The Garden

by Erika Mueller

All I wanted then was to fill my arms with sharp flowers.
- Eavan Boland, “White Hawthorn in the West of Ireland”

It was sometimes light and silent
ones who filled me like poison
wood, or Christmas rose. Their
choke juice like an even tempo.

Others crept in, their thistle jaws
like live wires at my throat, my body,
and their delight of undoing me. Continue reading

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Pura Vida

by Eliot Treichel

One last forward stroke then slide into the trough. Lean back quick so the bow clears. Shift your weight forward again. Hang with the pry all the way up the face and spot the pile. Watch yourself into it, like watching a baseball into your mitt. When the pile breaks over you, dig for the green water. Feel the vibration of the paddle. Feel the hull break loose from the current and stall there. Search for the feeling of being weightless, suspended. Tilt forward just an inch. Then you have it. You’re on the wave. Every time now. That’s the sequence.

From the eddy, Parker and Bernardo and the other guys hooted and whistled. Campbell shot video from shore. We all lived together in a place we’d taken to calling La Jungla House. A Spaniard, a Mexican, two Canadians, and three Americans—and then whoever else happened to be passing through. Continue reading

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Digging Out the Daisies

by Donna Pucciani

A neighbor offers daisies
from her monstrous clump
that grabs light with fingers
full of sun, edging out
lesser neighbors. Continue reading

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Metaxy

by Nathaniel Heely

“Hey,” he tells you. “Wake up. It’s time for group.”

You were dreaming about death though you don’t know just what death is. There’s yellowing spit on the pillow and you reek of Marlboro Reds. Every time you’ve been here they’ve always given you the same room. 109. It is an expected occurrence, your life is full of rhythm; a pendulum between poles. You postulate that they give you the same room because they want you to feel that you are meant to be here; that there is purpose and order even at your rock bottoms. Continue reading

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High Time

by Janine Lehane

The hot wind fastens
on sunhats and shirt flaps
and grim, glowing cheeks.
Red bulldust blears our vision
and the veiled shapes
we label truth. Continue reading

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