Prose

Kathy Kurz Flesh “This is for you, Mom.” My youngest daughter, Julia, is home from college for the first time proudly showing me ‘my’ tattoo—sprays of lilacs and dogwood blossoms covering her shoulder. I try to be pleased. She explains:…

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Radhiyah Ayobami how maybelle survived new york who needed the north / when there was the smell of gardenias at night
as she slept between two big sisters in a hollow / of skin & smell
so when girls at…

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The Way We Worked, In Three Acts by Jamie Wagman I. Long Ago My grandmother worked in kitchens, professional and home, pouring coffee and working a register, working from recipes and working from memory. Her hands were smooth velvet,…

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