By Sarah Elizabeth Schantz (a broken sestina) The city throbs neon from the edges of the orchard. On the third floor upon the windowsill, a doll perched atop the house like a raven is the attic. These are the spaces we haunt. But don’t forget the cellar, Between the living and the dead, a dank veil. At the pulpit the bride awaits her unveiling, Inside her heart an orchard, between her legs a cellar. She is a house in which to put your dolls. To be a mother is to be haunted.

By S.D Gould Grief arrives first. Of course he does. He has always known where this ends. The table is set for two though I don’t remember making a reservation. Candles flicker, low, deliberate. The kind of light that lets regret pass for intimacy. Grief takes the seat that used to belong to someone else. He’s never needed permission. He just folds himself into the chair like he’s been rehearsing this for years. “You’ve changed,” he says, like a memory trying on my voice. I p

By Elliot Chester I want to reconcile with the almighty. These are the words I mutter as I enter church. Alone. Traipsing on the narrow, burgundy carpet, this reminds me of a steamrolled tongue and already my thoughts start subduing. Thinking of my choirboy days, my psyche cracks like the Renaissance saints upon stained glass windows. I poise on a knee-dented cushion, feeling contempt dawdling. Devil red lights hang like squandered hearts, beaming and pulsing. The air tastes