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Read some fantastic words without haste!

Hansel

A gas can

Editor’s Note

god wearing mask

THE GODS ONCE WORE THE GUISE OF BEASTS

How to be a migrant fiction airplane rebecca ruth gold

How to be a Migrant

This Morning

A Lieutenant

Interview with Maxim Matusevich

Grief #346 I grieve the men I swallowed like stolen pills. I grieve the nights I tried and failed to purchase a second pair of legs. A third. I grieve the ease with which I pulled bodies into my body. I kept them all; I am crowded. I grieve the filth of the twenty-dollar bill, the G-string’s faded pink, the stench of my want, the pit stain of my hunger. I grieve the lights on at last call. I grieve your face suddenly fluorescent lit. I grieve the “sure.” I grieve the “why not.” The bodies I begged, the bodies I borrowed, the bodies I broke and broke under. I grieve snowfall on a ruined hand mirror. I grieve the men I mistook for one another and the mistakes I mistook for men. I grieve the bodies I thought beneath me and the body I became. I grieve the dawns I killed and the days I slept through. I grieve the sweat I left behind like a shadow. I grieve every name I called out in the dark. I grieve that I never, not once, called out my own

Grief #346

Toilet Paper

Little Box