Mehzeb R. Chowdhury

Wareed’s ‘Aina’ ——————————————————– [This is a cached copy ofhttps:// www. [redacted] .com/arts/features/it-lives-it-breathes-it-is-me/story.php It is a snapshot of the page as it appeared when it was published. The current page could have changed in the meantime.] ——— Quark News * Exhibition Review * ‘[It] Lives. It Breathes. It Is Me.’ Sanam Sajna, Cultural Correspondent Posted: 19…

Bradley Sides

There Goes Them Ghost Children Dear Bonnie, I’m writing to ask you for your forgiveness. The truth is that I haven’t ever stopped thinking about you. How I failed you. What I let happen to you.  I’ve known what I’ve needed to do for a long time to get my words to you, but I’ve…

R.T. Ester

White Sedan Between Houston and the Dallas metro, commuters on Interstate 45 expect that they will spend ten minutes trying to get out of Midville. Some who recall the scenic stretch it once was might move slowly so they don’t miss the sign that pointed travelers to the old Buc ee’s just off the road….

Clara Burghelea

The almost baby comes down to cuddle every night,its sweet breath poking a holeinto my chest, I stay wrappedin my covers, my bucking heart,its love-grief ticking, itches itselfinto the flesh, let me stich youonto my thigh, I whisper, dreamthe loamy scent of your melonhead from inside my womb,before daylight presses nakedlyagainst all surface, everythingpurples and…

Dorty Nowak

Mandarins Your breath evaporates.I rise, a creased travelerdamp as my pillow. And yet, how morningsunlight scrubs the kitchen,brightens a scarified table where a delft bowl, oncecrisp blue, holds mandarins,bulbous as tiny pumpkins,glowing like harvest moons, a gift from a friend whohoped they’d bring good luckand better times ahead. Coffee hums my veins.My nails bite loose…

Rosalind Kaplan

Dancing with Death My dress is bright red. It is Lycra, shiny, its bodice clinging close to my upper body. The skirt, though not tight, is too short for my comfort and ends in a handkerchief hemline. When I twirl it flares out dramatically. Underneath the skirt I wear black fishnet pantyhose. My shoes are…

Esther Lupescu

The Story I Need To Tell Now I got voice mail from a woman on the West Coast named Celestina. She was calling to discuss a medical issue, she said. I’d met her just once, years earlier, when she and her husband Walter were in New York to collect a prize for their joint translation…

Alexander Lazarus Wolff

CW: suicidal ideation/self-harm Hourglass Alone, one watches as the hourglassdrips its fine red sand. Time streams forth —the orange streaks in the skymelt away, unveiling a mauve dotted with stars: this is the end of a tedium.I look at the stillness of the sand in its glass.It rests in the drop-clear crystal bulb.I turn to…

Judy Bolton-Fasman

The Hamsa Blues I often dream I am ambling through the rooms of my childhood home. The air is a sepia color, and particles of dust swirl around me until I cannot catch my breath. I know the water stains on the ceilings so well. They are Rorschach tests of plumbing disasters that my mother…