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Magazine



A Public Space

No. 30

December 2021

The past will reveal to us the nature of the present. —Joan Perucho

Table of Contents



 

Art

Marcelyn McNeil

Marcelyn McNeil


 

Poetry

Time Keeping

Time was an instant, a moment.

Matt Miller


 

Apocrypha

Public Access

Mysteries of Yesteryear

It actually wasn’t that hard to invoke spirits around a table. They were everywhere.

Joan Perucho


 

Fiction

Brindis at Covadonga

His brother was both more native and worldly, one whose life was as mysterious to him as it was obvious.

Dagoberto Gilb


 

Fiction

Ghosts

I don’t blame you in a way. In a way? In all ways, in all ways I don’t blame you.

Sara Majka


 

Poetry

Night Sky with Blue Silo and a Bonfire

We leaned into the weedfire / with all the wavering love we could endure receiving / from each other.

Idra Novey


 

Poetry

Two Poems

It is not / only land that seems to lean up / toward me, but last night’s thick rains / soaked below it and, outside this city, / the clay beneath fields.

Joanna Klink


 

Poetry

Duet

That sure as fangs a threat-pestered sheeny cottonmouth gon’ gape.

Atsuro Riley


 

Poetry

The Empty Grave of Zsa Zsa Gabor

I remember her / so long ago / appearing on certain / Friday nights / as I religiously wasted / my youth watching / others embark / the boat of love

Matthew Zapruder


 

Fiction

Team Player

No one wants to be beholden to the past.

Sana Krasikov


 

Art

Matt Magee

Matt Magee


 

Fiction

Honeysuckle

I had come here for a reason, though I no longer remembered what this reason was.

Joshua Furst


 

Fiction

Six Months

Mona looked left, out of the little window, to find the sun shining and plump rain falling in a manner that seemed cinematic and hopeful.

Maria Thomas


 

Poetry

Two Poems

The curtain stays closed / until someone falls in love.

Victoria Chang


 

Poetry

Hieronymus Bosch Beach Blanket Bingo,  Summer 2020

The beach is a game board of umbrella & umbrella, torso & orifice, a vortex / of engorgement & vomit & vice versa & back.

Sylvia Legris


 

Poetry

On Sunday I Water the Plants

a week is measured in days and there are seven / just like the fingers on my hands without those ones I / forget, chopped off, bitten off, fell off from scurvy and flesh- / eating: intentionally brutal.

Rebecca Wolff


 

Poetry

Quail in the Bible

Everything on the table, the bed
and poem the poet found and put him in

Brian Blanchfield


 

Poetry

The White House

Few ever really got to live there. / It was smaller than anyone ever expected. / Its lights were dimmed, though guards remained

Gillian Conoley


 

Art

Necessary Obstacles

Ron Nagle


 

Fiction

Pocket Money

Man Suk was a difficult person to be friends with. You couldn’t ask him for anything.

Mi Jin Kim


 

Fiction

Harvesters

Harvesting the souls of men was full-time work—one could not serve God and mammon, didn’t she know?

Uche Okonkwo


 

Snapshot

The Secular and the Sacred

She is not frivolous, except to those who see life as a problem.

Corita Kent


 

Fiction

Columbo and Sugar Okawa

I’ll bet Napoleon never tasted anything this good. Not even on his wedding day.

Kiik Araki-Kawaguchi


 

Stories Out of School

The Metaphor Game

He winks and snaps off a shot with his index finger, peering into my eyes with a weird pity.

John Francis Istel


 

Portfolio

Mapping Why We Write

There are poems that allow us to be what we are, or what we want to be, without shame.

Miguel Coronado


 

Portfolio

The Language Map

What is a country

Angela María Spring


 

Portfolio

Two Poems

The rice fields shine like rows of tinsel / the sun a neighborhood beggar in a lazy nap.

Huan He


 

Portfolio

Childhood Biracial

I memorize her face for our resemblance: an arched brow, a dark ring around the pupil.

Yasmine Ameli


 

Portfolio

Bury My Tongue

I’m remnants. Remains of a teen, troubled, remains of a child, sling necked but alive.

Ann-Marie Blanchard


 

Portfolio

Yugoslavia: The Encyclopedia of the Dead

I confuse love with nostalgia.

Maja Lukic


 

Fellow

Nina and the Lime

There are five petals to a cherry blossom, Nina chanted to herself. There is a kindness to cerulean.

Rosemarie Ho


 

Fellow

Dreamweaver

I’m not actively trying to disappear.

Katie Foster


 

Fellow

Smoking Cigarettes in West Texas

I didn't like what he had to say, but I loved to hear him speak.

Crawford Hunt

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