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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume X, Issue II

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..
..:: OTHER ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I
   Volume VIII, Issue II
   Volume IX, Issue I
   Volume IX, Issue II
   Volume X, Issue I

 
Poetry


Sweater Here
David McAleavey

 

They left a sweater here. Anyone who tells you she's a camellia is no native to these shores.

Depress this pedal to brake. To sit in the marked exit rows requires assenting to the possibility of disaster and imagining you can respond as expected.

A few questions were repeated. No dietician bothers with whether man can live by bread alone.

The blackbird got the gecko. At the foot of Capitol Hill, here in our nation's capital, you may see palm trees and tree ferns growing to their genetic heights in a greenhouse, but you will not hear surf unless it's a recording.

She refused. The utter simplicity of the stone's being dropped down the well made me smile.

Torture produced confession. Since she was no longer able to procure pleasure that way herself, she foregrounded the interests of others, a displacement of desire, instead of being stymied.

The diagram is on p. 63. For reasons not yet known to us, a nerve in the thigh can be compressed, causing pain that may for similarly mysterious reasons disappear "all of a sudden."

Women eventually got the vote. A string of horses galloped along a beach not heavily used by sunbathing tourists, one of whom was peeing in bushes.

Tofu or polenta, you decide. Fashion's laughing at spirituality resembles religiosity's scorn for the senses, and shame, whose democracy we inhabit, has never had a shrine properly named and sanctified.

 

 

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