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Vol. 8, No. 2 Contents

The Idiots  by JOSEPH CONRAD

18 July 2008
fiction, short story, classic

We were driving along the road from Treguier to Kervanda. We passed at a smart trot between the hedges topping an earth wall on each side of the road; then at the foot of the steep ascent before Ploumar the horse dropped into a walk, and the driver jumped down heavily from the box. He flicked his whip and climbed the incline, stepping clumsily uphill by the side of the carriage, one hand on the footboard, his eyes on the ground. After a while he lifted his head, pointed up the road with the end of the whip, and said—

"The idiot!"

Burying Pointer  by SASHA VIVELO

23 June 2008
fiction, short story

Pointer lay on the couch, fifty-eight pounds of eleven-year-old black lab mix with curly hair. She lay with her chin between her paws just like when she was sleeping, but I knew right away she wasn't sleeping.

"Hey, Pointer, kiddo," I said anyway. "Too hot to get up this morning?"

Pointer weighed seventy pounds just a couple of months earlier, but pancreatic cancer pared her down pretty fast. I hadn't really thought she'd be gone this soon, though. I picked her up off the couch and she didn't feel like Pointer, just like a big heavy sack of cooked oatmeal. I laid her down on the rag rug next to the coffee table.

The Swimming Pool  by CARMEN GIMÉNEZ SMITH

8 June 2008
nonfiction, essay, memoir

Other mothers swim in the pool with their children, many of the mothers older. The sun puts a glisten on the ends of their hair. Their bodies underwater look unearthly. The woman in the lane next to me has wide shoulders like my grandmother.

We wrap our children in towels the same way: so that their bodies are swallowed warm with them. We hector them about sunscreen.

When I swim and I am entirely alone with my thoughts, my children only pass through my mind as topics.

I think today when my daughter and son lay together on the bed sleeping. His lanky body next to her curve. Is that not a poem?

The Dog of Clarity  by MARK BILBREY

5 August 2008

Sometimes I feel

like a dog in the sky,

                  a constellation of mostly not-me.

The Dog of Eight Breaths  by MARK BILBREY

11 August 2008

What sigh are you

keeping, well?

What reserve in store,

what cloud before you

reap? From the leavings

of whose field harvest

wind to speak?

The Dog of History  by MARK BILBREY

2 August 2008

Your snout slit: biolology miff muff myth

      Up front: scent enter

      Aside: the slag

So as they say about shall the twins meet

      And say get yers from out my line

      And a line goes one way forever

The Dog of Wind  by MARK BILBREY

8 August 2008

In the spirit of breathing I

Am before the face of I

Am in the image still I

Must eat or wear out I

some pages from the book of Brussels  by CECILIA BORROMEO-AUSTIN

13 June 2008
poetry, prose poem

Suppose the night tasted like sugar and the streetlamps chimed the hour, would Flemish and French slang still matter? I was a little in love with you. The man scouring the Sunday market for vintage postcards. The child wailing after a drifting balloon. You made me forget how to count. But we danced flawlessly, our shadows spreading on the Belgian cobbles where tiny grasses grow in between.

i said it like i said it  by CADE COLLUM

24 July 2008

and i am less and less myself.

i speak it when memory fails

i speak it when the river touches my ankles—cold

and close to meaningless.

the man in the glass vise  by CADE COLLUM

27 July 2008

the newspaper smells like moth-balls & tells nothing.

chalk it up to _____.

everyday people get annoyed when _____.

just as the first dinner

after a difficult hour,

so with the wind's scratch & the calendar.

working on it  by CADE COLLUM

30 July 2008

so i got tethered to

the fixing of things—

funny this jar won't open hot

or cold, funny this engine

had more parts before i rebuilt it.

Imaginary Distance  by EMILY KENDAL FREY

12 July 2008

Dear Jalapeno,

Dear Skeleton,

Dear Delight,

Dear Landslide—

This is the price

of a punch card

culture. Rip a few

mascots for the

bus ride over.

Imaginary Greenhouse  by EMILY KENDAL FREY

9 July 2008

Dear Jalapeno,

Dear Vagrant,

The trees are making

fools of themselves.

I'm making faces

at the greedy river.

The sky spits

at us in our tiny

white hats.

It Gets in the Way  by EMILY KENDAL FREY

15 July 2008

Dear Outlet,

Dear Honored Guest,

Mounded inside

in fits and starts.

Dear Plaque,

Dear Meatball,

Dear Attack—

Poem with Intrinsic Music  by ELISA GABBERT

18 August 2008

This one's like tipping

your head back to take in the sky gone

shallow, dimensionless—shot

with no timestamp, the rule of threes.

Seesaw, seesaw. One is like dust.

Cricket legs/wings.

Poem without an Epigraph  by ELISA GABBERT

21 August 2008

It's going to be another bad winter,

as in, not a good example of winter:

you can sit on the beach in November

with no coat.


14 August 2008

Forces sky down

like a French press

over the boil. Constant cloud

covers thunder—lightning

but no rain—a tease without

the reprieve of a drop—

lonely as the kiss you want

to, but don't need.

Across a great wilderness without you  by KEETJE KUIPERS

26 June 2008

The deer come out in the evening.

God bless them for not judging me,

I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe

and make strange noises at them—


if language can be a kind of crying.

Driving back into the city  by KEETJE KUIPERS

9 May 2008

Here's what I'm trying to say: The deer coming toward us through the dark

      and we're unable to see them

The car passing over the bridge into the maw of the city like a willing moth

      suddenly wrapped in fire

Self-Portrait with Cockroach  by KEETJE KUIPERS

2 July 2008

what keeps you up all night

listening to the neighbor

call his cats in: oh the animals

we might choose to save, put them

on a polystyrene ark to Mars: what

we start that finishes us: the seventy-

four degree day in December: …

You loved a woman once  by KEETJE KUIPERS

29 June 2008

Your own body, broken into so many times, became a clear lake

for her to bathe in. Remember pulling the one tiny, suckering

leech from below her neck, the pale collarbone Braille it left.

At the Perkins School  by LORI LAMOTHE

20 June 2008

The poem about the sea

      speaks in braille

blue translated twice.

Sun wet light salt waves etc.

Bohemian Hat Trick  by LORI LAMOTHE

17 June 2008

Last week, as you rode your bike home in rain

after cheating with a girl with hair the colors of hell,

you texted you'd been hit by spiritual lightning.

I want to be hit by spiritual lightning!

All evening I stood out on yellowed lawn

chanting in trimeter, holding a matched set of forks.

A Tooth, A Child  by KAREN LEPRI

2 June 2008

Which one did you lose? Point to the black

cavern, sucked empty by the cell in need

of bones. And what else

did she thieve of skin stretched like loose

linen, and blood

turned water?

Supplement  by KAREN LEPRI

5 June 2008

When I come, called, to the smallish

skylight, where a hornet huddles

in a cedar corner, trapped

by a metal sieve, wind entering

and leaving him, it is

a rough courtship.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint  by JOHN MILTON

12 June 2008
poetry, classic, sonnet, rhyme

Mine, as whom washed from spot of childbed taint

  Purification in the Old Law did save,

  And such as yet once more I trust to have

Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind.

On the Same  by JOHN MILTON

7 July 2008
poetry, classic, rhyme, sonnet

I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs

   By the known rules of ancient liberty,

   When straight a barbarous noise environs me

   Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs …

To the Same  by JOHN MILTON

8 July 2008
poetry, classic, rhyme, sonnet

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,

   To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

   Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;

   Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear

Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,

   Or man, or woman.

When I consider how my light is spent,  by JOHN MILTON

11 June 2008
poetry, classic, sonnet, rhyme

When I consider how my light is spent,

  Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

  And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

  My true account, lest He returning chide;

Elegy  by SEAN NEVIN

27 August 2008

The human tongue, in disbelief, obsesses

at the tender pit of a tooth,

insists on entering the empty room again

and again until it cankers…

Hinged Double Sonnet for the Luna Moths  by SEAN NEVIN

24 August 2008
poetry, sonnet

For ten days now, two luna moths remain

silk-winged and lavish as a double broach

pinned beneath the porch light of my cabin.

Two of them, patinaed that sea-glass green

of copper weather vanes nosing the wind,

the sun-lit green of rockweed, the lichen's

green scabbing-over of the bouldered shore…

Wisdom  by SEAN NEVIN

30 August 2008

I've learned, has nothing

in common with the relentless

metronome of carpenter bees

ticking off the aluminum siding

like the steady hail of olive pits

spit through my open window

the summer I learned to shake

martinis without bruising the ice.

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