Home is a mold, that I cast upon you
in the shape of this poem, that fits only you.

Home was the way you described every color:
hunter green, sunset orange, and midnight blue.

Bill returned home after a particularly strenuous workday to find Loretta in the living room nose to nose in conversation with a stranger. Rather than interrupt, or inquire what was going on, he observed from the doorway.

When I was a child I went out to the long hedge
along the back of our property. I could crawl
in under the leaves and branches to the middle.

Cordelia Cates stepped out onto her deck overlooking the lake as she cradled her coffee cup, which had more than a splash of Bailey’s Irish Cream added in for good measure. She sighed as she wrapped her cardigan around her with the other hand and surveyed the red clouds overhead.

The situation was this: Bret’s ringing phone had woken him up just before daybreak. Jeff, his once fairly close, but now hardly close friend, sounding frantic, had asked him to meet him. Bret had said he would and asked where, and Jeff had calmed down enough to give him clear directions.

basking in the words
of a poem set aside, long forgotten
the warm glow of verses once familiar
comfort like a soothing bath
taking you back
to another time and place

Due to historical persecution of queer individuals, trauma pervades queer lives, communities, and literary representation. Given the prevalence of trauma in queer narratives, can queer protagonists define themselves beyond the atrocities they face? In his epistolary novel, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous (2019), Ocean Vuong demonstrates that while trauma fundamentally shapes the queer Vietnamese American protagonist, Little Dog, he is equally defined by his response.

When Nataliya had finished the last crumbs of her cake, I paid the bill and we left the café, the bell tinkling as the door closed behind us. At half past four, the grey winter afternoon had already turned to night. I offered Nataliya my arm, as the cobbled street was slippery with frozen snow.

I find myself lying down on my bathroom floor again, staring at the underside of my sink, talking to my inner self. It’s only two years. Two years and then we’re done. (Why I refer to my inner self as a “we” requires a lengthy psychological profile not relevant to this particular story, but it’s often because I view my internal voice as a separate being…

Colonel George Corkhill of the Chronicle was ushered into Justice Samuel Miller’s parlor, and anxiously removed his hat. His face was flushed, and his countenance bore the marks of bad news. “The position of Chief Justice will be offered to Senator Conkling, sir.” Corkhill spoke with hesitation, for he was thrusting a dagger into the heart of his father-in-law.

I would wake and watch
from my bedroom window
as the snow fell in a waterfall of white
under the glow of the streetlight,
a suburban beacon shining
on my narrow side road.

It’s almost midnight when they leave the beach, tired, thirsty, still too high from the freely flowing weed. They’re jammed into Ed’s aging blue Volkswagen, Lisbeth up front, Jonathan and Denise crowbarred into the tiny back seat as they head onto the Mid-Cape Highway for the trip back to Manhattan from Truro.

If this is not a meat bun from heaven, Dr. Wu doesn’t know what would it be. A meat bun from heaven (天上掉馅饼) is a Chinese saying, meaning pure luck.
Dr. Wu has worked as a Rehab physician in the hospital in Texas for a few years. A few weeks ago, her department chief, only in his fifties, suddenly left.

When Tibby arrived on her first night with us, we let her out into the fenced backyard. On the steps, she paused for an instant, ears up, nose twitching, poised like an Olympic sprinter in the starting blocks. In the twilight, something caught her eye. Slowly, she stalked, like a panther, into the grass. Then she dashed, disappearing under the arborvitae. In a moment, Tibby emerged, triumphant, shaking a small rabbit between her jaws.

I nursed a lamb when I was eight or nine. Its mother had forsaken her, and Dad, sensing a good learning opportunity, tasked me with feeding her every morning. She had watery eyes with dark, horizontal irises; a wet, pink nose; and kinky, brown wool that felt fantastic against my cheek. We called her Rosie.

They sat in an outdoor café having a latte and a ham cachito. Her boss talked about the weather, how the government wanted to subsidize payroll, which was their way to get inside the company and eventually take it over. He put a cigarette in his mouth and offered one to Alejandra. She declined. She didn’t smoke. And while she enjoyed watching the clouds above the Avila mountain, the spacious sidewalks covered in tables, and people playing an afternoon game of chess, she was still wondering why her boss asked her to lunch.

August, and the PS.104 schoolyard was empty. A good thing. Gave me a chance to develop my pitching arm. And avoid trouble. As a white kid in the South Bronx in 1967, trouble had a way of finding me.

Two days after the moon was full
I walked as in a dreaming.
Over the black seas I yearned to be,
Where the old stars were still bright and gleaming.

Three works in clay by Aleksandra Scepanovic.
Each of these works tells a story of the complexity and beauty found in life’s fractures, embracing the wholeness that emerges through resilience.

I often woke up disoriented, emerging from dreams where everything was as it once was. My former spouse and I were happy again, sharing meals in our favorite restaurants or running together along the Chicago lakefront.

To drive past Coop City late on Saturday night
Is to see what the human worm can weave –
The coral towers stand out their lights against
The pitch-night Sound

The reader fanned the deck of cards on the table and invited me to touch them. With my right hand, I moved them in a circle, counterclockwise and confessed that I was considering abandoning my career.

My head felt like an overripe summer squash.
It was starting out to be a grim day. Though you’d never know it from looking at me, I felt like I had been cloistered all night in an assisted living facility for psychopathic chairs—a command centre for the flotsam of miserable furniture, retired and warehoused, a hub with just enough of a pleasant environment to give the illusion of living in luxury. Night terrors. I struggled to make sense of my present reality. Being a chair had its complications.

The gentleman was always a man of contradictions. Born in the quiet, unassuming town of Nowhere, Tennessee, his early life unfolded amidst the slow rhythms of rural America, where the days stretched on like the endless horizon.