Spring 2017

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



Poetry

​America Tries to Remove a Splinter

Albert Abonado


don’t worry     this will be quick       my thumb on your palm

 

your thumb on my neck                      my wrist          quick

 

like your father                       like your mother

 

everything is   a shark is         a wolf is          quick

 

I have done this           once or twice  trust me          

 

if you do not have faith                       most ghosts  are the color of grease

 

my hand feels like a flame I put through your hair   

 

I can clip the ends of your toes until they are clouds

 

thank you  for your patience   which is unnecessary listen

 

to me when I say you do not need  to move  

 

you do not need to breathe      put your hand on my hip        

 

I swear                        a quickness      it will be over

 

and you will thank me you will not notice  how

 

I have put my hands inside your bones                       which are hollow

 

which are your father your mother    I have

 

your hand on my palm            how does this feel

 

the weight of a shark   your patience is rainwater                  

 

I have never seen        hands like these          do not

 

move  when I  say I am quick   I mean look up         the sky

 

is not  quick but  sad and still




Back to the Issue Catalog


Related Selections

Fiction

Morocho

“If you try to find him—” she said and trailed off to focus on her breathing.

I saw in her eyes what she was saying, though. If I tried to find him, I was his and only his.

continue reading >

Poetry ​

Mjölnir Swings East

In Iowa, lightning comes like a net on the

sky, every frayed ending making the most

of its incidence. 

continue reading >

​Poetry

Heading Home

if you were awake you would say something

how fireworks have grown out of the ground

how there is the unknowing

the cannot know


continue reading >