By Rhonda Shary
Vacation had been unfolding as if charmed. With car windows open, idling in the small grocery’s parking lot, we studied the local map of Provincetown. If Mary Oliver would only wander past, all would be perfect.

Skinning the Gloves

By Jonathan Starke
You box to forget her. The soft olive skin, how she walked as if straddling a line, the no-names of children you will never have. And this hurts when you look at your hands. Pain comes with each punch.

Essay: No. 7

By Paul Oh
At Hunter’s Point, the No. 7 noses out of the East River tunnel, glimpsing Queens for the first time. Factories, then row houses, bodegas, 99 cent stores.

Essay: Life by Bicycle

By H.K. Hummel
At four a.m., our cat lays a starling down in the hallway. The bird’s complaint sounds like green branches snapping. Its eye contains night sky.

Essay: On Decay

By Grant Faulkner
The menacing artistry of a rusted piece of tin, the pulse of its patina, incrustations. Sharp corners demand such sharpness. A shine requires work, exertion, planning, orders...