by Naila Moreira

I. She has drunk hemlock all winter, intimacy with earth. Ponderous, slow-footed, she rises, black magma, a boulder rolled onto these fields: quill pig, cumbersome hump of herbs and twigs, rump rigid, a mountain of spines to tell an earthly fortune. First green prickles from the sod. More ancient myth heaves stout and brown, chunk of turf fed on years of roots and bark, walking wilderness, keeping its pace, patient, … Continue Reading ››

I need to tell you when you ask if writing matters
by Diana Mitchell

how the men, one of them my uncle, tried to force the horse into the trailer how the gelded bay balked and hopped, reared gleaming and wild-eyed how the three of them refused to be beaten by a dumb animal and my uncle found a 2x4, pounded the bay’s rump step by step into the metal cave how my aunt and cousins and I shouted Stop, stop! and the … Continue Reading ››