Ivor Irwin

My Internist Prescribes Guess it depends on which of your three eyes that you look at it with. All I see, floating around me, is detritus. The detritus of denied intimacy. The detritus of the glib. Like beautiful Venezia, you float in your gondola and ignore the surfing turds. Peripherally, if you take the time to stuff cotton wool up your nose, there is the renaissance, gargoyles in repose. Pretty girls chinning crumbling window sills. Perry Como crooning. A strand Read more [...]

Zoe Etkin

The Dialogue   I say, Some parts of me are like this— and open his hand Rain water funnels into the pink   Thin channels of water branching out and then contracting as if surface tension isn’t a thing at all   He says he doesn’t understand how I made him this way so porous   I did it to show you, I say made us parallel and reflective   He says, I cannot accept this He means to say my body but the word has too much shape doesn’t fit well between Read more [...]

Fragments on Catherine Clodius

My grandmother, after her stroke   I.   Here, you are in that nightgown, a girl again, wandering the downstairs hallway escaping some dream.  Later I will find you in the dark kitchen trying to remember how to read the digits on the microwave.   II.   In our house the bell was unexpected, the cops even more so.  A call about a gun,   my father’s rigid confusion, my mother’s balance   failing.  I’m watching from Read more [...]

Ryan Mattern

Big Dirty A brown doe with tranquilizer darts stuck in her hide enters the red line to 95th, nestles vacant space between seats of Vietnam vets in Chicago-stained Cosby sweaters. A junkie teenager, ringworm scars like trilobite spirals fossilized into his scalp, steadies himself as the train quakes over demagnetized tracks and walks toward the deer. The two of them sleepy-eyed, unsure of movement, drunk and emaciated dancers on fetal calf legs. The deer mistakes industry for a meadow; passengers’ Read more [...]

Phantom Limb/Desert

Phantom Limb It still twinges on cold nights, and itches from imagined insect bites.   Sometimes, I expect to look and see it still attached to me.   I still pull blankets over it at night, and see its outline beneath the cotton sheets.   I still feel the blood coursing through non- existent capillaries.   I scratch to find out where it really is. My nails find nothing   to scrabble at. I am still Read more [...]