You know he forgets names, where he left the keys. Some days floods cover land he says would never drown again. He hears my prayers then asks me to repeat, calling it a refrain. I abstain from meat and wine for forty days hoping to reset my soul. I try not to use my lover's name in vain. And yet I curse the man who forgets my birthday, forgets to pick up after the dog. Senescence is such a sonic word I hate to discover its meaning. I hate every diagnosis that dares doubt to double …

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 …

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 …

passion-forged flowers amongst midnight skies1 – fire lookouts press onto rock tips2 – stones imitate fervent postures3 – rose-curved bellies hold back unchaste4 – horns rip sheets while sleeping5 – fingertips graze in the middle of night.6 1 Should we pluck – 2 Should we prepare – 3 Should we negotiate – 4 Should we vault – 5 Should we lock – 6 Should we confess – Laura Titzer is an avid tea drinker, hiker, rummaging cyclist, poetry/nonfiction writer and facilitator of …

That silver dawn bears no weight, its last wooly leaves are fire coral sunk to the bottom of the branch worn bare. Night coming early bears no weight—at five p.m. the day shuts closed like a clam’s stony mouth. My daughter calls for me, and I begin to weave the narrative of motherhood: the matted wool woven around our ankles, an ancient’s net tied to the bed for an oyster’s life span. This is not only metaphor. My daughter calls for me from her bed, her voice an unworn splinter, an …