 | Kate Greenstreet slips into a pew. |
 | Bruce McRae stares into his beer, ignoring her curves and entrances, his thoughts the size of Australia, his mouth in drought. |
 | Michael Keenan drove into the moon. |
 | Basil Rosa had an uncle or two who ran numbers. |
 | Brett Strickland still grasps at empty air throat parched for a drink from lemons that were never there. |
 | George Kalamaras always preferred the insides of things—fish, starlight, veldt, the body of my lover-word. |
 | Robert Malloy comes growling up from granite. |
 | Elisa Gabbert and Kathleen Rooney delete the emails that offer themselves to you—hot, horny, yours—from your inbox. |
 | Arielle Greenberg Bywater wrote on a sprung and twelve-note scale, written, bitten, the wet bale ends of those braids of hair. |
 | Daniela Olszewska and Carol Guess bound each other's wrists with phone cords stretched rec room to porch. |
 | Malaika King Albrecht demands only the world, the river rock unlocked, our hands wet. |
 | Cindy Savett overthrows this endless night. |
Lobster Dinner by Chrisi Karvonides-Dushenko
About the Artist
 | Maureen Alsop awoke as a scrawl of green in the lower corner of this page. |
 | Simon Perchik once had such power and now can't open to demand. |
 | Áine McCarthy trailed off where you interrupted the hole in the corner of your eye the river running towards relief the places that leaked. |
 | Andrea D.E. Levin could not replicate the wet heat of his tiny pink tongue on the glass. |
 | Michael Robins learned once to leave thought for panic. |
 | Lissa Kiernan is full of Lobster love for this, our largest issue ever! What a gift! |