Poetry
Chris Souza lives and works in Massachusetts. Previous publications include: Gulf Coast, Bellingham Review, Connecticut Review, New Delta Review, West Branch, and Laurel Review, among many others. Her…
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Poetry
JJ Mitchell is an essayist who writes widely on environmental and socio-political issues for the Huffington Post and other publications. His poems have either appeared or are forthcoming in Tar River…
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Narcissus Brings Me Flowers
Poetry
Leila Chatti is a Tunisian-American poet and received her MFA in poetry from North Carolina State University. The recipient of fellowships from Dickinson House and Quest Writers Conference and awards…
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Nocturne without Counterexample
Poetry
Jessica Goodfellow’s books are Mendeleev’s Mandala (Mayapple Press, 2015) and The Insomniac’s Weather Report (Isobar Press, 2014). Recipient of the Chad Walsh Poetry Prize from the Beloit Poetry…
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Poetry
Chris Harding Thornton is a seventh-generation Nebraskan who writes fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction. She holds a BFA in creative writing from the University of Nebraska at Omaha, an MFA in…
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Poetry
Peter LaBerge is the author of the chapbook Hook (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2015), recently included on the American Library Association's Over the Rainbow List. His work appears in Beloit Poetry…
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Summer, in My Early Twenties
Poetry
Merrill Oliver Douglas lives in Vestal, NY, where she does freelance writing for trade magazines, university publications, businesses and nonprofits. She holds a BA from Sarah Lawrence College and an…
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There Are More Storm Clouds than What You See Outside Your Window
Poetry
Lisa Grove's poems and translations have appeared in Poetry, Beloit Poetry Journal, A cappella Zoo, and elsewhere. She lives in Los Angeles, where she's a senior editor for the California Journal of…
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Poetry
Robyn Anspach has an MFA from University of Michigan. She currently works as a data analyst at Google.
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Peter LaBerge
for Stacy Dillon
Cleveland, Tennessee: unmoving boy
and unrecovered gun. The silver
mouth of the .44, the chrome-plated
lip, the handle stained the color
of churchwood. 1991, down history’s throat
like a pill he might swallow to see
the beauty in girls. He fired
his lover’s name into the sky, stars
knocked out and strewn like teeth: one
beneath an end table, one behind
the bloodied couch. The unholy bullet
left his lover’s gun, knowing
it was to enter through the softness
of his cheek. Cleveland: no more
than a faceless boy and a body full of bone.
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