Issue 30 | Spring 2024

Issue thirty is searching, seeking, straining for roots, for mothers, for stylish shoes, and The Truth. It’s about mysterious X-rays and golden crabs, motorcycles and masquerades, joyful silences and mild underhavens. It’s voyeuristic, nostalgic, and completely out to sea. 

Tidepool Sestina

Tidepool Sestina

By Tiff M. Z. Lee

“When the tide is low, it reminds me of our honeymoon—holding hands as we balance on rocky islands emerging from the sea, hair wavy with salt spray, feeling lucky to be here.”

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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
Night at St. Pierre Hospital 2020

Night at St. Pierre Hospital 2020

By Angeline Schellenberg

“She keeps close to the courtyard window she came through, her ears tuned to nurses’ flats slapping down the hallway. Her brother’s shaky hand reaches across the tray for a water glass.”

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She Never Sees Her Mother

She Never Sees Her Mother

By Annette Gulati

“She never sees her ailing mother. She only listens to her on the telephone, rattling on about the dialysis treatments, the trips to the emergency room, the stabbing pain in her abdomen. Likely the cancer.”

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Her First Dead Body

Her First Dead Body

By Annette Gulati

“She’s six years old when she sees her cat dangling from her father’s hands in the open doorway of her bedroom, a circus act in her very own hallway.”

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Nine Books About Your Life: Juliet Cook

Nine Books About Your Life: Juliet Cook

In our Nine Books About Your Life series, authors are invited to talk about nine types of books that have had an impact on their life. Juliet Cook is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, most recently including red flames burning out (Grey Book Press, 2023), Contorted Doom Conveyor (Gutter Snob Books, 2023), and Your Mouth is Moving Backwards (Ethel Zine & Micro Press, 2023).

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Once in our home in Agra, the monsoon was over

Once in our home in Agra, the monsoon was over

By Tara Isabel Zambrano

“we took off our PJs, and became the afternoon—our earlobes and neck, our limbs and nails turning pink from the syringe of the sun, asphalt gritting our feet, downstairs our mothers calling our names circled red with curses…”

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