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PEOPLE OF NEW YORK by Sally Ball

I know you are dying
as always, even you big ones
from Queens, or from Nyack,
and I’m in the habit
of checking the clock,
midnight again. Again no
phone call, no lungs
expanding and contracting

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LETTER TO PHIL FROM MANITOU SPRINGS by George Kalamaras

Did Darwin name the world, or did you, Phil, in creating him for us?  I swear a Galápagos tortoise inhabits my sleep.  A dream broth.  A cup of Genmaicha tea containing roasted grains of brown rice.  It lays its eggs across the coral reef of my brain.  Blonde.  Blind.  Without fish-mouth or salt.

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LIE DOWN WHERE THEIR FACES ARE by James Allen Hall

The woman across the street
on her knees again, shut out in the snow
by her husband. Every week, this ritual:

a man, a crying woman, the blue cold
earth that marries them. When he lets
her in, she lays in bed next to him.

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ISSUE 3

Spring 2013

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SPA CARE by Xenia Taiga

The spa was located in the hills, behind the town’s famous billboards.

“The farthest spot on known earth,” her husband said, looking over the brochures. “No fast foods for miles.”

Her husband helped her pack, while she stood to the side eating Dorito’s. The afternoon sun shone on her as she got in the car and slammed the door. Her husband waved. When she pulled out of the driveway, he called out to her. “Relax enough, so you can ovulate and then we can get back to business.”

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ROSA by Anne Germanacos

Just a name

Rosa, a girl in a story, a name I happen to like. She’s a girl with a father who follows her to the ends of the earth as she follows a story, a myth, an incantation.

She is trying to be a virgin and a diplomat, like Gertrude Bell.
She would also like to be a mad heroine, like Isabelle Eberhardt.

Her parents would like her to finish her homework.

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PERSONAL AD #1 (Pairs Only Matter In Poker) by Michael Schmeltzer

I wear garish makeup and make faces in the mirror.
Which reminds me…do you want to hear
my favorite joke?
Two clowns walk into a bar:
one with a sad face, the makeup frown
thick and chalky as a hotdog bun; the other
no face whatsoever.
There never was a happy face.

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THE CITY by Helwig Brunner, translated by Monika Zobel

The city simplified to lines,
makeup removed from your face.
Houses, footsteps, and thoughts
are made of the same material,
graphite dust and diamonds.
Time stalls, lowers your lids,
to be now for once in the midst of
a sleeping world, clear-sighted

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ECHOLOCATION: AERIAL SCRIPT by Helwig Brunner, translated by Monika Zobel

The bats, reflecting on their sounds,
inaudible, thus eavesdropping on a
silence, which is none; they drag the gaze
through the twilight sky, the zigzag of their
flutter flight, satin-fur nearly birds
that see with their ears: listen to images.

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THE SUPERINTENDENT by Justin Bigos

The air as still as bathwater, no breeze
from Sheepshead, we carry clear plastic bags
of empty bottles and cans, blue plastic bags
of plastic bottles and milk jugs, we squeeze
flattened boxes into open boxes, then tie
it all in twine – but do we cover it
in tarp in case it rains? He says, Forget-
about-it
, just like on TV.

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DEVIL DANCER’S DAUGHTER by Laura Sheahen

What does your father do
            Dance

Where      in the jungle
            The jungle

When
            In the night
            With feathers sharp feathers

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AFTER SAMSON BURNS HER FAMILY’S HOUSE AND GRAIN-FIELDS by William Kelley Woolfitt

Two ruined bodies, galena-black, tar-black,
charred flakes of cloth, countenances gone.
No ears, or eyes, or lips. Father, sister, offered
to a god, fat and gorged, that I deplore;
hands folded at the breastbone, as if fire
was a balm that soothed, gave them repose;
no hair to dress, no skin to wash and stroke.

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