by Tara Isabel Zambrano
When I scuttle after spilled lemons, he laughs. Leaning against his mom, his black curls cover his mirthful eyes and matte finished cheeks.
I smile, feel the heart inside me.
Cramps rise. Dark liquid runs down my thighs.
I stand still as he leaves eyeing a separated lemon.
the spirit moved
the birch trees
by Timothy Gager
by Richard Manly Heiman
the razor in a shrouded kiss—
nothing compares. Fumbling
reduced to chastity. Strangers
in quaint postures. Smooth knotted
tie, the sleeveless homespun.
Blank me and tang evaporating
taste of you. Moments borrowed
from our own extinction
promised nothing. Scents
uncurling to divinity,
your eyes were muslin keen.
How do lips ever discover lips?
(after Rene Magritte’s The Lovers)
Full Issue available on MagCloud
(click the cover to get a copy)