Issue 44
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Fury Psalm 7
art by Alyssa Blankenship
by Jackie White
For longer than I imagined, the dark has throttled me
come from the grave of my mama’s belly into this imaginary we.Let bedtime be a time for rest and not needle
the temple with blood-scratched phonography.Let the pillow case be placed on the pillow again.
Let the cool side soothe and not spread with threatFor I am an orphan with two death masks on the mantel,
While Anne says, -
Consequences
art by Isabelle Carasso
by Larry Niles
Andrew heard voices out by the curb and lifted the corner of a shade. The day had been leaden, rain splatting off the trees lining his walkway. Now there was a line of fast-moving clouds and bits of the sun that had been missing all week. Outside, a tall girl, Andrew guessed her to be twenty, maybe a bit older, had her arm locked under that of an old man who was trying to heave himself upright from the passenger seat of a dark gray car.
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Letter from the Editors, LIT 44
“Praise the stars we die into”
–Fury Psalm 7, by Jackie WhiteChaos: the stuff of dreams the stuff of life. It is chaos we are birthed from. As we slip into these bodies, we think we have shut the door to it. Open the door.
I have this persistent vision that actually came from a dream and I wish I could go there. This dream was about trains and going to out of the way neglected but beautiful places; end of the line forgotten places, a little wild and on the edge of abandon by the poorest of the poor who have had to move on.
