by Valerie Laken | Jun 28, 2019 | Poetry
By Catherine Dartez I. My mother latches on to an oil contractor. (money) Life on the road (homeless) will be an adventure. We’ll see the sights. (gravel and hydraulic pumps) There’s no room in the camper for her Coca-Cola polar bear tins even if the oil contractor...
by Valerie Laken | May 2, 2019 | Fiction
Fiction by Anagha Putrevu The prisoner was very handsome; someone had sent the jailor a copy of an old photograph of him, and the jailor’s daughter crept into the kitchen late at night and snatched it off the table. She kept it carefully pressed in a copy of...
by Valerie Laken | May 1, 2019 | Poetry
By Lucy Wan We pull the root, neatly packaged, from our fridge. My parents are arguing from two sides of the kitchen. Heat rises from a boiling pot. We bathe the naked root then cool. Soy sauce, vinegar, the perfume of sesame scents the crisp slices crunching between...
by Valerie Laken | May 1, 2019 | Poetry
By Gabriel Meek My mother’s tree stands enclosed by a stolen wrought-iron graveyard fence in the shadow of the mountain named after the most famous circus elephant, its trunk wrapping around to the north. This tree drops apples— Macs, their pink skins softer than any...
by Valerie Laken | May 1, 2019 | Nonfiction
Nonfiction by Tovah Strong Here: moving water has carved and re-carved an arroyo into the earth. It is a channel filled with sand. A crevice that always seems separate. It can be found on topographic maps of southern New Mexico. Its banks crumble when I step...