by Adeline Macdonald Clean steam iron the linen sheets, white and crisp and beautiful and without fault or fold White walls upon white walls with nothing to upset you or hurt you or make you cry or want to leave or want to think Do you love it? Is it…
by William Thompson He got into the house on a Tuesday. Tuesday was trash day. I was coming back through the gate after dumping the garbage in a barrel when I saw him. Stupid to leave the door open. And no way to stop him. There he was—on the top…
By Benjamin Jackson Sweat-scented sheets which once wrapped legs and limbs, limbered by love and lust and expansive, demonstrative selves now sit clean and sterile, cast aside on a lonely shelf like trophies commemorating a sport no longer played. You folded them crisply with your distant hands, just before you…