s o


my mother died, & I
was moth, my body
alert with warning
coloration. Instar,
I cut myself
out & started
again. I couldn’t
possibly have been
Atlas, colossal,
in plain sight. I was
different in the tree
of heaven. I imagined
wings & there were wings,
a long tail & a tail
appeared. What, friend, was
the algorithm
for myth? Why were
chromosomes telling me
death is
truth? I remember
when as a moth I dreamed
beautifully. King
of Kings, Lord of Lords
I woke without
a mouth.


L.S. Klatt has published four collections of poetry, most recently The Wilderness After Which. New poems of his have appeared or will appear in Northwest Review, Image, DIAGRAM, 32 Poems, The Southern Review, The Florida Review, and Copper Nickel.

[Purchase Issue 27 here.]

s o

Related Posts

Anna and B donned silver ponchos, lost their hands in mitts the size of hams. They adjusted their hoods, shinier, fluffier versions of the tunnel-hoods popular on winter parkas in the 1970s (Anna had a navy blue one, orange inside, from Sears).

Museum Ice (Extended Dance Mix)

B had turned thirteen that fall, ready to join Anna on a trip that was part research, part treat and adventure, the first time they had left the country together, alone. A few days in Rosario (a university lecture, an interview with a playwright), the long bus to Buenos Aires.

Image of a wooded mountain range with gray clouds in the sky and green grass below.


As a child, I watched horror movie after horror movie. An attempt to make myself brave or to make others think I was. And now, I fear I’m manipulative because how much can a person really change.

Headshot of author Jonë Zhitia.

Nadryw | Feeling Language

I never fled into exile, I was born into exile. My only home is the autobahn between Germany and Kosovo. Dissecting: Austria, Croatia, Serbia, Hungary, Montenegro—depending on which route you take. None of these countries is home to me.