Acrylic on 140 lb. watercolor paper, 12″ x 16″
About the artist…
Sherry Sweeden is thirty-four years old, living in East Texas. She holds a BFA from the University of Texas at Tyler. Sherry has been an artist her entire life, with heavier focus on painting, drawing, and mixed media. She is heavily influenced by pop culture and music.
by Andrew Zuliani
*Embarrassing early poem, scrambled beyond recognition.
About the author…
Andrew Zuliani is a writer and musician who lives between Vancouver and New York. He is working on a doctoral dissertation on flatness and depthlessness in postwar literature in the department of English and American Literature at NYU. His poetry has been published in The Capilano Review and Lyre, and fiction forthcoming in armarolla.
by Tor Strand
We come from Birdridge,
running Earth’s sharp edges,
jamming our toes, obeying
an unmapped wanting.
The bore tide fills Turn-Again with a wave
of outer ocean, a long white cap from up here.
We surf with our eyes.
Far above the snow on South Suicide
goes blue.
We start climbing after dinner
but it’s Alaska in July—so what matters—
we run loose scree above the treeline,
play and forget, snap twigs
against a hanging sun, building sorrow.
We breathe toward dusk along the Arm,
a lane of light
from ridge to ridge.
by Édgar J. Ulloa Luján
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
in the borderlands
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
it’s a fantasyland
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
in my motherland
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
like in Babylon
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
but only drugs, guns
and contraband
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
but only burritos, narcos
running cheap errands
There is no river
but only sand
sand and no river
but only
a militarized land
There is […]
for David Zeledón
by Margaret Fleming
In Texas, I stand by a baby monitor,
audio waves and linens move in unison.
I watch her chest until I am convinced
she is no longer breathing, her sighs quiet.
I run upstairs to catch the wind in her body.
If this world heard
the way a mother hearkens
to her child—would it listen?
On TV, a Nicaraguan woman carries water
in a milk jug, dumping it on a masked man’s
face. Liquid bullets shower the hot cement.
The Nicaragüenses who taught me to […]
… … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … […]
by Genevieve Betts
The last cicadas thump and buzz
like a souped-up Cadillac.
They really are the most beautiful
plague. I too hum among their
windowpane wings, veined
like lace on whirring blades.
Sugar skulls commence their séance,
flicker pigments in candied ambiance.
The desert’s hot verve vacillates
at the last lurch of summer,
oases wavering in their distant trick
I fall for again and again.
[…]
by Cameron Espinoza
Elsewhere my words are sounds
Sharp unsubtle manifestations of wind
My shaking hands orchestrate obtuse keys— dictating tune
Overwhelming
My wit
My lips
My cadence
The dulled wife’s lament
“it” sits
Cross-dressed down
Puzzled formulaic void epiclets of sepulchral sound
The traveler’s age-old apartheid
Administered by Moses and British Airways
Drowned by the red-sea’s second cousin— twice removed
About the author…
Cameron Espinoza is a first-year graduate student in NYU’s GSAS. While she studies Politics, she is passionate Literature and has written on the use of rhetoric in the works of […]
by Lukpata Lomba Joseph
What smidgen of thought
Propagates in this wide helix,
Whirling and birthing spiral envelopes
With all reason in its service?
What infinitesimal impression,
Sits with honour at the pivot
Of this growing gyre?
Last night’s dream led the way,
Where your bones were crushed in a wrecking Sienna;
Then the age long myth behind dreams crept in,
Then a baritone voice burst in:
“Could this be a revelation?”
And the widening helix terminates
At the pastor’s last chats from the holy writs,
It was a sermon on dreams,
“Dreams are fore-scenes of reality,” he said
Then paranoia gave a wide grin,
As your trip to Lagos beach […]
by Jennifer Luckenbill
The Oklahoma wind
whistles its quiet tune
outside the window,
smooth as butter
on freshly browned toast.
Music to drown
the thumps and bumps
of a late Halloween night.
Whispered melodies
too soft for the ear,
breaking the wall
between body and spirit,
between living and dead.
No costumed faces
at this hour
to scare away the spirits,
so they press faces against windows,
the ghost equivalent
of puppy-dog eyes,
begging for the warmth of the living
to press against their bodies,
a moment’s feeling,
there and gone.
About the author…
Jennifer Luckenbill is a freelance writer, editor, and artist currently living in […]