When I see an animal alone in the biggest field
I wonder if they are lonely or if I’m projecting.
Every night this winter a parade
of brake lights, the backstory.
by Erin Hyatt
Here, it is always 1985.
There is spoiled chicken
salad on the patio furniture;
there are apricots
rotting on the ground.
I sink my teeth into July,
and boil orange fruit to the bone
on a gasoline fire that stinks
like rust. Just down the road,
an old tractor hums back to life.
by Abigail Gallen Abigail Gallen is a 17-year-old rising senior at Lincoln Park Performing Arts Charter School. She is the founder and president of the Social Justice Club at North Allegheny High School, and […]
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by Tresa Murphy Green Did you know what it meant to the ocean when you ran from its tide? When fear exacerbated your motions & the salt waters were too vast to hide did you know […]
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by Kayla Sargeson White car/no “Lyft” sticker. He bops his head to his friend’s mixtape, some wannabe Lil Pump shit. Do you want a donut? he says. Hands me a yellow store bag, cold maple donuts […]
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by Christina Springer A night manager accepts the moon’s detritus fills ‘n empties her. In battered women’s West Virginia, my shelter is deep down the hollow’s gaping crack. Past trailers like lice, crab grass, on blocks […]
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by James Croal Jackson Death is in the shriveled blue and purple hydrangea bouquet I gifted you. Kathy bought the same, smaller, but they did not last so much as linger. Mom calls me from Macy’s— […]
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