Disrespectfully, by Beatrice Winifred Iker
My lover killed meAs lovers are wont to doAnd buried me beneath the lilies I paid for, beside other regretsI’ve become close to a few of them We spent years…
issue 23
Tower of Owls, by Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan
The owls in the vault of your mouth confess their grieving silence to the chapel of the dead when a tarantula uplifts a ruined man& washes him clean of every ectopic morpheme refusing…
Moving Memorials: Adornments and Altars as Sites of Remembrance, by Julia Mallory
They are gathered at the curbside altar on a clear November night. In this cold world, it is unseasonably warm for this time of year. Side by side, at the…
Ask a Necromancer, by Amanda Downum
Sorting the Bones Cory asks, “How are morticians utilized in natural disaster death tolls?” In 2001, I was nearing the end of my undergrad degree. That fall semester, I was…
Fet Gedé, by Lysz Flo
Today is the Day of the Dead, and I make it un party de marquesina in both realms.
Notes From a Pyre, by Amal Singh
Baba lay slumped on his desk, his pen dangling from his parchment hands. His grey hair lay in knotted clumps over the notebook, his tongue sticking slightly outwards, almost licking the page he was writing on. His last scribble was his own name, Parikshit Mehta, with the ‘a’ trailing off, ending in an ink trail, his last act a death-flourish of his own signature. His eyes stared at the wall clock lifelessly. In them, I could see the glint of midnight, as the second hand struck twelve.