“Acorn”
By: James Macak & Diane Pontius
My mother had an acorn tree in front of the house on Ada Street in Akron — and she’d have her boys collect the acorns and clear the lawn in return for a trip to the root beer stand down the block. Later, she’d do the same with her grandkids — the root beer stand was...
“Lebanon”
By: Sila Assad Peters
For now--the watchtower
of an old woman, old bones
and an abeye that comes down
to her ankles. Hooked nose
of her ancestors, western eyebrows,
plucked bare. Secret
Nicholas Neider : “And on the cloven tree of sadness sprouts a flower”
Gabriel Specter : “Things Changed”
One man dreams One man sleeps One woman goes to bed her face veiled in flowers and her eyes graced By smiles that are reflected by her dreams Will she wake up will she stand up In her head she’s in different places Planes won’t fly to her there’s No resort there so we have...
Tight Gag, Loose Change
Poetry : Rachel Hezekiah
Visual Art : Gabriel Specter
You found your tongue haunted in the cave of mouth – the loom slung in the opening weaving itself, we tighten the cloak bandana firm around the fold of your whalebone jaw– vindictive city fumes, pale puddles on the subway platform, last night’s vomit on the asphalt, the man who shakes his styrofoam cup relentlessly...
“High Grasses”
Sonnet by: Lillian Pontius-Goldblatt
C-Print by: Kevin Cyr
I have written a photograph of us sleeping in hammocks, splayed books on our chests like broken defibrillators. The dust in the yard is burnt red and unimpressed. It’s a picture I didn’t even dream, so quiet the highway’s soft roar isn’t even a wrinkle in your sleeve, the gleam of the small and false...
Intonation
Poetry : Emily Wilensky
Mural : BR1
How did you even find me among the detritus of the here and now living amongst the fragile folds of your history and mine like folded origami cranes set aflame against the dawn’s weary ascent translucent and starburst incandescence which begs a credence before only ever imagined I run to you on deprived appendages once...
Synthesis: A Talk with Artist and Curator Diane Pontius
It’s a returning to something I was always very concerned about and interested in and occupied by, but I never had time to synthesize it. Now that my life has a different pace to it, I'm able to do it. I feel artistically, I'm really at a place of synthesizing decades of change in...
“seven times in circular motion”
By: James Claffey
He hiked up his corduroy pants over the dirty cotton socks and exposed thin, twig-like legs covered with wisps of dark, curling hair. The remains of morning grits stained the three-day beard, and gloved fingers touched his chin seven times in circular motion before he mounted the few stone steps leading to the graves. ...
“The Middle Way”
By: Natalie L.R. Baker
“But he does,” Ronni replied. She ignored her brothers’ threatening tones as she watched the ground, making sure that the uneven and off-colored bricks of the alley’s street remained stationary because her little toes just could not bear another stubbing.
“Boy on the Lookout”
By: Kristina England
I see the man everywhere. He follows us to the park, carries around a camera. His eyes, wide, focused, appear in my dreams. He’s the face of the city, a pixelated mammoth. I cannot play for knowing, little brother curb hopping so wiry and young (still able to laugh). Me, sitting here, waiting, watching for...
“Skeleton”
By: Natalidita Ningthoukhongjam
Rust doesn’t taste half as good On bones that have been forced to learn The bareness they once bore With undulating precision Is now not half as beautiful Without the grace of flesh and skin The air consumes ever so slowly Weeding its way between my bones And you can’t see the stories I lived...
“Home is Where”
By:Charlie Hogle
It was in the kitchen, and its being there made it all the more uncanny, as this particular kitchen ran to delicacy. There was a great deal of china teaware on the walls, and all of it seemed liable to shatter at a heavy breath or an uncouth witticism. White pots with smooth curves and...
“Saxicoline: a Meditation”
By: Shae Krispinsky
Photography By: Mia Pinjuh
One. Right now I’m supposed to be writing about a mountain. Really, I’m supposed to be writing about what this one particular image of a mountain inspirits me to write about, but I’m not feeling that creative, nor that inspired. To help, I lit an aromatherapy candle with hints of bamboo, water lotus, coriander and...
“The Fords”
Fiction by: Yevgeniy Levitskiy
Photography by: Mark Federighi
Like his father and grandfather before him, Henrik Ford took shortcuts in life. He avoided going to the dentist by ripping his own teeth out. He borrowed tools from his neighbors and never returned them. He made eggs sunny-side up, even if his family wanted them scrambled. Like his father and grandfather before him, Henrik...
“Broken Boundaries”
By: Conner Cole
Bent metal bent again – once for a purpose; now for disposal. To some, the tearing down of a fence would give cause to celebration. Those who would rejoice to see the land restored to its fullness. To see a landscape free from restricting lines that say, “Don’t go here” or “Don’t go there.” To...
“STARBOARD”
poetry by Sara Peck/
photography by Andrew Pace
It’s early and linen bright out but red sky in morning, oh pelican you know. You go early for this, the cloudless in tennis shoes. All sky today. But the thing to explain is this: here in the city we don’t have a real darkness and sure the lake gets dark but it doesn’t...
“Locked Out”
By: Kate Alexander-Kirk
Diane can’t bring herself to leave the house unless it’s essential. Chest feels crushed as heart clenches into a tight fist of fear. Convinces herself that staying indoors is safer. She seeks peace that only she can create. The clamour of the outside world threatens to destabilise her equilibrium. Yet, Diane feels like a caged...
“The Other Side”
By: LaKesha Rhodes
25 years, 9 months, 45 days, 18 hours, 33 minutes, and 2 seconds. Freedom was such a distant memory. The jury had come to a unanimous vote: Guilty. Murder. In the first degree. The judge had made his decision quickly. 45 years, maximum security. The mountains of evidence had only solidified the defense. The eye...