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..:: CONTENTS ::..

   Volume VII, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: 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

 
Poetry


The Down Side
Howie Good

It rained all day and all night and all the next day. You know why—the fire king's daughter. She was lolling naked on the red divan, remembering the obscure objects in her parents' medicine cabinet. Have you ever seen the lining of a potato bug's wings? Very like the opening of the season for executions. People were afraid to fall asleep. They discussed in hoarse whispers the enigma of the blue guitar. I wasn't there. I hadn't been born yet. But a tiny bird hopped about the branch, like your hand waving goodbye at the end of someone else's arm.

 

 

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