by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
by Lana Bella The drinking girl is not dreaming because a dreamer drinks not from thirst but for the tongue craves. With the snug sphericity of a pearl, she meets the long, furious work of humming spree, boothed in stilt bar hugging stein-glassed hands, ropy on the final slogs. Tinny haze synapses into familiar water, waist…
by Lana Bella After Al Green’s “Take Me to the River” All the while the river rushed, so has everything else. Shivering through a late winter leave, I felt the paranoiac quiet traced down the folds of my bones wading beyond the water, gin memory pulled up by Xanax and opiates,…