Spring 2017

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



Nancy Chen Long

The puma, stalking. And though the ceiling

is naught but night sky, the room


is made of red glass—eight walls ten-feet tall,

the sliding door, the bolt—all blood-colored


and glass. Homing pigeons flutter around me,

doting. Like angels. I have named them.


Monarch. Swallowtail. Lacewing. Come sing to me

I coo, while the black puma paces. My body


is frocked in blue. I wear a brood

of Lycaeides melissa samuelis like a bridal veil,


my hair laced in forget-me-nots.

Sometimes, when I’m perfectly still,


a pigeon will mistake me

for an electrical wire, perch long enough


for me to seize its spindly feathers,

attach a message, set it free.

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