Editor's Note


Rebecca Aronson
Drew Blanchard
Myron Ernst
Adam Ferrari
Carrie Green
Angie Macri
Christiaan Sabatelli
Sarah J. Sloat
Lindsay Marianna Walker
Mark Wisniewski


Daniel Browne
Michael Gavaghen
Matthew Hobson
Shelagh Shapiro


Bill Capossere


Henry Rollins
Alison Smith

Art & Photography

Gary Lanier
Jarod Rosselo
Heather Whitman

Book Reviews

Atmospheric Disturbances
Our Keen Blue House

Contributor's Notes


The Untold Lie

Christiaan Sabatelli

Here the low hills are stippled red and yellow; along the fence the Buttonbushes bluster their last berries between clumps of Fox Sedge. In the left pocket of this tattered jacket strands of corn-silk twist between my fingers. They are woman’s hair, when she follows you into the woods and untames herself, soft and tragic. Whatever I say of that night is a lie; the fretting of the Pitch Pines, the shock of damp as we sat in the Red Fescue. My breath came, visible against the evening, in little sobs, and she drew closer. The berry field blushed somewhere nearby, and the scent clutched at us. I did not want her, not then, not like that. And now, I feel the hands of children clutching me, their thin-legged bodies binding me to her. I feel the cold pressing in on the Aster flowers, see the River Oats turn copper. She is waiting, her hair wilting at her shoulder; she longs for the boy from that night, wants to be that girl again, misses the choices we both ceded then.