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


Seven Prologues & an Epilogue

Rebecca Aronson


How like food or drink the thick light. An almost recollection the tongue has, impossible to place. This, then, is the span of the day: a child swipes a rake from a front porch, glances back— over his shoulder, in mid-run—to check if he’s been seen. Then it is already dark. Leaves lap at the ankles. They would pull you in as when children we floated in dusty piles, dreaming. Small objects disappear from sight, hover at the periphery just out of focus. Some resurface, winningly. Others stay hidden. One small glass dog in an overgrown yard. Your ring. The way you recall the empty drawer you placed it in.


Some days everything could be a sign. For instance, the owl in N.’s yard whose call she listens for mornings. Or the deer, later, trotting the middle of the street, arches of bare branches framing the shot, the antlers black and awkward, seeming almost to unbalance him.


We have moved beyond the boundaries: the wire fence with its bright spiked stars has disappeared along with the chalked-in path, though a space remains cleared for walking. The last blue flag was on the last bit of fence we remember seeing. There were many flags and only one cleared passage. Now there are many cleared passages and no flags. When we hold quiet we can hear almost nothing, then birds, then nothing. The sky is the color of the blue flags but doesn’t move at all.


After the morning’s drive, fields dotted with horses to count. Hay made into golden wheels catching the late day sun. Silver spider webs strung along the fence posts behind the picnic tables. Someone has carved a tree stump into a small chair with a high back and low, smooth seat. Beyond that, a mill, disused we thought, until we caught its rise and tumble, the flash of wet, meshing teeth.


The flat tire is the start of one story, the end of another, the middle of everything. For example, one of the horses had one eye. For example, there was an invisible crack in the silver. For example, we had a wedding once and now we are here. We stand in the cool of the shade where the wind carries a burnt smell that gets into the clothes and reminds me.


Once in a hotel room we were lifted together by the surprise of getting what we had wanted. There were rough, thin towels and a cold floor in the bathroom. We had shivered by the lake for hours before we thought, finally, to leave.


I never think of your hands though we are always reaching. Instead, the blunt insistence of your forehead, the nuzzling-calf motion we use to guide each other’s movement. Once I would stare at your mouth willing it to meet mine.


In the dim morning all motion is under: limbs bent toward the hardened ground, the last stalks folded in on themselves. We are leaning together, knees touching under the breakfast table, one of the baby’s feet planted on one of each of our legs. We make a wagon circle; pilgrims; open palms bared to coals that might smolder still despite the long night, despite the killing frost.