Spring 2015

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



Peter LaBerge

What I have
in this tight mouth

are two sentences
I drank from the river.

My name is Jane.
Once, my father taught

me how to swim. I was
emptied into his oval

tub. Momma’s lipstick
still bleeding from my lips.

And above the skin, there
was no red as true. Water,

brought in its cast-
iron buckets. I was lifted

into it as a prayer. In this river
there is no god for a boy like me.

Just the rain, the language
it has spoken

against the tin roof.

Back to the Issue Catalog

Related Selections


Picasso’s Pigeons

     It was the hour of the affair.

     I looked down from the roof of our attic apartment to the narrow stone alleys of Barcelona.

continue reading >


Freeze Frame

Paris,1939. The film stars Maurice Chevalier and Marie Deá, but I only know it through a two-minute clip. 

continue reading >


The Festive Revolver

By afternoon the black powder smoke had crackled and stung the air and idle gunfighters wandered the Front Street replica, a façade of clapboards pasted to the buildings behind them like Halloween masks.

continue reading >