Our final words
Will begin with
“I don’t need
A sepia filter today.”
Olympic. Baker.
A blaze that begins
On a binary
Stays not to
One side.
Rainier. St. Helens.
My neighbor approaches me and my plastic watering can.
Isn’t that a waste? He says,
Standing, car sparkling, in green grass, mine brown and cracking
In August.
Hood. Crater.
Before the belief
In any god
Comes the belief in
The Ozone Layer.
Shasta. Redwood.
I long for a moment
That predates our predator,
But I know that, in that moment,
We are not welcome.
Sierra. Yosemite.
My home
Has long been preparing
For an earthquake.
We are not ready for fire.
Joshua. Ocean.
If truth is to arrive gradually,
It will gauge our interest.
But the signs go unnoticed until our eyes open
And our sky is red.

Ben Campion

and aphrodite areia stepped

depleted back into kytheran waters

dissolving her spear

in the seafoam

of   the   low   tide

lapping at her shins

her shoulders freed of a load

but   her   heart

weighed down

without bronze armor

did her throat close on

her war cry did she bruise

when it was ripped from her

leaving only her love

did the price of being

pandemos   urania   philomedes

and so much more

suffocate her

Harrison Bloom

Crouched over claw-footed tub, girl gargles
apple cider vinegar, lets it dribble
down chin into chipped ceramic
basin. Behind her, little brother knits
floss between jack-o-lantern baby teeth
with fleshy mounded fists, draws blood from the
gum, cries out in a dingy mirror. He
squirms while girl wipes snot from his cheeks, fusses
over his hair, folds shirt collar down for
Sunday school. It’s girl’s turn at the sink! She
scoops baking soda into her mouth, swishes
the thick paste between ruddy cheeks. Huddled
by the sink, she could be any mother,
rinsing her teeth, shivering on the tile.

Sarah Swiderski

In the pages of a plasticky brochure,

The Reaper hands a dollar bill to the figure of a man,

Each drawn with the smooth, minimalist lines

Of the icons on the door of a public restroom.

Men and Death only in these hallowed stalls.

The agent’s breath is mint and rot and executes

My meager membrane of resolve with questions of my

Family history and statement of good health,

And the dangerous occupations or hobbies exclusion clauses.

I ask if violent video games are considered a Dangerous Hobby.

I’m substandard risk, I’m substandard risk, I’m substandard risk.

She tells me I’m probably standard risk

And that after I apply and pay my premium I’ll get a conditional receipt.

Conditional, conditional? But I need a binding receipt.

I need to know that when I walk outside and get

Shot by a mugger with a trembling trigger finger

That my family will get that dollar from the cartoon Death.

She asks if I want an accidental death benefit rider.

Bad Honda breaks, slippery shower surface,

My heart types out its frantic list.

Suicide prevention clause, rights of ownership clause,

Struck by lightning, reinstatement, incontestable period,

Payor provisions rider, head bouncing off a stairwell,

Cost of living rider, automatic premium loan,

Heart attack, nonforfeiture options,

Brain aneurism, settlement options,

Adjustable life policy, whole life policy, term life policy,

Each clause a riveted ring of a legal paper hauberk.

It crinkles on my skin as I creep across the concrete,

Praying it will save me if I trip.

Harrison Bloom

Blood orange in my lunchbox

you are my father’s favorite kind

slightly too ripe

An ugly bumped rind

with one side softening

makes my mouth water

Blood orange

sour and unforgiving

I love the way 

your juice makes me wince

and your skin gets

stuck in my teeth

Amanda Wolf

my white nails keep chipping,

paint peeling back leaving nothing 

but my glossless shame. a uniform

of disorder, the jagged tips cower beneath

what’s left before i can bite away any more. 

what’s more, what’s more satisfying, 

what’s more sinful, what’s a little more? 

my white nails keep chipping and god knows 

i’ve tried everything else. stainless 

steel clippers with sharp edges 

leaving my nail beds rigid on a cold metal table.

files like sandpaper on bare skin–tearing

down the only shelter left to keep them safe.

my white nails keep chipping. 

she used to tell me boys should always

trim their nails to the bed, and

i know she wishes they would never

have been stained in the first place. 

i should be holding a pretty girl’s hand,

dainty with polished french tips. daydreams 

of white teeth in white gowns in front of white 

churches where white men can promise me 

bright lights in the afterlife. i paint them away 

anyways on my calloused hands covering up 

the cracks they do not want to understand. 

my white nails keep chipping and the lady 

at the salon tells me it’s a bad habit 

with her polite cuticles–a habit, a tradition, 

a resurrection of insecurity, a reminder 

that people don’t really change. isn’t that why donald 

trump was elected in the first place?

hypocrites hiding behind another white

savior, always forgetting they’re never 

actually the ones who hang on crosses–

just the ones who are saved in the rapture. 

my white nails keep fucking chipping

and there’s no white polish left at cvs,

hell there’s no toilet paper anymore

so why do i even care? ancient prophets 

testified the end of times were near 

but i can’t figure out how it’s any different 

this time around. still the same faces 

painting over the same people promising 

that the same god is coming for them soon.

my white nails keep chipping and i let them–

so i can see the rigid marks beneath. 

so i can feel the crags that go unseen.

so i can taste the blood that lies underneath. and god,

because it feels so good to tear them apart

in between the tips of my two front teeth.

Matthew Buxton