Poem
By Tishani Doshi
keeps waking me, even though it’s nowhere
near monsoon. At two in the morning,
and for every hour after, the trees brim
with its cooing. None of it sounds
like, Where are you, my love? The rains
are coming. Dear son, sister, where are
you? My eyes are gone. Instead, a fierce
insistence that the beyond will break through
the present…
Poem

poetry-magazineArrival in Montpellier

By Austin Allen
Keyed up after a sleepless flight,
we stared at the Place de la Comédie:
the stone Graces glowing pink…
Poem

poetry-magazineThe Last Catalogue

By Austin Allen
Even weeks after you went, they came:
Frontgate, Fresh Finds, Hearthsong—the names blurring,
the smiling…
Poem

poetry-magazineThe Early Years

By Mark Waldron
I don’t want to say
things were indescribably
bad exactly

but things were
indescribably bad exactly…
Poem
By Tishani Doshi
Like most people, I have not known
what to do with the stones handed
to me. I fold newspapers into tight
cylindrical rolls for the undersides
of doors. Try to stop the wind coming
through. All this carrying of beloveds
in plastic bags. Darkness is time. And
time is death and virtue and the beyond.
Today is a bedpan for collecting…

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