Jun 1, 2017 | Poetry, Sheila Cooper
She imagined everyone could see them, the fingerprints they left behind. No special brushes or powder needed to reveal the damage that was done. She imagined they glared at you like a neon sign, “VA ANT,” flashing above a cheap motel. A hole in the center that no one...Jun 1, 2017 | Penney Knightly, Poetry
when I turn to the bottle I am only drinking when I cry in my sleep I am running when I wail in the night I am singing when age caves my eyes in I am remembering when hope is done I am enduring when badness is there I am lying when I turn to rest I am still here...Jun 1, 2017 | Paul Douglas McNeill II, Poetry
When I was seven, you blew a hole in my fucking soul. I was only seven. seven. A sick day. But not really. But really. The door, it hardly creaked. I saw, straight away, first thing, your fat, veiny, stubbly legs, sharp, yellow, broken toenails, and that...Jun 1, 2017 | Desiree Simons, Poetry
Crystal’s tough and street smart. Show no fear and never cry. That’s her mantra and it serves her well. She’s sixteen and has called this corner home for two years. She used to look over her shoulder, always poised to run in case they came looking for her. They...Jun 1, 2017 | Meygan Cox, Poetry
One time, my sister asked why people do not swim when it rains— her point being they are already wet. As much as I tried, I could not answer. In the years to come, she began to tower over me, a foot taller to be exact. Her face grew long, but not in a dreadful way....May 31, 2017 | Marianne Peel, Poetry
That summer in Brooklyn the streets were hot to the toes, asphalt like fire on our feet. Uncle Mike sent my Isabella to the corner store to buy a pack of Camels, which would heat up this tin can of an apartment even more on this June day. Isabella could hardly unglue...