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Nicholas Grooms
There is a retching ache within me a split seam cave where the birds have started to nest. A hangman’s gallows for the bats to cling and escape into the night, Screeching simps to the utter black. I hear the wind whistle through, Like a werewolf’s howl exiting its own silver bullet wound. Increments of…
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Alex Missall
I After the age of 68 / Old Lady Gatewood had donated the first gallon of blue paint to the Buckeye Trail / a path that outlines Ohio. / She hiked the Appalachian Trail / end-to-end / again / and twice more / then walked across America. II imagine trekking this lonely part of lost…
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Carla Sarett
I’ve almost forgotten how that night we watched Rio Grande with its sentimental ballads, a thick rain soaked the basement, we slept over the flood. How when riding up the coast, I never could lose sight of the Pacific ocean mist occasionally ruined by sun, the bridge’s yellow ribbons of light on the Embarcadero. How…
