Lucia Dove Sunday lightbulbs a fruitbowl of potatoes aspic downright grizzly two trips one trip three but no potato masher. It's maintenance day for small cars in Amsterdam and my hand swollen my days swollen with wet leaves mulched trodden embarrassment confusion the central sin of all sins it's crushing how delicious the potato and … Continue reading Inventory

            Steph Ellen Feeney My daughter’s voice is high and bright like sorbet, her grandmother’s raspylike stones, their conversation one of constant mutual interruption. Outside, bare branches appear, recede, appear, recede. Together, they chant the names: sycamore, hornbeam, sycamore, beech. It’s warm here, fringing their utter twoness. My daughter laughs a laugh she never laughs with me, and her grandmother snorts in reply. The children’s moon still doilies the … Continue reading Back Seat Orbital

            Ginny Darke The last time you cried was at the supermarket, clutching a jar of mustard like it could somehow save you. You think about how embarrassing that must’ve been to witness. Though, at this moment in time, you are in a field. There is a pond with a horribly oversized yellow green blue swordfish … Continue reading Visualisation Exercise

            Peter Scalpello That soggy winter we lived laterally. Emotion emboldened us before meltinginto thin air. It was another year of contracts; we had the need to grievewithin office hours. We met each other at contrasting angles and so continuedslightly grazed. I veered away from writing, practiced patience; drawing thingsas they were instead of how I’d … Continue reading Conditions

            Andrew Dennison The wrong thing soundsbetter sometimesor makes light the truth like how, knowingwell enough by nowthat Earth circlesthe sun, we still say the sun comes roundthe back of the housein the afternoon. Andrew Dennison is an architectural assistant and writer from Orkney, Scotland, now living in London. He studied architecture at the University of … Continue reading Inversions (or Homesickness)

            Lucia Dove Mid-March I'm on my feet and running. I have been living with the spidersI used to be scared of but now they are companyI don't mind them so much.I wish writing poetry came as easily as it used to. I think this is not a poem but shame. Some would arguethat shame makes … Continue reading The spiders

            Phoebe Gilmore Giddy up leather fillythere’s no use in lying down like a dead bookour appointment opens me to the hillsthe secret once found is grainy and blackburied under gut and a disposable mini-skirt of blue paper doctor in the fieldgive me an answer clear and thick as coldlubrication so I may slip prescription into … Continue reading Gynaecology Ranch

            Hetty Cliss When my grandmother dignified, I couldn’t spook italoud. Not even when a colleague asked three timesif I was ostrich, or was something wrenned? I couldn’t say what went hush hush in my bonnetto get me through the working day. The distractionis gosh, I told myself and otters, convincing no one. What’s left to … Continue reading Thingamajiggied

            Roberto Salvador Cenciarelli And we are walking hand in hand by the river now.I occasionally move my arms over his shoulders ashe slides his behind my back. We keep discoveringpieces of clothing, new bones. It rained and then the sun came out. I wanted to tell you something like I am carrying an umbrella under my cloak … Continue reading from “Theseus’ notes on Asterion”

            Troy Cabida       after “Inventory // Personal” by Sophia Georghiou  I’m not as effervescent as I look online. I slept with your husband. I didn’t have to question your existenceyou and the kids just showed up, a streak of light  on the phone he turned downwards on the bedside table. Before he climbed in he opened the hotel … Continue reading No one wants what I want