By Leah Brennan I hold it in my hand like a baseball— the glass apple paperweight inscribed with my name. I am trained to scan for objects, to weaponize the room, to lock the door from the outside, dismantle the workspace, reassign it to the front line, a hedge of student-chairs, impossibly small desks attached … More Paperweight

By Elizabeth Bradfield   Gypsy moth: Lymantria dispar dispar Frayed, moth-eaten, vulnerable. Those Florida dancers gunned down & my young self coming out dancing & pathetic fallacy (dispar dispar) crawls all over June’s fresh oaks, gnawing them to a February canopy. The news, bad oracle, gnaws fact & rumor. Above, unrelenting mastication, defoliation. Lymantria, ‘destroyer,’ … More Dispatch from this Summer

By Emari DiGiorgio    It might rile up the bull, but any gypsy grandmother who worships the cornicello knows red resists evil. Hidden beneath clothes like a narc’s slim-fit Kevlar vest, or on the outside like a badge. On the day I might die, I spurn sensible shoes. I once sprinted eight long Manhattan blocks in … More What to Wear on the Day I Might Die

By Amorak Huey    If I say everything is a gun you have to say yes, and the gun is always going off. If I say someone could get hurt, you have to say yes, and that’s what it means to be alive. I say, does it have to be like that? You say yes, and … More Yes, And