coronamatic

Karen Stanislaw

something says
keep the curmudgeon:
bat with teeth, brainy
guy, heel, nun’s ass –
keep this furniture.
the lame attempt at
pecking at logs.

On Maggie

Jennifer Wortman

Egg me on, magi.
I’m a man, see?

A golem on lease.

Slam me,
name me,
son me,
age me.

Am I loam? Glass?
A seasonal song?

Missile me gone.
I’m a lass, see?

As no one, I’ll gleam.

Mimosa Pudica

Michelle Chen

 plant apoplectic
in the river of time what I thought
 sweet water and thread
lifting clear pink satellites
 field risen, rippling
in tune the blue coast
 if a drift face I hope you get
how to lead someone to water
 there’s no other paper
that sleeps like me
 dipping as if
to fit into bottles
 in the dark heat rolling
thin sleeves of green
 when touched the fold
I found sway not shy
 if I close when touched
move move then drink
 half-full, the waiting
 evaporated spaces
 guess attack or death-play
the sleep’s root in reflection
 if the best example of holding
 is a moon and a barrel

Errands

Megan Collins

Other registers were open, but I got in line behind the bride. I hadn’t expected to need these purchases again, but when I saw her—buying two six-packs, hair uncurling, gaze hauntingly hollow—I was almost okay with having started bleeding. It was possible, I thought, that the two of us were meant to stand in line together.

Clearly something terrible had happened, some unbearable disappointment, her wedding canceled at the very last minute. She’d probably cry for the rest of the day, her white dress like a second skin she wanted to burn right off.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Hmm?” She blinked at me as the cashier handed her a receipt. I gestured towards her dress.

“Oh… No—you’re so sweet! No, my daughter’s at a princess party, and—ugh—the parents have to wear costumes, too.” She rolled her eyes. “This was all I had. But—” She raised her six-packs as if making a toast. “I have these now too! One of the mothers sent me out to get them.”

She whispered the next part. “We’re gonna sneak them during cake.”

Smiling wide, she turned to leave, and I saw that her dress didn’t zip all the way.

“I’m sorry,” the cashier said to me.

“Hmm?” I blinked at her, and she nodded towards my purchases. Tampons. Ovulation tests. Tissues. I noticed for the first time that her hand rested on her belly.

“Oh… No,” I said. “You’re so sweet. No. I’m okay. Thanks. No.”

The Prop is Not an Apple

Katy Chrisler

It is not too late to meld splendor with the
Bodies that grow from instruction. Her outlaw,
Common sense. He, underground. “They got it
Wrong, the gods we have.” I can feel your steps
Unravel with the clarity of youth. A blossoming
Of raw beginnings. There is no ordinary along with
All their other oblivions. He doesn’t get a full house.
The statues will recover with menace, forecast:
“We can try again to want less heraldic colors.”

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