trying to trick himself awake,

an open window, noise going

nowhere.

yellow lines on a pitch-black

asphalt calling you forward

birds, yellow birds,

yellow birds