Vol. 2, Issue 1

Prose

photo by Anca Luchit

 

Hollow

I was lost and looking for my keys, for answers, for songs that tell me everything’s going to be all right. Hum a few bars and glide through the dark, past the exposed roots, all that anchored you to me: egg, skillet, stone. I still lock myself in the bathroom to cry. It would be different if you had died.

by Victoria Melekian


Haiku


photo by David Cohen

 

loneliness
a vast chasm
of broken pieces

by Norman Wm. Muise

 


Poetry

photo by Christopher Johnson

 

Courtesies

Mondays
bring back routine
nets of safety

unlike Sylvia
I’d turn on ovens
on Sundays

to exhaust
fumes of emotion
end less hunger

by Toti O’Brien



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