Celebrating 15 YearsBy REWA ZEINATI
the war drove us out—
and into my father’s used white sedan—
Khaleej Times #1
October 25, 2021
Issue 22, Issue 22 Poetry, Poetry
Sarah Wu
Igerilaria
October 25, 2021
Fiction, Issue 22, Issue 22 Fiction
For Lorenzo Esteban Benavente and my father
LAKE SUPERIOR, 1974
A slight wind picks up and moves over the lake, clinking rocks together in the wash. Salvador squints into the darkness. The way his fellow construction workers talked about America’s proximity, he’d half expected to sight the faintest outline of one of its cities’ skylines as a shimmer set deep against the horizon. Instead, there’s only the night and, stretching to meet it, the mumbling water.
Apology to My Daughter
October 25, 2021
Issue 22, Issue 22 Poetry, Poetry
By TOM SLEIGH
“Life is not a walk across a field…”—Pasternak
For ten years, Hannah, the world convinced me
that thorn trees, desert, Land Rovers tricked out
with CB radios, machine guns and armor plate,
grew more real the harder it became
to fulfill my nightly promise to rebar and rubble
that some final vowel would reverse time
Notes on Looking Back
October 25, 2021
Essays, Issue 22, Issue 22 Essays, Podcasts & Audio, Translation
By STEVEN TAGLE
Last year, I wandered through Greece, knocking on all the gates of Hades. I walked along the Acheron River, whose icy blue waters seemed colored by the spirits of the dead. Stalactites dripped onto the back of my neck as a silent boatman ferried me through the caves of Diros. I searched for the entrance to the sea cave at Cape Tainaron, scrambling over sharp rocks below the lighthouse as darkness fell. Sometimes I wondered if my search for the underworld tempted the Fates. I remembered Orpheus, the father of music, who charmed beasts with his lyre and descended into Tainaron to find his lost bride, Eurydice. With song, he implored Hades and Persephone to bring her back to life, and his words moved the deathless gods to tears. They granted his wish, allowing him to lead her out of the underworld on one condition: he must walk ahead of her, not looking back until they left the dark halls of death. Approaching the surface, the farthest reach of light, Orpheus feared his love’s silence behind him. He turned to look and saw her sink back into the depths, reaching out to him and bidding him farewell for the last time.
Last Cigarette
October 25, 2021
Issue 22, Issue 22 Poetry, Poetry
By TOM SLEIGH
After the explosions, the big one of the Big Bang,
the little one of the firecrackers set by some kid
Sandstorm
October 25, 2021
Issue 22, Issue 22 Poetry, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry
There’s an itch in my throat like fox fur,
broom bush, cactus whittled to dust,
and my son thinks the city has vanished,
October 2021 Poetry Feature: Sasha Stiles
October 21, 2021
Poetry
By SASHA STILES
This month we welcome back contributor Sasha Stiles, whose TECHNELEGY is coming soon in hardcover from Black Springs Press Group.
Completion: Are You Ready for The Future?
An ars poetica cybernetica*
Are you ready for the future?
If you are, today is your day. And when tomorrow hits you like a ton of bricks, you’ll appreciate today even more. Because in reality, tomorrow is a line you walk towards, and now is a line you never see. But you just didn’t see it yet. Reflect. Now the anticipation is here. Finally.
Are you ready for the future?
That depends on how you define ready.
Sometimes the Ocean Loves Too Much
October 14, 2021
Fiction
My thirteen-year-old sister, Mara, wakes me to tell me that she is dead.
She believes this.
I’m twelve, the younger one, though the age difference has never really mattered between us. In the dimness of our bedroom, she’s pressed close to me, her skin warm and a bit sweaty. Just beyond our window–invisible to me now in the dark–the ocean thrashes. I hear and taste it; it makes everything here salty, even the indoors.
