by Chris Dungey These ingredients were printed on a crème-colored envelope wedged between toilet tank and wall— an unopened sachet or potpourri. We couldn’t tell, but there were red line sketches—of leaves, sprigs, poinsettia. When for? The Holidays were past—but “Scents of the Season” it read, in English. Still, through February the pouch waited to be poured into an exhausted vase of…
by Naomi Ruth Lowinsky We’re in the dark again, on uneven ground, where only shadows know the way. Your breath is my compass; your hand is the North Star. What have we stumbled into? Stag’s skull crowns a tent of bones. We are to sleep here. Remember the stag in…
by Naomi Ruth Lowinsky Red River sing us a drinking song Summer’s spell broken Sing of the way we used to be When we swam in each other Swam in you Before Drought exhausted the garden Before Fate rode in On a Night Mare Breath labors Blood stammers Bone…
By Naomi Ruth Lowinsky “I’m a green-and-yellow basket case,” you tell me, shuffling from bathroom to bedroom and back. We lean on each other, laughing. The basket weaver of the stars sent you to me, my green man, my pollen, my salmon leaping upriver. A tisket, a tasket, we’re in…