you belch
low in your sleep,
curl like tortellini
sauced with purple wool,
dusted with
cream light
falling off
a romano moon.
More from Issue #2
Beach Music by Mark J. Mitchell
She heard a fish song rising out of seaweed. She misunderstood. She thought it called her by name. So she dove in, head first, her good dress ruined. The fish still proclaimed…
You Were but a Ghost in My Arms— by Jordan Blum
—and a fragment in the ether in the spring of Our Hope, after confessions were made, before they took you away. When your father smashed frames and your mother was disgraced and…
Baseball Weather by Mark J. Mitchell
The sky’s scrubbed clean as a five-sided dish. Birds have returned from the south and hold loud confabs in the trees. Moist air is cool and soft as newly oiled cowhide. It’s…
40 Little Feets by John C. Kojak
Night fell upon Newtown on a chilly morning in December, A day that everyone there will always remember. Principals, teachers, mothers and wives, Young boys and girls with big playground eyes. Two…