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Cover
Table of Contents
Editor's Notes
Donations
Submission Guidelines
Website

Stories & Essays
...gone tomorrow
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By jp Rodriguez
Barbie and the Burn Scars
_ By Dion OReilly
Bright Lights
_ By Nicole Exposito
Cricket Theory
_ By Sophia Alev
Dieciseis
_ By Kate Delany
Fines Double In Work Zone
_ By Brian Stumbaugh
Guy and Doll
_ By John P. Loonam
Lake
_ By Erlynda Jacqui Chan
Lala's Diner
_ By Nicole Exposito
Laundry
_ By Allison P. Boye
Love Story
_ By Cynthia Burke
Magic Bags and Forgotten Princesses
_ By Ken Goldman
Squirrels
_ By Benjamin Buchholz

Poetry
Baking Bread and Other Subtleties
_ By Leland Jamieson
Corpus Christi
_ By Taylor Collier
Early Cold
_ By Yvette A. Schnoeker-Shorb
Ekphrasis at the Mall
_ By James Owens
Games In Your Uncle's Den
_ By Robin Stratton
My Spanish Rose
_ By Jose Rivera
Northern Lights, Southern Soul
_ By E.F. Kramer
Posted on Fifth Avenue
_ By J.R. Salling
Sirens
_ By Naiya Wright
Summer Sojourn
_ By Cheryl Butterweck-Bucher
The Himalayan Sunset
_ By Rohith Sundararaman
Time Decays, Clots
_ By Kristine Ong Muslim
Turn
_ By Terrance Schaefer
Where You Rest
_ By Stephanie N. Barnes

Art & Photography
Bissan Alhussein
_ Paintings
E.W. Hung
_ Photography
Papa Osmubal
_ Drawings
Linda Pakkas
_ Drawings
Anastasiya Tarasenko
_ Paintings
Filip Wierzbicki
_ Paintings and Digital Photography
Nancy Xu
_ Paintings and Drawings

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Squirrels
By Benjamin Buchholz


this opening in my head, hard to define, opening, closing, like breath, heartbeat, the crescent through which I see winter, the drift, the lonesome, icicle, the beasts of wind and starlight,

we have a prayer, may there be forest, light, a soft landing for those who dare too thin branches, may there be spring, berries, slower wolves,

this opening in my head, hard to touch, my forearms are numb, fishlike, I've been laying on them awkwardly, what if I must run?, hold still on the precipice?, the bark is slippery, slick with rain, with ice, do I have the strength, the patience to go unobserved?,

the nest closes, the nest opens, this opening in my head, a soft spot, I am tender for her, in her blood, wrapped, we are earmuffs for each other, as the heartbeat slows its timing improves, synchronized, I wake when her heart speeds, skips, think spring, run, gather, it is here!, to be deluded once again, the winter, the drift, it must have been REM, that acceleration in her, that excitement,

does she wake when my heart throbs oddly, disturbed by my changes like I am roused by hers?, does she wake when I kick, turn, reposition myself?,

like underwater, the noises of the world in dream, the voices of the loggers, the sleigh riders merry, a boy shooting sparrows with a slingshot, music from the road,

she puts her hand on her stomach and laughs, come feel it, little squirrels

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BENJAMIN BUCHHOLZ's work has appeared widely and at an increasing rate these last months at places like Tarpaulin Sky (headlining in the current issue), Tryst (past featured poet and Pushcart nominee), Hiss Quarterly (featured and interviewed), Planet Magazine, The Wisconsin Academy Review, GoodFoot, The 2River View and many others.

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