The Latest
Film Still
By Amy DeBellis
I used to pin butterflies to corkboards: arresting flight, staying beauty. “At least you waited until they were dead,” a college boyfriend remarked, eyebrows raised. I mumbled something about Nabokov, but really the butterflies were just a symptom.
You Should Have Held Her
By Gina Martucci
Everyone knows the first seat on a plane is a throne. Ass space for miles. A footrest to ensure your feet are never dirtied by the floor. The sterility of the whites and grays of the trays, pillows, and headrests clinical and clean, but none of it makes you think about dying.
Review: Elizabeth S. Wolf’s Parenting in the Age of Columbine
Review by José Enrique Medina
Parenting in the Age of Columbine is strongest not at the level of individual poems but at the level of book design. Many poetry collections feel assembled; this one feels built.
Issue 34 | Spring 2026
Prose
Slingin’ Pearl
Itto and Mekiya Outini
In Heaven Everything is Fine
Grant Maierhofer
My Priest Predicted I’d Be a Spy
Garima Chhikara
Poor Thing
Claire Salvato
Hot Tub Paul Hollywood
Garth Robinson
Montara
James Nulick
Two Millimeters In
Jade Kleiner
Little White Monkeys
Manshuk Kali, translated by Slava Faybysh
To Understand Light
Ricardo Bernhard
Apartment 304
Rowan MacDonald
Properly Dark
L.M. Moore
Poetry
witness to the non-arrival
with history trapped inside us
Stacey C. Johnson
New in Town
Alex Dodt
After the Simulation Learns to Listen
David Anson Lee
Missiles Like Low Ceilings
Will Falk
The Sigh of a Man
Davey Long
Abduction III
Jo Ann Clark
Cover Art
IMG6255
Richard Hanus
Bind yourself to us with your impossible voice, your voice! sole soother of this vile despair.
—Arthur Rimbaud, “Phrases”
The Apple of My Eye
By Margaret Camille Berliant
Step One: Choose a large apple that’s firm, fleshy and plump.
Walter walked through the grove, the thinning sunlight filtered between the apple trees: Macintosh, Honeycrisp, Fuji, Gala.
Black Light
By Brigid M. Hughes
This kind of shit really isn’t allowed anymore but we’re loving it. She’s hammered and dancing in the middle of the dorm room, long brown hair, black eyeliner, one tit kinda hanging out, a perky pink nipple like the cherry on a sundae.
Review: Open the Floodgates by Nina Schuyler
Review by Kelsey Squire
What might it mean to think like a mountain? Like a prairie? Like a forest?
What about like a river?
Review: Open the Floodgates by Nina Schuyler
Review by Kelsey Squire
What might it mean to think like a mountain? Like a prairie? Like a forest?
What about like a river?
Everything Gone All At Once
By Christine H. Chen
It all began with the empty bucket in a corner of the living room that collected the occasional water dripping from the ceiling when Ah Ma was showering on a chair in the bathtub upstairs even though I had suggested that she simply took a bath
Found in Translation: Wally Swist
Our Found in Translation series invites writers to share their approaches to the art of translation. In this installment, we talk with frequent YIV contributor Wally Swist about how he fashions language that honors the original’s mode of intention.
New from Art Beck: Personal Things — essays and poems
A miscellany of essays, poems, translations, and reminiscences that coalesced around a “rather difficult convalescence” that the author now looks back on as the formal introduction to his 85th year.
Review: Ghost in the Rain by Matthew Jakubowski
Review by Kelsey Squire
In Matthew Jakubowski’s chapbook Ghost in the Rain, the story titled “Particles of Death” opens with a question: “What is it that keeps us alive?”
Sign Language
By Gary Fincke
My thirteen-year-old daughter Olivia and I drove out the strip tonight for dinner like we do every week on Wednesday when I have her.
A Princess From Another Land
By Pam Avoledo
A glass slipper is found in a closet, you:
a) Start to sing with the birds.The bluejay tells you it has traveled from a park in Canada. Have you been to Canada, it asks, and you say only once.
Retrograde
By Sarp Sozdinler
Mama got cancer. Bummer. I’m eleven, going on twelve. Making shit of my time. Time is still a friend to me but an enemy to my mother. It’s because I grew up too fast, she tells me, and I can’t tell if she’s joking. It’s because your sun is in Cancer.