Lisa McCool-Grime Senior Poetry Editor In 2007, I was visiting my friend Owen at his art show: portraits on the grandest scale done in aerosol on 8′ x 8′ panels. It was the last hour of the last day of…
Poetry by Nikia Chaney
lie to him, listen
to the hummingbirds, lay
in bed a bit longer, laugh
and pretend to hate the smell
of heat and give over the thought
of this call x
Poetry by Kate LaDew
I am in my apartment, wondering if it’s time to go home, if it’s normal,
safe to see my parents so often, to waste money on two rooms that clutch with fingers.
reading the bible in short bursts, completing some prerequisite of childhood,
I listen as Jacob is close to blaspheming x
“I haven’t thought about why there aren’t a lot of poems about being a father by male poets. I don’t know why that is. But (he laughts) I would be happy to be called one of the first poets to go into that area.”
Inner villanelle of a father-to-be without his Xanax
Father-to-be, you are not a villain.
Hell, black bile does not blackball from mating.
But you know, they’ll be your children
Fiction by Thomas Kearnes
Tweak makes you ambitious. You fire off paragraph-length texts to friends you haven’t seen in months. You have marathon online chats with guys you’d love to fuck but know will flake. You disclose your extensive sexual history to men whose first names elude you. Our host Adam is higher than all the saints, has been for three days. This explains why some skinny dude stands before us, slipping off his Peanuts T-shirt with an enthusiasm that saddens me like last call on a Saturday night.