Fiction

Fiction

What I Can No Longer See

“I’m thankful I’m not a horse,” Marla says, as she reaches for the saltine sleeve inside her tote bag.

Poetry

Lascaux is Burning

The first art Was not art, Rather, a color line shot through the dark, No more expression Than a plea for explanation. The grandest monuments

Short Story

Paper Boat

Three walls of the room are made of tin, but on the fourth side a polished floor opens, running like fabric into curtains of lace,

Poetry

The God in the Attic

In our attic, among things, as it seems of past lives, lives a bitter God. When guests come to our house, we don’t mention him.

Poetry

Home No More

I miss your coffee-covered breath, Early in the morning. It made me hungrier than death For a thrill without a warning. I miss your sweet

Short Story

No Man’s Land

Bloated clouds float above the prison, obscuring the sun. I linger outside the narrow cell window, which is no more than a barred gap in