Latest Writing
POETRY
-
MR. BOSWELL PEELS AN ORANGE by Sarah Johnson
My wife’s marmalade is the best I’ve had. She peels and crushes the oranges herself, and for days the house smells of oranges’ beaten golden pulp. Under her persistent hands, the fruit submits. It becomes a vivid concentrate, textured with rind. Stored in jars, it will keep for months.
-
THE PRINTER by Jenny Doughty
All day he labours, polishing the plate (small, nondescript, whose eyes illuminate his workman’s face), picks up the burin, starts to etch out in reverse all but the heart of what he sees, carves worlds in words, carves tigers, devils, chimney-sweeps and birds.
-
BURGESS FALLS, TENNESSEE by Owen Lewis
Where the waters cut the gorge cut strata of soft stone where granite resists and holds itself against the water where the waters drop in sheets across the rock steps then plunge in white cascades like moving ice the liquid of glacial rumbling froths and pounds stone a heavenly and timeless pressure
FICTION
TRANSLATION
From the Archives
Join our mailing list
Receive new issues and featured work in your inbox.