Three Boys, by Jen Michalski
She had never been this close to a boy, close enough to feel the scratch of chest hairs on her back, the rough, warm pressure of fingers cinching her waist.
The Composed Soul, by Anna Leahy
In 2010, I unexpectedly secured a media badge via my university’s magazine to see a space shuttle launch at Kennedy Space Center.
Two Poems, by Julia Shipley
SLUG POEM
(after Elizabeth Spires)
I want to say how I feel about you
animated booger, kin of phlegm ingesting your
A Kleptomaniac Love Story, by Lucie Britsch
I take things
Things that aren’t mine
Why would I take my own things?
As in the Case of the Squirrel, Love Means Eating Crow, by M. Bartley Seigel
Grey squirrels live in my soffits. Not the albino squirrels I see running around my neighborhood, though they are grey squirrels, too?
Three Poems, by Mary Stone
[JENNIFER GETS OVER HER EX]
She realizes it’s been months
since she logged into his email
or checked his browsing history
Mannequin Head, by Sean Higgins
Uncle Royce runs out of flophouses to nest up in—halfway joints managed by chain-smoking program pukes with carry permits and ten-year chips in their khaki shorts.
Two Poems, by D. Gilson
THE SUMMER I HALF DATED A ROCK STAR
How much longer are we going to look
for Arby’s?
Please Be Careful With Your Eyes, by Colleen Abel
Believe me, I know from hands. I think I could recognize us just that way: ArtiezToyz has clean, broad fingernails and almost hairless knuckles. MPHotWheels wears a gold watch on his left hand.
Two Poems, by Rita Feinstein
THE IMAGINARY LOVER TOXICITY SCALE
1. Lover is harmless. Nameless and faceless, a composite rockstar with Adam Levine’s forearms and young Bono’s dark hair.
Jesus of the Milk Bottles, by Shannon Reed
When I was five, I had a milk bottle which I thought was Jesus.
A Partial List, by Richard Z. Santos
Despite all he accomplished, here’s a partial list of things Bowie never did:
Can You Hear Me, Major Tom?, by Ally Malinenko
It was probably 1985. Yes, that sounds right. That would make me eight. My oldest sister, seven years my senior, ruled the stereo and record collection as oldest sisters are wont to do.
The Stars Look Different, by Eileen Tomarchio
I was twelve when I first heard Space Oddity.
This was the early 1970s, when even the popular kids were sad and disconnected. I just knew them as mean, so I spent a lot of time in my own company.
Look Up: How David Bowie Helped Me See, by Amy Lyons
We were a football field of fans awaiting the leper messiah’s entrance. The crowd erupted and surged hard; you had to move with the human wave or risk a limb crushing.
Ziggy Played Left Field, by Brent Terry
Ziggy played guitar. I played left field for Wyoming Tradesmen.
1972, and I was a skinny little-leaguer in a baggy uniform, cherished Rawlings fielders mitt dangling from my left hand, standing sunburned to a crisp in the remotest regions of the outfield.
Space, My Mother, and David Bowie, by Rhian Ellis
David Bowie was my mother's music. In the early seventies, she played it all the time, usually loudly, often while drinking and crying. She loved Bowie so much she had a poster of Aladdin Sane on her bedroom wall.