Issue 125

I’m a shadow cast by the moon in a cold pass at midnight, far away.

It’s a war you shelter.
You shelter it inside your God.

It’s the body that’s alone, a harbor
waiting for new ships.

The priest had a real hard-on for alliteration. It drove Maggie nuts.

I’m constructing
a heaven of pixels like tiny, vibrating dimes, falling stars
I can scoop up and offer in two hands.

what a way to go
siloed high up
like he was

In most of my memories of my father from childhood, he is moving.

To think of you
is to have the sense that I will never be seen
by anyone who has language
again.

To withdraw like a fly or amuse oneself / like a submarine in a fjord misnamed a canal.

The world warms up, the prairifire crabapple trees begin to drop their blossoms in almost technicolor puddles on the sidewalks in my neighborhood and, as if in concert, the base of my neck gets heavy and sore.