Mark Smith

      Divining In the portacabin that morning, men smoked and looked at last week’s paper again. There was no water to fill the urn. The first job – to get connected to water and power. A slow hour went by of dirtied cards landing on the table. I was...

Toby Cotton

      Napsack A blustery day – the wind too strong for kites or for lifts to the sky. “To a thoughtful spot,” it cites and pins me to the earth. A dragonfly perches atop a little asphalt hill but zips off when the hill twitches and sniffs the air....

Ansuya Patel

      I Cast Out Everything except this burnt red vase. Hand shaped in the muffled roar, devouring flame in the furnace’s mouth. Sand becomes skin of light. Its glass body trembles like a sea animal remembering its salt. I hold the lagoon’s sigh,...

Hannah Ward

      Under The Plum Tree Look, Drew, the plums are in pieces beneath us. I dreamt: you let the sweet ones rot at the bottom of your pocket, sagging like the canopy. Hannah is thirty feet long in a field of dandelions, waving...

Andrea Small

      Night Out a flower is not a heron does not stand on one leg spear-billed over golden carp does not rise on wide wings neck curving into the blue flight like a slow heartbeat a heartbeat is not a flight does not lift a wary body translate a girl...