Rothko wanted to paint basic human emotion. So he painted red over red over red. Behind the colour he was looking for light. In 1942 he painted The Sacrifice of Iphigenia, where Iphigenia is not a girl, but a black ...
Rothko/ On Fear by Ollie Cowley
Poetry
boy to boy to the sidewalk, fingers that tingle like grass and touch. boy to boy to arms embracing and the streetlights all go out at once. boy to boy to hunger, to Yom Kippur, to Jewish holiday psalms and songs that ...
boy to boy to bed by Sam Herschel Wein
Poetry
Listen: everywhere the earth is flecked with grey. A shadow leapt from the ground to a tree. In Miami a banana is duct-taped to a wall.Blocks of granite lie like sarcophagi, pressing shim-faced against ...
On Learning that Chiquita Brands Financed Paramilitary Killings in Colombia by Shou Jie Eng
Poetry
after Philip Pearlstein How symbols lose their meaning: first, render them inanimate. Common. Made of wood, not marble or flesh. Give them empty eyes, faceless. The ancient Egyptians believed that a spirit could ...
Model with Swan Decoy, 1987 by Joshua Garcia
Poetry
After “One Train May Hide Another,” by Kenneth Koch
When you are hit by that fear of preferring not to talk with someone who approaches. When you stop to turn away and pull a copy of Tristram Shandy out of the ...
You Think It Is Safe To Cross by Millicent Borges Accardi
Poetry
It wasn’t meant to be saved among my memoir of hurricaneto beat back the armed sunwind is stunned that the wings aren’t threadbaredon’t plunge to the streetas brittle bones of losscall it luck that no cage can ...
Salvation (and an injured bird) by Dorsía Smith Silva
Poetry
Camilo Loaiza Bonilla (he/him) is a Latine writer working to unwind generational silence and trauma as a queer, trans, first-generation immigrant. A Macondista, he is pursuing his MFA at the ...
back to back by Camilo Loaiza Bonilla
Electronic Lit, Poetry
are the terrible builders of the stars. In this falseparsing,I seated myself inhis terrace all wrong. In the golden dust of our toppledtowers, once-real, the scaffoldedreturn of petals, vines, trumpets, nectar guides. ...
Bees by Marcus Myers
LAR Online, Poetry
She will not tell me about my death.Outside is a blue Asheville sky and the blue mountains one always sees— except here in the psychic’s small bone-chilled room. She says my mother is proud of me, and my father ...
ELEGY WITH PSYCHIC by Maja Lukic
LAR Online, Poetry
