By Nikki Ummel

photo by Wicdhemein One on Pexels

You are Orion and I am pulled close,
to lick the salt from your ears.
WWOZ whispers morning news
as my fingertips chase freckles,
play connect-the-dots, search
your kitchen-scars for constellations
as the sun rises.

I like the feel of you.
Here, in the damp darkness
of your shithole apartment,
the handprints of others
on the wall, above your bed.

I’m not the first hostess
you’ve hunted—there is
a bottle of Wet Head,

by Shira Dentz

photo by Benni Fish on Pexels

This landing strip has seen many falls—
shoehorn soft gliding into a shoe
or curdling against the pressure
presence of time drifting
then landing a perfect minimalist
geometry otherwise known as
settled like home.

This landing strip has seen many falls—
shoehorn left shapely into a shoe or
curdling against the pressure all
charisma of time drifting then
landing a turning minimalist geo-
me-try otherwise known as
settled some mummy of home.

Let the waters swarm, She said. And She set the birds to flight and the sea monsters She

delivered to the deep. Both waters swarmed and She saw that it was good. Let the earth creep,

She said. Cattle and all crawling things took to the land and the wild animals and the trees and

the fruits of the trees and the seeds of the fruits of the trees filled the earth, and She saw that it

was good. Let something very different happen,