by DANIEL HOLMES She told Thomas it started with the Golden Gate Bridge. Amy’s parents had taken her as a child: one of those cheesy trips to San Francisco where her dad labored to align their itinerary with that of … Read more

by KARAH MITCHELL Filip Springer, History of a Disappearance: The Story of a Forgotten Polish Town Originally published 2011. English translation by Sean Gaspar Bye, April 2017. Restless Books: Brooklyn, NY, pp 320 Imagine a medieval town in the countryside … Read more

by KAREN HARRYMAN 1. An overhand knot is usually tied at one end of a long marriage. When pulled tight it can be used as a stopper to prevent unraveling or slipping through one another. This is the knot at … Read more

by KYLAN RICE Gatherest by Sasha Steensen. Ahsahta Press, 2017. pp. 128 Sometimes I like to think of the poem as a child. The poet gives a kind of birth to a kind of offspring, a word. As it was … Read more

by NICHOLAS LEPRE They searched for Francine every Thursday afternoon, after school, in the hidden spaces of the neighborhood. They were halfway to the reservoir, the September sun at their backs, the green leaves beginning to brittle. Kenna in her … Read more

by JESSI LEWIS My father is planning on burning the brush pile. Pieces of childhood are gathered, braced with dead pines. I don’t know if I recognize this stretch of earth, this mile. Blueberry bushes bleed indigo, broken at their … Read more

by JOHN BECHTOLD The Refugees by Viet Thanh Nguyen. New York: Grove Press, 2017. pp. 207 Novelist and philosopher Iris Murdoch, describing what distinguishes good art from pedestrian work, wrote, “the greatest art is impersonal because it shows us the world, … Read more

by JOSHUA PRICHARD I met a woman out in Ashland once. I was there on shore leave, which we called it even though the shore’s never far away. I worked tow boats up and down the Ohio. Normally I’d take … Read more

by KYLAN RICE The End of Something by Kate Greenstreet. Ahsahta Press, 2017. pp. 176. When she reads out loud, Kate Greenstreet’s poems sound like they’re being spoken during a smoke break outside a bar. Her hands are in her pockets, … Read more

by JEFFREY N. JOHNSON I wedge myself between a molded bench and syrup-splattered formica. The waitress caps her pen and grips the menu, says she ain’t serving until I move to another booth. She points to a wasp clinging to … Read more