Alina Stefanescu
I meet the birds on their terrain, the gray of. Chimney swifts smudged, sifted from clouds like feathered cinders, all is blurred or wisps of smoke, an attendance.
Asiya Wadud

the ferries encumber their own weight. they pass each other at close range. the unlikely vessels transmit their cargo. all the bodies carry on.

Mihaela Moscaliuc
I waddle among pelicans of grief. They waddle through me, our throat sacs stapled shut. I stir the third soup, lovage and thirteen bean . . .

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