TIMBER 9.1

The Burden He's: the amoeba glue that binds together a chair of toothpicks straddled by this flat’s inhabitants, except this resin is not solid, is not set by design must give a little to bear the weight of us We: are the meters a skyscraper must be able to lean...

Let there be multiplication What orientation / the middle of the road point your compass / toward true failure hovering god / your rating was very good not excellent / not four stars vouched for after six days this / a home away from home unpracticed perfection / not recommended...

Defining Words You Can't Spell Sarah Shapiro was born in Chicago and lives in Somerville, MA. She is a poetry MFA candidate at UMass Boston. Her academic career was not a guarantee, as she grew up with learning (dys)abilities and did not begin to read until the age of eight...

Vital Things Sara Biggs Chaney has published poems in a range of journals, including Sixth Finch , Blackbird , Rhino , Sugar House Review , Hayden's Ferry , Juked , Columbia Poetry Review , Pank , Gargoyle , Thrush , and many more. She is the author of two chapbooks...

HARLOW POSTCARD 1 CENT Amulet Harlow & the Fertility Rite “Not only was Bello still jobless, but his newfound status as a movie star’s stepfather had increased his infidelities. Enraged and disgusted, Mother Jean contacted a lawyer in secret until Bello discovered her scheme and threatened to sell pornographic photos...

Mimi. Or Miriam, as you’re always correcting me. I thought you’d at least come down here yourself. Instead you hired some white woman from an agency. You arranged for my abduction. Casually, remotely. Trish Hopkins from a place called Flanders Meadows. And all I can picture when she says this...

He once caught Nana singing in a language whose words seemed all one seamless word. She was singing to her paintings, portraits of faces he’d never known and could only ask whose bodies they belonged to. “Me,” Nana said. “These are my faces, all of them.” Yet he couldn’t understand...

The boy, Billy, was the husband. He pinched an imaginary tie knot between his fingers, straightened it in front of an imaginary mirror, then ran his hand over his blond curls in an attempt to mat them into a neat, business-like part. He picked up a lunch box of Legos...

I am a bad mother. I’ll be the first to admit it. Take Little League games. Can’t stand them. All these blonde sorority moms, pushy or prissy or both, and black-haired, tattooed me, cheering on our little darlings. Please. I wouldn’t even be here if Mom hadn’t signed Noah up...

You rip up the old beige carpet, matted down with fifty years of footsteps. Dust whirls up: bantam bits of grandparents and babies and pets and dinosaurs and rocks from space. The history of the universe and yesterday’s Chihuahua dandruff are equal here, spinning gold in the light from the...