BY DANABELLE GUTIERREZ
to go back to your residence.
One word, meaning to return,
not just anywhere, but home. Uwi 10.25.2021
I rode a slow bus out of blackness.
Five a.m. in northern Greece.
The language, blurry and mumbled.
I paid pastel money for a bus
ticket to Ouranopolis whose name
means “City of Heaven.” Three Sunrises to Ouranopolis 10.25.2021
There’s an itch in my throat like fox fur,
broom bush, cactus whittled to dust,
and my son thinks the city has vanished, Sandstorm 10.25.2021
Nostalgia is a well-
you have to hold
it in mind all at once—
you have to need it
enough. I’ve been Cento for Surrender 04.26.2021
I close my right eye meu olho direitoand see everything tudo
my mother my father meus pais no meu país
know não sabiam
to do tudo
then que fazer?
e hoje, minha vista cansada Amblyopia 10.28.2020
Barely felt in the birth canal.
Sick with planet.
A List of His Flaws 05.08.2020
By JOHN FREEMAN
Backlit by the glow
from a small passageway,
he kneels into the fog
of yellow light,
head kissing the carpet.
I step around him,
respecting his privacy, when
the mat becomes not prayer
rug but builder’s tool,
a black piece of tarmac, laid down
before the bank so he could
peer close, fix the dead
motion sensor so that people
with money could
be seen, all doors opening
for them. Modern Gods 04.27.2020
It was the first time I’d lived
with a man, and I wanted him
to translate the name of our street.
He was holding my cold fist
in his own, and we were on
Ofrandei, in the middle of unpaved
Bragadiru, Romania, on our way
home. It’s something you give
to get something—like a sacrifice.
Like what you do for a god. Offering 04.27.2020
The quickness of living.
The quickness of wanting to kill something.
Forget dreams, they attack me and
I welcome their landings. Roach 04.15.2019
MATT W. MILLER
For a moment I was a failed skip of stone
sunk into the river for a moment I was the river
purling in long last shadows of September
for a moment I was a skinny grizzly climbing
from a beer can Autobiography 04.15.2019