by Shooooz
Listen, when I point out
The scent of fresh-baked revisionism
Lingering in the air
While the woman in the window
With the perfect beachy hair
Bends over the oven and
She has no face
Just a thin, wide-spaced font
Across her front
Typeset in too many tongues to count
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 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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by Gwendolyn A. Mitchell Every once in a while, I get lost in the winter evening just after dusk. I am Downtown waiting for the 82 Lincoln, standing across the street from what should be Gimbels […]
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