Grow. Like the bristles on your chin,
Or the awkward toenail on my leftfoot.
Each morning as you pad downstairs,
You stop to water the pak-choi on the roof
Before assuming station at the table by the window.

Send me that virtual newspaper clipping.
Gather a veritable feast of sounds –
The crinkle, the crunch, the plop of an olive
Diving back into its jar after sliding off the prongs of
a fork.

“Did you hear?” the morse code keyboard.
There used to be trains running
And a street full of engines
Now in the quiet, you cook me dinner
And, after supper, burn your tongue on the tea I pour.

by HR Gibs
Illustrated by Sam Meyerson

Firmly Planted by Streams of Water

Milo Gorgevska lives in the dreary suburbs outside of Toronto, Ontario. Nonbinary and queer, they identify as a menace to society’s traditions. As a jack-of-all-trades, they are an author, director, poet & screenwriter. Previously, their writing under the pen name ‘Kara Petrovic’ has been published in Philadelphia Stories, Train: A Poetry Journal & others. Their…

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by Leah Mueller The absurdity of being so round, with such an eager mouth. The hippo looks like it’s about to bite into something, but it’s also smiling, like it’s goddamned delighted to be the most ridiculous animal in the room.Relentlessly positive New Agers see these beasts as noble creatures. Their essays claim that hippos…

Patio Furniture in a Mid-April Cold Snap

Patio Furniture in a Mid-April Cold Snap by Kelly Burdick sit in the outdoor seating areaof the only fast-food restaurantin a single traffic signal townafter hours in the darkalways the neon lights alwaysthe sound of water alwaysthe trees the road the cars the windhere no one knows you herethere are night birds hereis a little…