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Taboret

By Andrew Hendrixson Essay

When I hear my parents’ voices lilt with Midwestern shame, our pernicious lineage, I want to set the bench on fire or bury an axe head into it.

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Nightshade

By Sofia Starnes Poetry

The orchard blooms, 

and strangers tend, in wooded plots (or tombs), 
blue nightshade, to the bitter end of gene. 

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Gabriel

By Alexander Ramirez Fiction

I remember when those hands were furnaces burning in the hearts of celestial bodies. I watched the very dust fall to earth and become you.

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