Smoldering Dreams — a golden shovel poem after Robert Frost, author of Bond and Free  Please, don’t cast your love on me, I fear I’ll splinter. Why has the wide-open country withered to earth and bone. To circling walls. To  snow — smothering that which ventures out. A dream she
I function in Times New Roman size 12 font in speed walking for participation points in rows of plastic desks too small for textbooks  It’s a central part of me can’t be severed cause it’s leeched to the flesh of my brain  like that tiredness that lies behind my eyes the tiredness that [&h
How did I used to write poetry? I thought I would go on forever. If the well only bubbled up with dead tropes and gray-faced images, at least they were comfortable. Better than nothing at all. Â But now I find myself rushing to lit theory class on a November Thursday. The smell of dead […]
By Fara Ling Ah Ma,     A few weeks ago, I realized I have never written Ah Ma a letter. That means I have never told Ah Ma I love you. There’s no way to say it in Hokkien, Ah Ma’s mother tongue. Forcing the syllables wa ai lu to sit next to […]
By Emma Gail Compton I made the table I eat dinner at. The wood was cheap but sturdy. The stain I chose is a dark oaky red and makes the small round table seem more expensive than it was. One could find something similar at any store, but this table, my table, I made. I […]
By Gabrielle Crone       Only a hillbilly would bring their injured dog to the vet using twine as a leash. At least that’s what our vet, Westley, announced when he saw my grandpa, Charles Bailey, in the lobby of the clinic twine leash in hand. Gizmo had injured his paw, most [&helli
