Stone 1 The day hope died a burden was lifted. Al -Yahud’s ropes were untied. A sack of golden bangles, clay tablets and unleavened Babylonian bread, khubz fatir, fell to the bottom of the river — flat bread carries no joy. This is why my grandparents are silent. Their history dumped in the river. This is why I dive in, seeking what’s at the bottom of the riverbed, find the turban of the chief rabbi, Chacham Bashi Moshe, unravelling in my DNA; gravel and clay remnants I add to my …
i. Fucking on the moldy leather couch, exhales drop clumsy from our mouths like apples blackened on the branch. In this version of heaven, I pull the stars down in fistfuls, fitful and soggy, let them rain down like cake. I tear at your body like it’s a rotting roof, like I might somehow reach through to sky. ii. I tried to plant a future in plastic rows like an alien crop but the spring days thrashed feral beneath me echoing You are nowhere to be found. iii. you were a river—I walked …
I saw a woman Crucifix about her neck Christ’s head a diamond D. A. Hosek’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Meniscus, California Quarterly, Rat’s Ass Review, I-70 Review and elsewhere. He earned his MFA from the University of Tampa. He lives and writes in Oak Park, IL and spends his days as an insignificant cog in the machinery of corporate America. More at http://dahosek.com. Featured Artwork: Dreams Elinora Westfall is a British writer of stage, screen, fiction, and …
Wife #2 was sweeping the small bedroom when she found the magazine. A woman with long blond hair adorned the cover. A short yellow dress hugged her body, and her teeth were unnaturally white. They were not allowed magazines. Her first instinct was to turn in Wife #3, but then she remembered what He had told them about reacting hastily. Plus #3 was new, young. Maybe she should give her a chance. So instead she closed the door, sat on the bed, and opened the magazine. # At dinner, Wife #2 …
Later, the birds would find what I’d planted in crooked bins before it could die of thirst. That’s the thing about birds. I put out a feeder, and they littered my balcony with seeds, squabbled like downstairs neighbors come the first. The little ones drove off the pretty ones. I was happy just to watch and pretend I was mayor of Feather Town, but I was more like the janitor. I saw a woman walking in long squares around the parking lot every day, fists up. I wanted to tell her no one …
The three of them were having a dinner party in honor of Sarah’s fiancé leaving her, eight months ago that Monday. It was the first cold night in November, and Max and Tessa wore doubled-up socks inside their apartment. He cooked steaks on the stovetop, in a frying pan, using a fork to turn the big pieces of meat. She tossed potato wedges with cream and cheddar cheese. “What can I do?” Sarah sat …