Issue Ten

Dancing Ladies

Moving     conveyor belt trapped onward tight and secure     sure      so we hoped          roped    into a misty tunnel     my...

Of Bedheaded Boys and Lavender Shampoo

Shampoo. The word is vaguely obscene. Sham + poo :these hardly sound like substances that, combined, could render one clean. Sonically, shampoo does not present as a hygienic herbal solution bottled in a shower stall. Instead, its syllables tell of a darker substance...

Baked Alaska and If the Shoe Fits

Baked Alaska Febrile as baked Alaska, I’ve grown over-heated from tilling the magnetic fields. Of course, I don’t expect the dead to remember me. I don’t tan, I grey.  Look, you can listen to all the confetti music you want, but to the illicit organ trade, it’s all...

When There’s Nothing Left to Burn

When I am thirty-two, I fall in love with a man who thinks I am his. Our house is made of wood—the walls, the stairs, the Christmas tree. Everything is on fire; pine-scented, staggering orange flames. We escape unscathed from our bedroom where a candle caught the...

Nativity Scene and The Forecast

THE FORECAST In a sudden downpour, he won’t make room for me under his umbrella— leans away when I put my arm around him, asks what do I think I am doing, whose fault is it for not having paid attention to the forecast at breakfast when I was still toweling off his...

Go in Abstraction by Sevens with Adverbs

You are meant to get lost hereamong words in a countryof words—diaphanous words holding a plea against somewretched, hard reality,against precision’s pinned-down rage minutely dissectingone more hapless pain, againstedgy acid ironies lying uneasily onopen satin-lined...

The House

It is times like this—at night when I should be sleeping—that I miss England the most. The window in my third-floor bedroom that was always half-open, even on those freezing February nights. If the window was closed, I felt trapped—like I was in some sadistic snow...

Punahou Blues

My rusted love shudders with the red scales of high school regret revisiting the wahine who kindled my blood. Holly strolls past the library in rubber slippers and green skirt striped white. Her eyes burn desire in French class. She wants me. My boy failures link up,...

Ripe

The girl with the flaxen hair sits over there in her chair beneath the red/yellow/blue-striped umbrella.  Thinking thoughts that are dirty, kinky.  Thinking thoughts that would make them blush if she dared to say them aloud.  Like, squeeze my...

Skin

I’ve recently begun to think of my skin, the largest of organs, as a container filled up with all kinds of interesting stuff. Malleable, simultaneously strong and fragile—a proper tear in a vulnerable place and the breath goes out of my body, escapes my container, in...

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