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Read the Summer 2018 Issue

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bell hooks and Fenton Johnson

Rae RGH

Interview: Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon & Rebecca Gayle Howell

Any Tree

It can be any tree that changes everything,   the boisterous sapling sprung from a ridgetop, youthful   boughs yearning toward the sun long before town stretched   its domestic tendrils into the woods, before streets were laid and   power lines strung, before the neighbors and the homes. It…

When We Are Clay Again

You were a creature of the highway, a growling ghost with a rib cage visible underneath a thin layer of Tennessee clay-covered fur. You were never mean, but at first you had the ferocity of a buzzing hornet, too afraid to stay in one place. When Grandfather found you by the side of the road, I remember…

Carnage

The weasel knew their warmth in the dark, ripped throats, let drop the gangly, earnest bodies of two-week-old domer chicks we found slain in the obvious morning light, the chicken coop an aftermath, an abattoir, blood-sopping tufts of down scattered awry, forty-eight of fifty dead, the two living birds huddled…

Elision

Now the nascent air of January makes me ache. With it comes your   voice, warm as brass inside a body slurred with ice.   When sorrow made clear as air the snow that wind would have to lug, I was sure   I’d hear it all the time: a…

Sussex County

Not knowing if we should speak, we reached the end of the trail and stood sheepish as denuded pines before an endless dark. Low and sinking still, the sun gleaned grey beyond ragged dogwood drapes. Only then, when wind ran through us like a cold hand, did I realize how…

Keystone

My teeth are asleep and kind. They bleach like limestone, crumble like slate. The old plates are merely lungs, long dormant, having breathed once, twice, long ago. My chest had lifted, my shoulder blades cracking together, pulled up and back. Volcanoes fell down my throat, swallowed into peace, their rumblings…

Weeding

You can always find them in the garden, lurking there in the cooler shadows, setting up shop and putting down roots— soil-squatters, mulch-poachers, the illegitimate green. I squat down in professional stance for a close inspection and calm reach, an executioner crouched and gloved, my leathered fingers itching for the…