George Parker

    In My Hand I Hold Two Truths I make broth, feel odd wiping it off your face moments after swiping through bodies, preferences, dates. Sunset-orange forget-me-nots mar the napkin cloth I dab along your stubbled jaw. If forget-me-nots bloomed blood orange....

Will Snelling

      New Year Fog The garden shudders, brushed with ice, its edges slightly blurred away by cloud unfolding over the grass. The sun just doesn’t want to try to bring the day into the world, preferring to hold its watery eye half-way closed above the...