Potiphar’s Wife Talks About that Time

Deborah Bacharach

In the end Joseph did all right for himself.
Because he was in the dungeons,
he called the dreams, and from there
he worked it like he worked it in
my husband’s home, putting together
puzzles of rain, watching hands,
oh he watched, roll pastry dough
on marble table tops. I saw the oasis
shimmer at the edge of the horizon
like I had been walking toward it
my entire life, like I had been crawling
on my hands and knees.


Devon Balwit

Eat me, I say. Bite me. Pincerslice into soft webbing. Champ cuspids. Beakpick to bone. Lift me, shake me, breakneck, side to side, side to side. Dogroll over my unthreading innards. Bury muzzle in bloodmuck. I offer myself. I drizzle a garnish.

[four poems]

Bob Heman

inserts words
into the field
the others approach

the meaning there
nothing more
than their experience


they were repeated
where the sky
was empty where
the trees ended
where even the
bears had machines


this was
how they
went away

a door
in a field
of flowers


predictable words
arranged upon
the ground
they walk upon

they are removed
if too much
meaning gathers

Excerpts from Translations

Benjamin L. Perez

The endless other
Of the void’s silhouette.

Infinite winding-sheet
For a stillborn god.

Sanguinary summit;
Executioner’s block.

if a body is bound

Kristen Renee Miller

i. if a body is bound

—yet is not a book
(weird inner stringing)
call it hate, sprung
from under sodden, salten
fear, a kind of failure
open, given

one’s best hid under,
working, see—
I’m dust and full of sight


ii. if a body is bound

—but you’re here on invitation
dear, so we decorate
and minister

embitter these
in greater numbers, O—
behind this roar, a door

binary be shade again
send in the gradient


iii. if a body is bound

—I’m right to object
to die of wonder
creating under unseen welts
and trending sins

a sister dies—
her object was
a little darkness
not a book
not in the usual sense

Neither Sun nor Death

Howie Good

They are beating the cars with metal bats. I think, “Am I supposed to be here?” That thing is on fire in a big way. I don’t get outside as much anymore. An illegal string offset “echo” has disappeared into the archive, to be handled by only people who wear white cotton gloves. I’m left to just cry. You need to be careful in interpreting that. Every day I confront the same choice: stay inside or perish. Somebody grabs Suzanne’s hair and twists her neck. We make eye contact. I know tulips aren’t spelled two lips.

concīs Spring 2017 Season Anthology!

The concīs spring 2017 seasonal anthology (PDF) is out, featuring Brad Rose, C. Kubasta, Caitlin Scarano, Christopher Morgan, Dylan Krieger, Eric Pankey, Feral Willcox, Greg Lyons, Jaime Garcia, Jed Myers, Jennifer Atkinson, Jerry McGuire, Jonathan Jones, Karen George, Kelly Fordon, Lana Bella, Lorene Delany-Ullman, M.A. Scott, M.R.R. Gutierrez, Margaret Turner, Mark Budman, Maureen Alsop, Mercedes Lawry, Monica Rico, Phoebe Reeves, Richard LeBlond, Robert Hamilton, Robert Miltner, Rose Knapp, Samuel Rafael Barber, Sarah Puschmann, Spencer Shaak, Tammy Robacker, Tricia DeJesus-Gutierrez, Xujun Eberlein, Yuan Changming and Christopher Lee Miles!

Cover: “Inspiration” by Amanda Lo

Meditation On an Unnamed Island

Jennifer Atkinson

No one asks who dropped the first shell,
when among the mangroves’ arched roots,
out of the heaps of oyster shells, fallen
and crushed to lime, the snags and shoals
of random tide-flung bits and silt-on-silt
accumulation, new land rises up.

We love the idea of the world as a sudden
paradise created whole on purpose for us
to lose by being human. Or the other idea
of the world as envisioned designed garden
toward which it studiously evolves.

Meanwhile, here on actual shell-by-shell-
by-mangrove created ground, the raccoon
philosopher turns her mind to pleasure,
to work—shucking oysters, digging clams,
combing her tail of fleas and burrs. All around

the rack and weave of mangrove, mudflats
marked with slicks and shallows, decomp
reverting and recombining. And overhead
the fish crow flies from bay to bayou,
the sun-silvered eel in its talons writhing
(what if it were?) in a sideways figure eight.

Valentine Sonnet

Jennifer Atkinson

for mine

We’ve never tasted Sinai manna or truffles plucked
from the tip of a leashed boar’s tusk or dipped our straws
in the mumbling hive and drunk. Nor have we ever

sucked on glacial ice that sizzles still with ancient air
or yet have breathed prophetic Delphic fumes. Maybe we’ll never
get to Lindesfarne, Compostela, or Everest.

Never mind the coral reef off Queensland, Machu Picchu,
Lhasa, Easter Island… It’s too late already for old Timbuktu,
Ajanta and Ellora fade, the Giza Sphinx’s eye is blurring

closed, and the green Maldive Islands slide away
toward lost Atlantis. All that can wait—and the briar rose
it’s said burned unconsumed for Moses—Love,

those other far-off pleasures can some other time their treasures prove.
Right here’s a fine and private place for all our love’s long lazy day.


Tricia DeJesus-Gutierrez

There is erogenesis
a slit between
mint and molar
the throwback
safety of innocence