Crack the Spine - Issue 147

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Crack the Spine

Literary magazine Issue 147

Issue 147 April 22, 2015 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2015 by Crack the Spine

This issue is generously sponsored by:

Outskirts Press

Cover Art: “Pointing Me in the Right Direction” by Adel Souto Adel Souto is a Cuban-born an artist, writer, and musician, currently living in Brooklyn, NYC. He has written for his own fanzines starting in the early 90s, and has contributed pieces to numerous magazines, fanzines, and websites since. He has released several books, including a “best of”, and a chapbook on the subject of a 30-day vow of silence, while also having translated the works of Spanish poets. His work, both art pieces and photography, has shown in galleries in NYC, Philadelphia, and Miami, as well as in Europe, and South America. His music videos have been screened at NYC’s Anthology Film Archives, and he has lectured on the subject of occult influences in photography at NYU’s Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development’s Department of Art and Art Professions. As side projects, he produces the public access tv show, Brooklyn’s Alright If You Like Saxophones, and is heavily involved with his musical outfit, 156, which has a handful of releases on several labels across the U.S.

CONTENTS Michael Domenic Tesauro Carmelina Street

Meggie Royer Thumbelina

Katherine Monger


Richard T. Rauch Balloon Bouquet Inevitably

Windy Lynn Harris

A Town Built on Salt

H. Wallis Gaza

Margaret Ries

The Analyst

Michael Domenic Tesauro Carmelina Street

The young man Tomás had an ex-girlfriend that changed hairstyles often. She did this maybe every other time he saw her. He could not recall the pattern. A stoplight was one of these times. He was in his car at the intersection before the I-10 freeway overpass. On the corner, a man dressed like the statue of liberty waved a sign for payday loans. A string of pigeons sat on the phone wire above him. He looked to the car next to his left and saw his ex-girlfriend Amparo staring at him. Amparo waved. She smiled. She laughed, even. She bit the left corner of her bottom lip, her bottom lip. Tomás waved back. He appreciated those lips still. They were pale and pouty lips. His eyes drifted away from her lips to the top of her head. Her hair was now short and bleached blonde. He wondered, how long has her hair looked like this? This stoplight turned green. A car behind him honked. Tomás and Amparo drove away from each other. Tomás checked his rearview mirror and thought that she might be following him. He drove past the freeway on ramp and pulled into a Valero Gas Station & Carwash. He pulled into a self-service stall with high concrete. He parked again his car and slid his seat back. A foam gun sprayed out high-pressure soap in the wash stall next to him. Tomás did not want to talk to Amparo or engage with her in a serious manner because of some rumor he had heard. He feared gossip, as if it was contagious and he would be marked and forever associated. His best friend Louie had come out as transgénero that spring and this news spread. Tomás would retreat when people asked him about Louie. Jovan, his other best friend had gone to rehab for

alcoholism, and at least ten people had asked him about it. If he isolated the gossip, and pretended it was not real it might disappear Tomás and Amparo broke up long before these rumors even started. They were now on-and-off, as people say. On special occasions, one would show up on the other’s doorstep. When it was his turn to arrive, he brought with him a three pack of Budweiser Chelada. Tomás liked to keep the three beers shrinkwrapped together, and drink one can at a time. Amparo once said he looked like un fauno, stumbling around with a flute made of beer cans. I’m Pan, he said. You’re drunk, she said. It went on like this into the brief moments of their new twenties. Their on-off waned. Tomás heard this gossip about Amaparo during a long period of ‘off.’ Someone said that she was on drugs. This was not the worst, because he had done drugs too. They had done them together even, often while having sex or watching television. But someone said they were the bad kind of drugs, heroína and speed and other things.

Four nights later she called him. “Come here,” she said over the phone. He drove to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac on Carmelina Street. There was the sailboat with the silver flake paint job in her next-door neighbors driveway. The boat sat on a boat trader since as long as he could remember. The tires of the boat trailer had gone flat over time. There was the weeping willow tree across the street from her house. They watched the long, thin leaves flap in the wind from her the swing bench of her front porch many times. Tomás parked his car, exited to the street, and walked to the front door. He opened this door and walked inside. Amparo waited for him in the foyer. She stood barefoot, her knees slightly inverted. He was careful not to knock over the

neglected fern plant wilting onto the sapphire saltillo tile in the foyer. There was a gap between Amparo’s legs now, wide enough to see that she stood pigeon toed. She wore cat print underwear and an old Laker’s jersey. Under the hallway light, with her bleached blonder haircut, she looked like a little guerro. Tomás pushed this idea from his mind. He reminded himself that beneath these clothes was the body of a woman he knew. They hugged. His chin was just above her head as it had always been. He felt her hipbones against his thighs as he drew her closer. These bones were sharper than he remember. He wondered if these hipbones had always felt like this against him. Instead of having this conversation, they drank their beer flutes and watched a Batman movie. He ran his index finger over the tight skin on her hip. He felt the goose bumps growing up his arm and neck as his hand moved into the valley between her sharp hipbones. “You have escalofríos,” she whispered into his ear. “I’m fine,” he whispered back. “What are you?” she said. “An altar boy?” “Hush,” he said, and laughed. After that, only their bodies communicated on the navy blue corduroy couch.

A week and two days went by. Tomás was alone in the smoking area of El Palacio Nightclub. Tomás and Louie brought Jovan to hip-hop night to celebrate his graduation from the New Faith sober living house. Jovan wanted to dance and meet girls, but could not trust Tomás to be his wingman. Louie agreed that Tomás was being too serious about this Amparo thing. “You’ve been off-and-on for like five years bitch,” Louie told him. Tomás sat on a hard plastic bench against the brick wall. He ran his fingers

over the grooved initials and graffiti carved into surface where he sat. Nearest to him was V + GB inside a crooked heart and a crude drawing of a marijuana leaf. A string of Christmas lights crossed from wall to wall, giving the idea of a ceiling against an exposed night sky. On-and-off for like five years bitch, Tomás repeated to himself. He smoked six more cigarettes. A DJ set had ended and a crowd of people filed out from inside. These bodies filled up the space around him. He looked at the messages on his phone. A thin, pale girl with a cropped coal black sat next to him. He looked her over. He went back to his phone. Tomás knew the girl was looking at him. He looked back up. It was Amparo. For a microcosm of time, he knew that he had known that Amparo was next to him. He wondered if he invited her here. But he also wondered whom she came with. There was a thin veil of sweat on her forehead. She had been there longer than him it seemed. Amparo wore a faded Joy Division shirt. The collar was torn. This was his shirt once. He had bought it at the Lighthouse for the Blind thrift store after taking her to the Stardust Skating Rink. This was one of their early dates. He remembered because they had sex in the handicap bathroom after getting the key from the attendant. Amparo’s new black hair looked foreign on her head. Her hair was like a wig, or the remnants of a wig. She had bruises on her neck. This is what made her different this time around. A soft purple mark ran up from her shoulder to her jawbone. The bruise seemed to change behind the smoke cloud as she turned her head to light her cigarette. Tomás could not rely on the glow of the television or half-light in the foyer to ignore anything about Amparo. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi baby,” she said. “You look miserable out here. You need a smoke?” “I’ve got some,” he said. “Weren’t you blonde last week?” “You tell me,” she said. Amparo leaned forward and rested her chin on her knuckles. She ashed her cigarette with her free hand. She looked up at Tomás. Her pupils were almost hidden by her eyelids. “Well?” “You were.” “Was I blonde down there too?” she said and smiled. “Don’t do this here,” he said. “Okay sweetie,” Amparo said. “Not here. Later then.” “Thank you,” he said. “How are things?” “Estupendo,” she said, her voice tight like she was holding in a yawn. “Your things?” “Fine,” he said. “I’m busy with school and work.” “School and work, huh?” she said. “Us fucking doesn’t fit in there?” “What?” “You’re always so serious Tomás,” she said. “Lighten up. Come dance. It’ll be fun I swear.” She reached over and grabbed his the end of his chin with her thumb and forefinger. She pulled on his stubble. “So, so serious,” she said. “Princessa Louie and the drunk are inside having all of the fun. And you’re out here thinking, probably yes. Is that right? Are you thinking about every problem ever?” “Will you stop?” he asked. She tried to grab his chin again. He moved his head away from her hand and saw the veins on her bare arm. Her veins were swollen like they were trying to jump out of her skin. He wanted to say something about this, why does your arm look like that? Did someone hit you? When do you get so skinny? Instead he said, “Why are you being weird?”

“No weird,” she said. “What about you? You haven’t called me lately. Don’t you miss your mamas? There’s all kinds of good stuff you’re missing out on.” “What does even mean?” “That I miss you,” she said. “You should call me more.” “But we’re done Amparo,” Tomás said. “We’ve been done.” “Done like after last week?” “Done like I don’t have to call you every day,” he said. “Or you me.” “I know I don’t have to call anyone,” Amaparo said. “I mean, you didn’t call me here did you?” “No,” Tomás said. “So who are you here with?” His stomach tightened. “Don’t answer that.” “Okay,” Amparo said and waved the smoke away from her face. She flicked his arm when she stood and made to leave. “Come dance with me,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

She called him the next night, the ill omened tomorrow. The phone rang. It cut the stillness of the apartment. He picked up the phone, and held it in front of his face. Her name flashed on the screen. “No,” he whispered. He forwarded the call. It was silent. His world was enveloped with a quiet emptiness. Where was his beer flute? He wanted this more than anything now. He closed his eyes and thought of primordial woods that were dark and full of spirits and rituals and the thick, static heat of sex. He imagined if he had the stocky legs of a goat, horns of a ram, a flute made from empty Budweiser Cheladas cans. He imagined that he was un fauno and Amparo his nymph, both trapped in the enchanted woods. Then Tomás remembered that he was alone inside of his apartment. He had

first felt the track marks hidden in the crevasses of her body in the hot static of his very apartment. These were the merciful places that only a selfish lover would find. He should have asked about them. He should have offered her help instead of continuing their ritual, their ceremony of flesh and anxious lust. But he did not offer anything. Instead he devoured her. Tomás picked up his phone again and dialed her number. As the phone rang, he thought about how he had seen a tract mark on her inner thigh. His head had gone between her legs where the marks were hidden. His lips almost brushed against them. He could have kissed these lesions like Saint Rita of Cascia. “Be healed,” this patron would have said. “Go and show yourself clean,” and so on. Instead, Tomás turned his face to the other thigh and rested his face against the smooth, warm skin. There was no answer on the phone. Maybe it was someone else who called. There was no voicemail. Perhaps no one was there. So then, where was he? So then, what were they?

Meggie Royer Thumbelina

They sliced her belly sideways like a caesarean section choked it plum full of love letters and sewed it back into roundness; do you remember Hans Christian Andersen’s Thumbelina who rested her head on a bird’s beating chest like ghosts lived inside who still knew what to do about loss and when the police arrived they felt a sort of gratitude for the killers while reading each letter because there is nothing anyone wants more than to feel something.

Katherine Monger Pilgrimage

Tap. My left palm bounces on the cool handle of a carrel door. Tap. Tap. Down the length of the third floor of the university library I walk, my head turning with each step to glance down the B’s, the BA’s, the BC’s. Heidegger. Kierkegaard. The slip of paper I left three weeks ago three shelves up on a case three cases down from my next turn is still there. No one ever walks down these rows but me. I still silence my keys against my thigh when I bend to look for books in the return carts. The route in my head turns and rises against a blackboard, like I’m spelling a word I can’t say but I can see, like haphazard, like this job, like I am at this job, tripping over invisibilities like I trip over the chairs I push into work tables left by students who will one day cure my diseases, all of them, at the same time, while riding a horse. Just one.

In the corners without cameras, I like to reach into my shirt and push aside my bra strap, feel the parallel lines in my skin and the softness between them. I like to bend my neck back and rub it, like they do in the movies when they’re tired, those women with jobs they’re supposed to have sacrificed everything to have. I have sacrificed many things, but here I am, walking the inside perimeter of a university library with a black valet vest and tennis shoes and there’s sweat forming in places I didn’t know could sweat. Like behind my ears. And in the crevices beneath my ass cheeks. “Good to see you!” “Good! You?” And the familiar face is gone, leaving only a scent of rubber erasers, or maybe it’s me. I tell myself I do not care that I smell like erasers, or that I look like I’ve just run from a bear, or

that my hair looks freshly washed, “Or greasy,” a girl in seventh grade told me, and I wanted to cry, or to yell at her, or to tell her I had some rare, incurable disease and didn’t she know I could die tomorrow? I felt like I could die tomorrow. I want to stop and rub my knees but Jeremey is working and Jeremey breathes loudly when I get back downstairs past my usual time, past my usual hour-long roundabout that he can do in thirty-five minutes. “Did you check the Reagan Room?” “Yes.” “Urban Archives?” “Yes.” “Architecture?” “Yes.” So I don’t rub my knees, but instead I check the Reagan Room, and the Urban Archives, and Architecture, where a homeless man, Tommy, likes to eat packets of artificial sweetener on white bread and watch movies on the search computer. Jeremey’s

always trying to catch him watching porn, but I honestly don’t think he does. The skywalk to the American Geographical Society Library is humid, but there are four students in there, androgynous in their oversized sweatshirts and beanies. As I pass each one, I can feel my chest cave in more and more as I try to exhibit carelessness, ineptitude. I am undercover. I am an undercover spy, on the lookout for map thieves. “3.1 mil. That’s the one they stole was worth.” “Just one?” “All they needed, I guess.” A wanted poster, pictures and all, is tacked in the security closet. “BOLO: BE ON THE LOOKOUT.” They don’t look anything like pirates. I weave in and out the wide rows of globes atop metal drawers holding miles and miles. Sometimes, when I’ve run out of things to think, I search for my houses on an Internet map and

calculate the miles, yards. Transit time by car, plane, bus, bike. Foot. If I were to make a pilgrimage from my birthplace to the American Geographical Society Library, the biggest map library in the country, it would take me 638 hours to walk the 2,007 miles, granted I take a ferry from Michigan to Wisconsin. I tried to calculate swim time, like that woman from Cuba to Florida without a shark tank, but I’m not like her—I have no reason to rub my neck, and I have no reason to make a pilgrimage. I have no relics left. My grandparents are dead, and their grandparents, and my aunts and uncles and their children, they’re dead, too, and my cousin, though she’s alive, I guess, I’m not sure. I don’t know where their bodies are, or who’s left to send flowers to. I stop at a map of Lake Michigan. It looks different from here, in Wisconsin, in tennis shoes in a library instead of flip-flops in a Ford F250. My eyes trace a line from Milwaukee

to Arcadia, Arcadia: a cliché, simplicity. Quiet. A place of rest, like halcyon, but different—like a speed boat, pushing through the waves while a girl holds tight to the wheel, parallel to the dunes that appear like patches of recently harvested cornfields, wooden structures rising up and out like unpainted barn roofs peeking over slow hills and a boy, blond like a lightning rod, smiling, as she, haphazardly riding the waves with a shaky hand, passes around the next bend.

Richard T. Rauch Balloon Bouquet

a balloon bouquet bubbling with color floats above the street sparkly bright a-jiggle under perfect tension bouncing subtly on wispy currents aloft buffeted yet buoyantly melodic en route to a friend whose spirits need a-lifting

Richard T. Rauch Inevitably

We walk along well-planned avenues channeled toward some imminent horizon, holding hands with secret ghosts. Seasons change, but little else on the scale of a solitary life.

A life, that is, watching your step over cracked and jagged sidewalks, buckled by overbearing oaks, evergreen, hell-bent on shade and tripping you up. Inevitably, you’ll encounter a child,

lost and crying, of course, perhaps holding a balloon or two. Naturally, you’ll take her hand, telling her it’s alright, like that stranger once told you, strolling down the avenue hand in hand under the oaks, sunlit and alive with birdsong, balloons soaring, tugging at your fingertips.

Windy Lynn Harris A Town Built on Salt

Liam stood next to the most warped section of his fence and toed the soft wet ground below it. A boy in his sixth grade class had told him a story about a sinkhole that had opened up on his property last week. It was big enough for their dog to fall into, the boy had said. The ground had suddenly opened its mouth, small at first, then as big as a dinner plate. The earth had poured into the center of that hole like sand in an hourglass, five feet deep. The whole town was going under. Liam had watched a news broadcast with his mother the night before, confirming it. Channel five played a cell phone video shot by a teenager who’d meant to be filming his best friend’s skateboard trick. On the screen, Liam had watched a parked car fall clean out of view. One second there, the next, gone. The earth had gulped it down whole. It was the salt

mining, the newscaster had said. That and the heavy rains. Liam hadn’t told his father that their fence had changed. The man would have seen the damage for himself if he’d made his Sunday visit on time, but darkness had covered the yard by the time his father had arrived and Liam hadn’t even gotten to see him. His father had said something drunk and slurry as his mother had opened the door, and she’d slammed it shut right after, locking his father out. The next morning, Liam’s mother scrubbed a boot print off the front door, but pretended Liam’s father had never showed up. The mines were nearly empty now and people like Liam’s father had been out of work for over a year. Everyone in Liam’s class had been told there would be government

assistance when it came time for them to graduate high school, since the town’s biggest industry was dead. Liam walked back a few steps until he stood in the center of his small yard. He watched his white pickets for any sign of movement south. If something budged, even a little, he would run to the house and call his mother at her job. She would tell him to stay inside where it was safe, then she would find his father and they would rush home together. They would fix the yard, and his father would move back home. For protection. It could happen at any moment, the newscaster had said. Liam already knew three other people with sinkholes. One was the boy in his class. Another was the school nurse, who was taking it bad. Nurse Gravel had wrung her hands at the school assembly last Friday, pacing back and forth near the bleachers. They’d been gathered to honor the retiring art

teacher, but nurse Gravel had interrupted right as the school principal was about to give out the plaque. “We need to save the children!” she’d cried, walking in front of the ceremony. Nurse Gravel had swiped the microphone from the principal’s hand and implored the students to listen. “There are warning signs,” she’d said. “The birds have all left our town, haven’t you noticed? We need to pray, every one of us!” The principal had pulled the microphone away from her and ushered nurse Gravel toward the double doors that lead to the parking lot. Nurse Gravel had scanned the crowd as she left, and she’d spotted Liam. He’d held her eye until the doors shut her out. The other sinkhole person Liam knew was Ms. Judy, his mother’s best friend. He didn’t get to hear Ms. Judy’s story first hand, only his mother’s account and opinion about it all. Liam

had not been allowed to go see the gaping hole that had sunk Ms. Judy’s entire set of patio furniture. It had been sudden, Liam’s mother told him, like an elevator with a broken cable. Snap. Poof. Gone. Liam’s mother and Ms. Judy were not alarmed. Ms. Judy had wanted new patio furniture for years. Liam searched above for birds but only saw clouds inching toward each other in the darkening sky. The air felt wet and hushed. He returned his attention to the fence and tried to limit his blinks. He stepped forward, watching for subtle movements. Suddenly, a long stick of lightning cracked the sky above him. Everything went silent for the count of four. Liam stood still and waited for his fence to slip lower, but the pickets didn’t budge. When thunder hit, he felt it rumble across the whole town, all the way to the ground beneath his feet. It shook his teeth. He heard a snap of wood behind

him and turned to watch the spectacle. When an entire house is eaten by a sinkhole, he would later tell his mother, it does not pour itself to the bottom of the earth like sand or lose its footing quickly in one loud drop. Instead, it crumbles at the edges from one corner to the next, then slowly melts away.

H. Wallis Gaza

it sounds like a prayer rolled out— like our father who art in heaven, but if you close your eyes, it is barbed wire and bombs like apple blossoms, weeping women and the gnashing of teeth. it is a tale of woe in 12 pt. times roman and the serious tones of the tv anchorman, who will later line up brown soldiers—empty bottles of beer—on a white linen tablecloth while he tries to explain to one young thing or another about the line in the sand, a strip of land by the sea. but it is hard to understand and she wants another pinot anyway. so gaza is lost on white linen, the empty

bottles cleared away, broken soldiers laid one-by-one to rest. but everyone knows war is more ruthless than that.

Margaret Ries The Analyst

I dreamt about you last night. You were in the coal cupboard, locked and knocking. At first I didn’t know what it was. Tinnitus? A woodpecker? But then you yelled and I heard your voice. And let you out. You were covered in coal dust and offered me a lump of coal. “To keep you warm,” you said. How do you know I’m cold? I am and you know it. I think that’s when I first fell in love with you. And thought we should swap seats. I should be the one on the couch, letting my free associations loose into the air like balloons. Jew. Immigrant. Doctor. Scared. Alone. Unable to heal. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold and alone. Whereas you radiate warmth. Sometimes after you leave I lie down on the couch to soak up the warmth you’ve left behind.

Contributors Windy Lynn Harris Windy Lynn Harris’s short stories and essays have been published in magazines across the US and Canada. She is the Tips editor atThe Review Review and runs a Market Coaching for Creative Writers program where she teaches writers how to professionally submit their work to literary magazines. She is currently working on her first novel, a dystopian war-of-the-sexes story that explores our evolving definition of gender identity. Learn more at her website. Katherine Monger Katherine earned her BA in English literature and creative writing from The University of Iowa (’13), where she interned at The Iowa Review from 20122013. She is now pursuing my MA in rhetoric and composition from The University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee (’15). Currently, Katherine is serving as Nonfiction Editor of UWM’s cream city review. She has been previously published in Apeiron Review. Richard T. Rauch Richard T. Rauch lives along Bayou Lacombe in southeast Louisiana. Born and raised in the New Orleans area, Rick is a graduate of LSU and received his PhD in theoretical physics from Stony Brook University. He has lived and worked in New York, Los Angeles, Washington DC, and currently tests rockets at NASA’s

Stennis Space Center in Mississippi. Poetry credits include Big Muddy, Confrontation, decomP, Euphony, Grey Sparrow, The Oxford American, Pembroke Magazine, Quiddity, Wild Violet, and the Love Notes anthology (Vagabondage Press), among others. Flash fiction credits include Infective INk and Aspen Idea (Aspen Writers’ Foundation/Esquire Short, Short Fiction Contest finalist). Margaret Ries Margaret has had four short stories accepted for publication. “For Sale” was published in Green Hills Literary Lantern XX; “Half-Light” inBlack Middens: New Writing Scotland 31, an anthology of new fiction in Scotland. “The Doll and the Samsonite” appears in the current issue of Cactus Heart and “The Perfidy of Things” in the current issue of The Bicycle Review. She was also shortlisted in Fish’s flash fiction contest last year. She is currently revising her second novel, The Block of Joy, and looking for an agent for the first one, Shadow Jumping. Margaret lived in Berlin for 13 years before moving to Edinburgh in 2006. Meggie Royer Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poetry has been published in Winter Tangerine Review, Words Dance Magazine, Harpoon Review, and more. She also has two published poetry books, Survival Songs and Healing Old Wounds with New Stitches. Her work can be found at

Adel Souto Adel Souto is a Cuban-born an artist, writer, and musician, currently living in Brooklyn, NYC. He has written for his own fanzines starting in the early 90s, and has contributed pieces to numerous magazines, fanzines, and websites since. He has released several books, including a “best of”, and a chapbook on the subject of a 30-day vow of silence, while also having translated the works of Spanish poets. His work, both art pieces and photography, has shown in galleries in NYC, Philadelphia, and Miami, as well as in Europe, and South America. His music videos have been screened at NYC’s Anthology Film Archives, and he has lectured on the subject of occult influences in photography at NYU’s Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development’s Department of Art and Art Professions. As side projects, he produces the public access tv show, Brooklyn’s Alright If You Like Saxophones, and is heavily involved with his musical outfit, 156, which has a handful of releases on several labels across the U.S. Michael Dominic Tesauro Michael Dominic Tesauro is a graduate of Chapman University’s MFA/MA program. He is a fiction editor for Tin Cannon Literary Magazine. His work has been published in Wilderness House Review, Carnival Literary Magazine, Inlandia Journal, amongst others. H. Wallis H. Wallis was born and raised on a remote farm in British Columbia, Canada, but has spent most of her adult years living in Northern California. She received her bachelor’s and master’s degrees from California State University, Chico,

where she studied with Jeanne Clark, Ellen Walker, and Joanne Harris Allred. A traveler sometimes, H. Wallis has been writing on planes and buses, in bars and jukes, and on ramshackle piers and far-flung verandas for the better part of twenty years. She currently works as a copywriter and finds time for poetry on the ferry between work and her home in Sausalito. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in The Critical Pass Review, Drunk Monkeys, Existere, Fourteen Hills, The MacGuffin, Oxford Magazine, Pennsylvania English, and Watershed Review.

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