INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Alan Britt
Lisa Schmidt
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ADAMAH According to the Hebrews all men are named from mud, gargled forth in painful sculpting formed of under-kilned clay. Half-made, flesh slumping like a toothpaste tube squeezed in the center. Dirt to dust, all things considered, isn't too bad in the end: the body breaks, beloved, and in the breaking scatters out in headwinds until the name stains not only the crafting aprons but also the fire of the forger. EXPATRIATION Moving my books out of baggage a brown hair from my wife brushes my hand. Fissure and erasure. Trace of small moment, even the hair without the scent, dialectic pull of the memory. Loss. Once there was a love story. Once a beginning, middle, end. Here absence stalls and sputters. Trace of keratin, cutting of crown, moving her here, a bleak scar across a page and palm. Everything apart pulls back together. Gently tucking the hair into my pocket, I become ellipses as if I can reconstruct specters from loss.
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