If you ever want to feel real,
even important,
cry on the street.
Sob. Heave. Bum a half-smoked cigarette.
Drunks rally around your wet eyes:
A woman brings a paper cup of soft serve.
A man in a floral shirt puts his hand on your shoulder
to deliver queer advice:
“You’re just going through it, hun.
We’re all always going through it.”
Kevin Hautigan is from South Florida and lives in New York City. He graduated from Georgetown University.
AMY STUBER
The deer watches them from behind the tree, blink, step, blink. The world right then is circles in circles in circles, and time is a stupid bee buzz you don’t ever want to hear again. Make it good, make it mean something, make it matter, Renee’s ghost mom says.
LI ZHUANG
In your fantasy, the gilded eaves of Tang poked at the sun. / In their shadow, a phoenix rose. / Amid the smoke of burned pepper and orchids, / the emperor’s favorite consort twirled her long sleeves. / Once, in Luo Yang, the moon and the sun shone together.
YUNHAN FANG
These days, he always closed his eyes when he listened, letting my voice fill the silent room. I wondered whether he still cared about whatever was happening outside of this room and whether he could still understand the words and sentences. But I’d still read to him.
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