By VIRGINIA KONCHAN
There is no enough in exile.
After Surgery, My Father Helps Me Bathe
By ANTHONY BORRUSO
Jobless, 26, a ghastly scab marching
from the base of my skull down
By ELIZABETH SCANLON
Your mother is a creep.
Everyone’s mother is a creep;
we have envelopes of your teeth in our bedside drawers,
clippings of your hair. We check your browser history.
By SUSAN COMNINOS
or, sonnet of cheating with a friend’s man
Something about the hinge
of your hips, the way you held them straight
when you danced. You pushed my palm to fringe:
the pelt of your belly, then sought the gate