Vol. 2, Issue 3


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 Line Poetry

photo by Cole Keister



the spirit moved
the birch trees
stood tall

by Timothy Gager



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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