by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by Lisa Harris Zero holds a place of absence, a mid-point between plus one and minus one. Look closely at a pie, a cake, a world—things we cut up. Once made, they cannot be enlarged, but they can be shared in different parts, in different pieces, in different chunks. Time,…
by Jason Spicer A man was shot, in the alley behind my grungy apartment last night, again. His bald pate bounced a stream of pleated light through the blinds on my second story window. No sirens or news crews, just muddy boots and forlorn faces—men who needed sleep, in uniforms…