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 Sudeep Adhikari the wet triangles, sliding down the slant of liquid maroons they look at me, with the eyes of the black-hole love i can’t see what is in there, expect for the blood of nothingness, an absence batshit drunk pegged against the sine waves of wooden erections, carefully…