Perigee

By Julia Guez A cistern full of asters, notes from the split–risk ward above the lindens tops of poplars wave in the long light, an agitation of birds. What they fever after, I have fevered after— in tight swaths—circling the only one who makes all the seasons more beautiful than they really are. Coming now to the place where no word is apt, parting. Wendy Videlock, Chaco Canyon, photograph

by Cristiana Baik Autoconstrucción¹ My second life began with fabrication my other name plucked from a book by Auntie Kyung, in a plane ride to California from Seoul. In the breach that was the Pacific what was familiar became interpretation that always-constant point of reference: ghost-shades of adolescence toward transformation—that different place rewritten: where I was born. Life became about arriving, property lines and furniture, new rooms thus dividing walls, eating spaghetti with chopsticks, a washing machine and never drying clothes out in the sun. My father’s absence and golf clubs, cardboard boxes and accumulation. That’s why we marry, my friend Alex explains. That’s why we write and get tattoos. Objet Trouvé Mid afternoon hour’s changing light—fetching. Thunderstorms in distance resemble washed-over paintings, blue sanded down pale. In a dream, there were no paths or roads. Just piled-up stones where trees began to grow. In another dream a hat, obsidian, wire mesh, broken shells and plastic buoys. Hula-hoops. He said, This is an encounter, all the while I thought it impasse, watching the delicate rupture, flood of light darkening into vast open space. I was left with found fragments, possibilities after points of convergence becoming equilibrium. I told him there... Read More

By Paco Marquez sandias are watermelons melones are melons limones are limes limas are lemons crucifixion of blood fruits teenager baffled by a new language resting on gestures speaking in tongues throat driven down hallways wood shield as smile little body asphyxiating on delicately cut prunes elegant phrases eaten not this pinprick not that whistle minute words asphalt affection backs turned mini flesh never mind hot luck re turn sit this eat hi oh! o

By Koa Beck Benton had been named for the uncle he’d never met. Growing up there’d only been one photo of him, the uncle: a single ghostly face in the oval frame where the two walls met in the dining room, removed and set away from the mantel of family portraits that served as the crux of the house. His nose, downturned with the shadow of the camera, bore a faint resemblance to that of Benton’s mother. Benton had been informed of his namesake at four years old, while following his mother around in perpetual memorization of the family tree. He had just begun holding wooden blocks in his hand, assigning them an identity and placement. The red “R” was his father; the blue “L” his mother. But his mother was one of three blue blocks that also included Aunt Lorrie, his mother’s sister. “You have one of those,” his mother knelt down and picked up one of the blues. “You have a sister too.” She had explained that she and Lorrie had been children together, just like he and Isa, and that they came from the same parents too. “Your grandparents,” she fluffed his hair. “But who is this... Read More