We are looking for short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, visual art, and photography that explore all the dirty things we’re told to scrub away… and what happens when they stick around.…
You tell me
about making flies
those tiny pretenders,
specific to the season
& region & species so
here might be a caddis…
In the bird-machine morning
where I found myself beside you,
most fears fallen still and the soft
sleep of your skin beneath my hands…
Even in memory it clicks like a key in me,
a tulip opening a river.
I am tired of my body being romanced in Donne.
But yours, how rare for it to be beautiful.…
