by Mark Kaplon

fluid and floating and nowhere

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Cloisters

by Eva Lomski

a fuk a fuk a fuk

She wished she knew the species of tropical bird in the palm tree making that call, because she wanted to pin a medal to its chest. Late afternoon, just as the sun disappeared from the pool, and champagne corks were heard popping all over the resort, a fuk a fuk a fuk it called, tiredly, plaintively, to a potential rival or mate.

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A Rainy Season Illusion

by Mitsuko Takayasu
(translated by Toshiya Kamei)

Vermeer blue
hydrangeas in bloom
are infinitely gentle mirrors on the water surface.
A rainbow after the rain stretches
across the blue sky above me.

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Kelp Forest

by Lucas Smith

Why the parentals let us
I still don’t know, but a Dad’s
promise was a promise, your Mom said
so we motored out, you in bed,
the solid sea forgiving.

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Two Books

by Kate McCorkle

Sitting at a one-chair table—the one shoved into a dusty nook between decorative pillars—at the Borders’ café, I hoped I might not cry in public. At least not the snot-bubble sobbing that erupts when I’m alone. Walking the dog. Cleaning. In the car. At my desk. Maybe it would just be the repressive, misty-eyed weeping I manage for work or church or the grocery store. The fluttering dabs around the eye with a balled-up tissue, like my body is merely leaking.

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