NONFICTION: The Living, by Melissa Valentine

  The Living Melissa Valentine   Oakland, CA  1999   A letter addressed to me has been slid under my bedroom door. In the return address corner is Junior’s real name, Christopher Valentine, followed by a long number. His handwriting is of the precise, practiced sort that has never written much except from prison, as if his life depends on it. For many days I do not even touch it. It lies on the floor in a heap of my teenage life: graded papers, glossy fashion magazines, photos taken with friends, books, clothes, a letter from my brother. He mostly writes to Mom and Dad, promising things that make them boast for a week, that he’ll get his GED in prison, that he’s reading one of the books Dad sent, that he plans to go to college when he gets out. But this letter has my name on it. I crank open my bedroom window and step out onto the roof. With a cigarette, a lighter, and the letter, I sit on the warm shingles of the roof and stare out over the neighborhood into a sea of rooftops and trees. I light up a Marlboro red and look at...
Read More

POETRY: Two Poems by Kassy Lee

  THESAURUS dot COM Kassy Lee   Claret, maybe? A simple Kool-Aid rued hue. Inside, the body of someone who hates me. Outside, a tree muscles out its raw fruits. The gentle arc of the moon laps up the blood. A puddle of which is subject to the same forces as the tidal ebb and flow. The bay window chafes my outer thigh as we make love. The goldfish knows. He doesn’t grow jealous. I was charmed by sweet kernels of corn between your gap-tooth, the boy with the Dead Sea cosmetics booth, the ripples of a wound. Even if you believe that the horizon is a snake with its tail on its own tongue, a kid on my Chrome browser will still be dead. You’ll go on trying to overanalyze my texts. I’ll go on with my cellphone camera, recording my nephew killing roaches with Raid in order to play it back in reverse. Death happens only once, and then all is rewound. God can make a rusty revolving chamber, like your heart. God can make a military grade tank on a sunflower-hugged highway. That’s within his means. God can make pies as wide as July, a silvered token...
Read More

POETRY: Made in China, by Wale Owoade

    Made In China Wale Owoade   Buried dreams wear mirrors in their grave They split with solace like this child: Wear frugal wings, fly through Dark ages, through KhakiMenAndBlockades Through SixBootsStainedWithBlood To watch future scenes before they are shown But what use are future scenes When dreams are Made in China? Buried hopes wear mirrors in their grave They split with solace like this mother: Wear head gears, dance through Sacred grounds, through BringBackOurGirls Through IbadanForestOfHorror To sow future seeds before its night But what use are future seeds When hopes are Made in China? Buried truths wear mirrors in their grave They split with solace like this father: Wear eagerhearts, hew through Shabby oaths, through PayOurPension Through SomeFathersAreStillUnemployed To pleat future talks before they are done But what use are future talks When truths are Made in China?   * In Nigeria and probably in Africa or anywhere else, when something is said to be made in China, that thing is either fake, or has poor longevity, that is, it can be spoilt or damaged easily and quickly.   WALE OWOADE is a Nigerian poet. His works have appeared or forthcoming in publications like: Radar Poetry Journal, The...
Read More