Srinjay Chakravarti

    * the tattered scarecrow: a raven perches on its shoulder * fireflies . . . sparks from a hammer on the anvil * spring dust sparrows squabble in the forenoon * a dry leaf on the ground . . . a death’s head moth * a silent gong inside the pagoda . . ....

Sam Hickford

      John Clare on the Tube Frit by the crankling train that storms the brigs of Harrow clock-a-clays & woven twigs are soodling passengers – theyre sleeping tight clothéd in rawky natures faded light & younkers maul & lease their...

Yash Seyedbagheri

      Professional Crier My sister’s a professional crier. She cries on cue, lilting, soft cries or wails as anguished as a cantor’s song. She makes money too. They hire her to cry at the ballet, at dinner parties, Episcopal Eucharists, even at...

Teika Marija Smits

      An Early Lesson in Fake News One paper said that my mother, The Venus of Vodka, was blonde; another that The Russian Doll was a sexy redhead. A third was certain that the nude model, From Russia With Love, was brunette. She planned world...

Nisha Bhakoo

      Tenant Tides rise as I sleep. I wake up to a desert mouth and the sound of drilling. Panic shooting up spine. The scaffolding holding the building together usually blocks out the feeble Berlin, February sun. But a ray reaches my forehead today....