The happiness of six slow women is dependent upon me. That is what I tell myself, while driving to work, where I provide succor to tired families responsible for the full-time care of their mentally challenged adult daughters, dropped off
Mourn
The package was rubber-banded, wrapped in plastic. He listened to the throaty croaks of river toads and the chirps of cicadas as ice water rattled the shore. The unsettling sirens of an ambulance screaming toward the vale. It drove through
Severance
There’s an art to looking busy. Everyone knows the consequences of not looking busy enough, but looking too busy will attract unwanted attention as well. It’s the balance, the happy medium somewhere between bored and overwhelmed that we all seek
FROM Landing August
Chris Holdaway is a poet, editor, & linguist from New Zealand. He is a director of Compound Press, & a candidate in the MFA programme at the University of Notre Dame. He received his MA(Hons) in linguistics from the University
Featured Visual Artist Issue #13
My current body of work explores ideas of geology, piling, webs, and balance. Through worlds and structures comprised of geometric shapes, lines, and repetitive mark making, I explore just how much can be piled up before falling down. Jungle gyms,
Poem
Small audiencefor this matinee. Movie screen lightlike a holy door’s. Like a blonde girl’shair in a sports car. By the sea, deadteens do The Frug. (Radios pick upghosts, supposedly. Mumbling ones.Mute lamentations. A camera can pullsoul through the eye. (Pneuma:
Dance of the White Buffalo
There’s an inconclusiveness to this dinner that’s exciting. It’s the struggle that matters, even if and when you fail to arrive at a better dinner. The police arrive. The house was bugged and it’s the green light they needed. So
Manifest
I have sat with that term / homeland as the father of the bride / drain my dowry and slaughter my cattle / I place my foot upon a compounded back to get / a better view of the scenery
I WONDER
I WONDER (II) If all new believers have to go through that trial in the desert. If I would have been better off if I had gone back. If it was all in my head. If just in the end
Print Edition
everything I write, I write it for you. pineapples, toreadors, wood grain–this is for you. siestas in a hammock of love–for you. parachutes dripping through the sky, like rain. powerful men in cadillacs, like rain. hood ornaments. this is for