We’ve been on sabatical of sorts, building projects individual personal and creative. Some of us traveled, some of us married, some of us became tourists in our city, some of created incredible work, a meta-narrative between cultures.
poems: Nate Marshall
the quick simmer
boil under skin
the tighten of
fingers into fist
there is arousal
a rush of blood
poem: Jeff Kass
before she looks into my mouth
that I haven’t been to a dentist
in fifteen years.
fiction: Molly Fuller
We learned about the boys early on. Back when we wore plaid skirts that had to touch the floor as we knelt, our exposed knees against the polished stone floor, the kind of floor that looks like thousands of pebbles pressed down and down until it gleams in rows of smooth squares that we could spend the hour in detention counting, and then count again.
Marge, Judith, and Tibby spent most of their afternoons on the porch of the house they had shared since 1978 – the year their mutual ex-husband, Jimmy, divorced the last of them.
Clicks turn my blood into juice startled
by the blender’s blade.
Clicking on my BlackBerry
makes me think it’s been co-opted.
photo essay: Devin Yalkin
Devin Yalkin (b. 1981), born and raised in New York City, is a black & white street photographer who received his BFA in Photography at the School of Visual Arts. As a first generation Turkish-American, Devin’s pictures illustrate and often anticipate the parallels he experiences shooting between New York City and various cities of his heritage in Turkey, primarily Istanbul.
Damien only got my name right one time—
when the sky was dark blue, sun flickering
in the evening above Carberry Field—
Here is a scalp scraped raw, hands chapped and red. The doctor told us all this would happen, it’s normal, it’s how brushfire medicates the soil, how the ash becomes a salve for its own burn.