Issue 31 | Fall 2024
Our latest issue finds the doomsday clock ticking down twenty days from the apocalypse. It’s chock-full of liars, the lost, and the lonely, floating in fog and hungry for cake, eggs, and kink. All that plus Allen Ginsberg, Frida Kahlo, and a magnificent tower of giraffes.
English Teachers
By Sophia Carroll
“There was the one who always picked the same girl to be Juliet. He read for Romeo. Called her “statuesque.”
White Cold Winter
By Willow Campbell
“In the stillness of my apartment, I boil water to watch something move. I like bubbles when they grow into noises I can notice like the ghost of someone’s laugh.”
I Once Was a Witch
By Joanna Ruocco
“The broad-shouldered kombucha brewer holds a brain in a jar. His raincoat is boring. There is no one else in the coatroom. Beyond the coatroom, the potluck is raging. I hear a crack-crack-crack, the gluten-free table buckling under the weight of… what?”
Bind yourself to us with your impossible voice, your voice! sole soother of this vile despair.
—Arthur Rimbaud, “Phrases”
Latest Reviews
Featured Interview
Newest Essay
On Translating Neruda
By Wally Swist
“To realize what is right in front of us all the time, and for us not to fully appreciate it, is just part of the gift of the legacy of Neruda’s odes, and among their nourishment we discover the astonishment of the awareness of living.”
My Sister’s Pink Mustache
By Kyle Smith-Laird
“She’s not this cancer-ridden husk; in my memory Sara lives.”
Husband, In My Dream
By Frances Gapper
“In my dream I sleepwalked downstairs and found you seated upright on the sofa, typing, typing. Couldn’t sleep, you said, because of the full moon’s horrible brightness.”
Guitar Hero
By Todd Clay Stuart
“Kenzie thinks the sun is a hoax but has no problem believing her cat can tell when she’s pregnant.”
The Last Lipstick Factory
By Dana Wall
“First, the sky forgot how to hold blue. It started at the horizons, a slow leaching of color like wet paper left in sun.”
Preface: Wild Rose Bush
By Wally Swist
“Almost no translation of “Lullaby” has disappointed me, but I have never found those translations adequate or fully accommodating of the rhythms, images, and lyrics that I felt, saw, and heard in the poetry.”