Online Exclusives

12.04.97
Green Angel
After the complete failure of the tall motors used to shift the wind toward the ocean, the village became isolated from the others that had been planted along the continent’s jagged black shores. [...]
11.30.97
The Big R
Hourglass figure
receiving threats [...]
11.18.97
Gold Carp Jack Fruit Mirrors
You want, simply, to stop breathing and hear.
Yesterday was a day just like tomorrow. [...]
10.29.97
Darkness and Light
There is a not-so-funny story my aunt Josephine used to like to tell: “When you were born, your mother thought you were so ugly that as soon as she brought you home she shut you in the closet.” [...]
10.21.97
Barcelona
What does the poem erupt?
                                          Nothing. [...]
10.15.97
From Uproar in Heaven
by Fred Ho
Nothing in the world is impossible
If you are of sincere will. [...]
08.21.97
From Thaumatrope
Cantatrice of redglass
as a mirror in flowers
as bloodstone hangs fissuring suns
as a gaze suffers the light inviolate— [...]
08.21.97
From Mermaid’s Purse
It was never mentioned why the princess was placed upon the top of the

glass mountain, or how she might descend. [...]
07.30.97
Three Poems
The handwriting
is cramped and hard to read.
The story familiar, someone in unknown territory. [...]
06.09.97
Cravings 
Emmy Hitler ate lamp shades in her third trimester. [...]
06.09.97
Must We Stoop for Violets in the Hedge?
Walking down the street with it, I studied its amazing contours in shadow. The hair loomed above me, spiny and monstrous.  [...]
06.09.97
The Intransigent Penetration of a Metaphor: A Post-Interview Encounter with Robert Coover
A writer needs isolation, a cell of his own, that’s obvious, but distance can also help. It has a way of freeing the imagination, stirring memory.  [...]
06.06.97
The Manuscript
by Severo Sarduy
translated by Esther Allen
He had spent the entire night smoking twisted and intoxicating cigars that filled the room with a bluish, sickly sweet smoke.  [...]
06.06.97
Winter Visits against His Cell 
I used to live in an office, or rather, there used to be an office where I live.  People used to come here and rent things, places to put their extras, places to store the artifacts they were trying to forget.  [...]

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In Print

Vol. 79
Onword
Fall 2022
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

January 25, 2023
The birth of color begins in the entanglement
of water. Color is the birth of light.

Low clouds morning visitation, the words are
forming separable from their origins. Stars

crease the heavens. I have been moving
into their stream, heavenly bodies, the architecture

loose and ungainly. I’m not one but two, the occupancy
of a system, here in the apparel of another’s

light, to come down these stairs, dawn
weighted with silver, a perimeter that hooks

sky, bleeds our nights into day. There is this
sanctuary, intricate respite, cut-out, here on the floor
January 18, 2023
A second-growth forest is not the same as a first, and a third is not the same as a second. Those old dying oak and chestnut trees saved a century ago from axe and saw to shade the grazing livestock are surrounded now by all the wrong progeny—birches and popple in one case, pine trees in the other. Absent a mature overstory’s broad canopy, the understory receives too much unfiltered light, and low thickets and dense copses of trees and shrubs all the same age spring up.
     In ancient times a carpet of fallen leaves and ferny ground cover was lit by long beams of sunlight descending from openings in the treetops as if from the clerestory windows of a great cathedral. Humans and other animals walked easily among the tall, straight trunks and had unobstructed views from glen to vernal pond and stream to the glacial moraine beyond. That was a forest, not a woods. But the forest was not replaced by itself. It was displaced and replaced by these woods, which is a different and lesser thing.
     My dog darted through the brush ahead of me, tracing the lingering spoor of a deer or bear or coyote, led by his nose instead of our man-made trail. And as I walked I remembered again a story from the village, part of which I saw, part of which I heard from witnesses, and part of which I imagined.
January 11, 2023
A brick-shaped piece of architectural rubbish. A brick of someone’s missing place. My brick, but only because I’ve taken it as my own, to collect, among my menageries, set alongside small shoes made of mottled glass and rusted railway spikes and silver-clad icons sold to me by aging nuns in old-world churches I’ve visited. I have shelves full of this stuff, little artifacts of the beautiful/not beautiful city. I collect glass and tarnished things. I collect memories too, all kinds, some that might fall into the category of demolition garbage, what might be too sharp and embarrassing to keep out in the light.
     I learned in AA to call these kinds of inmost collections my inventory. I haven’t been to AA recently, but when I used to go every week I loved the inventory step meetings. Step Four is to make “a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” Step Ten is to continue “to take personal inventory” and when we are wrong to promptly admit. My inventory/my me-ventory/our we-ventory, one might say—an everyday assessment of the invisible collections residing beneath and within.
     I don’t believe in the Christian version of God but I do believe in the spiritual wonder located in material presence. Like my brick. Any cubic space in the world is a brick of multiple histories. I interrogate all of what feels like mine.