Online Exclusives

12.19.03
From A Story
The man is in the backyard, quoting to the stars a secret
only his heart knows, smiling at the moon first, and then  [...]
11.10.03
The Museum of Small Things
I’m telling you this because you don’t remember. [...]
10.18.03
From The Rooms Where We Are
The room where I’m
kept is all        glass. [...]
09.18.03
From Everything and More
Here is a quotation from G. K. Chesterton: “Poets do not go mad; but chess players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. [...]
09.01.03
The Last Hand
Before me lies a man. Perhaps handsome once, time has flattened his features, eroded the tightness of character—a creased brow, a drooped nose. [...]
08.20.03
The Sangreal
These things without nature, proper nature that is, of a terrestrial kind. Devoid of the essential forepart. But with wings. [...]
08.09.03
Three Poems from The Black Heralds
by César Vallejo
translated by Rebecca Seiferle
    There’s the desire to return, to love, to not be absent,
and the desire to die, fought by two
opposing waters that are never to be an isthmus. [...]
08.04.03
From Pirate Talk, or, Mermalade
Ma, there’s rope in my soup.
      Eat it or you can’t watch the hanging. [...]
06.09.03
January
In January, during the deepest part of winter, after two years of pleading on my part not to mention numerous gifts and blandishments and increasingly lucrative proposals, she once again agreed to be photographed. [...]
05.10.03
From The Lichtenberg Figures
When a longing exceeds its object, a suburb is founded.
Goatsuckers spar in the linden. The redskins are hunted. [...]
03.22.03
The Prince of Bees
There was nothing left for me after that but the beach—the grey afternoon—bells of cable cars over the lyme grass and a field of desiccated husks sprawling along the dunes. I was nineteen—or—twenty—as I have said, again and again—and will continue to say—fully-clothed and shivering over the sand in delicate measured steps. [...]
02.12.03
The Judge’s Wife
There’s a tower the lake calls Brother.
She whispers, someone has lost a white dress
in my eye that swims like nightfish.
[...]
01.25.03
Three Poems
In prehistoric times there was balance.
Bedrooms were charming and restful
animals would travel for miles
to be blinded by the beauty of the dawn. [...]

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In Print

Vol. 70
Sanctuary: The Preservation Issue
Spring 2018
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

by Aleš Šteger
Translated by Brian Henry
July 17, 2018
One, two days
And the mouth
Goes back on its word.
July 10, 2018
Like me when I was a child, Huck Finn hates Sundays. And sunshine. One day, “Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny,” Huck explains,
June 26, 2018
The purpose of the camping trip was to get away from the house and our ordinary routine, we explained to the boy, knowing he would resist if we said the real purpose was to learn more about his new school and how the other kids were treating him, specifically a bully named “Chuck.”
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