Issue 25 | Fall 2021
Rebirth
Tamiko Dooley
You pulled a violet crown-of-thorns out of the sea in Okinawa
Laid her on the edge of the lulling boat
Your gold molars glinting in the blistering afternoon
With a wooden skewer you were pricking the starfish
Cutting down her scarlet spines
They grew back as quickly as you poked them out
When your laugh roared across the soundless Pacific
Down your throat, I glimpsed cruelty cling like seaweed
That wraps around the calves and pulls you under
I swam to shore without looking back
With each stroke away from you a bristle returned
About the Author
Tamiko Dooley is a half-Japanese mother of two. She read Latin and French at New College, Oxford. When there’s no pandemic, she’s hired as a wedding pianist from time to time.
Prose
Bomarzo Cecilia Pavón, translated by Jacob Steinberg
Sister in Basement, Manny Again Elsewhere Robert Lopez
Visitations Caroline Fernelius
Solution Linda Morales Caballero, translated by Marko Miletich, PhD
Auditions for Interference Theory Emilee Prado
Life Stories Robert(a) Ruisza Marshall
Out There Daryll Delgado
The Embassy Khalil AbuSharekh
Shaky From Malnutrition Mercury-Marvin Sunderland
Weatherman Gillian Parrish
The Taco Robbers From Last Week Steve Bargdill
Poetry
Epigenetics Diti Ronen, translated by Joanna Chen
i once was a witch Kiik Araki-Kawaguchi
Thralls Kevin McIlvoy
Mine Brian Henry
Catastrophic
marble chunk Shin Yu Pai
shelf life
Rebirth Tamiko Dooley
Before the Jazz Ends Adhimas Prasetyo, translated by Liswindio Apendicaesar
After Jazz Ends
Scent of Wood
Cover Art
Untitled Despy Boutris