Dmitri was the only flicker of color in a drab Russian office. He wore dress shirts in paisleys and florals, once a riotous Hawaiian print. Buttons were occasionally, endearingly, one off. His blazers––I only ever counted four––never fit quite right, were never pressed. His physique suggested a blend of natural athleticism and the slapdash self-discipline …
We don’t know why he came. Ours is not a big city. There are no stadiums, no conference centers, no airport hotels to fill with hosannas. Instead, he has a folding chair at the farmer’s market. Behind him rests a banana crate, handpainted. Miracles $10. He does not look like a faith healer. As we …
To read this poem, please purchase a print copy of Issue #2, 2015
I must have peace and this is the only way –suicide note A question of creation: your discovery was ours and ours to despise. Its cries were ours, its fear of burning. You understood how ugly we think we are. If …