Vol. 2, Issue 3

Prose


photo by Lauren Mancke

 

Produce Isle

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.

Another month.

I stand still as he leaves eyeing a separated lemon.

by Tara Isabel Zambrano

Three Lines

photo by Cole Keister

 

 

the spirit moved
the birch trees
stood tall

by Timothy Gager

 

Poetry

photo by Everton Vila

 

Hello Unwraps

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)

by   Richard Manly Heiman


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