Paul Anthony Smith
Port Antonio Market #4, 2013
Unique picotage on inkjet print with spray paint
Kindness, a poem by Francisco Urondo,
translated by Julia Leverone
Give mercy to the mistaken,
to those who quickened their step and those
clumsily slow. To those who spoke under torture
or whatever kind of pressure, to those who knew. . .
Not All There, a story by Eric Henry Sanders
She had pretty blue eyes. And the fact that they
were looking at him was the first good thing that
had happened to him in a week.
“What do you do?” she asked. . . .
Gray Noise, a story by Charles Swift
I am marooned in a stall.
Day after glorious day, I plant myself among these
three cloth-covered dividers that rise five feet from
the thinly carpeted floor of the software company. . . .
Why Things Fall: Galileo, Hawking, Rabinowitz,
a story by Erin Stalcup
Galileo Galilee had a lovely courtyard in the house he
was not allowed to leave. Someone found an abandoned
bird, one they weren't sure could survive on its own. . .
The Very Idea of a Bridge, a poem by Mira Rosenthal
is flypaper to fog's moisture, suspended
beauty, as Frommer's said to the populace
traveling abroad, a loneliness litmus test
in the midst of traffic, in the mist and . . .
from The Books of Jacob, a story by Olga Tokarczuk,
translated by Jennifer Croft
Iwanie is not far from the fault that is the bed of the
Dniester River. The way the village is arrayed along the
Transnistrian plateau it looks like dishes set out on a
table, too close to the table’s edge. . . .
The Translational Life of Cities, an essay by Sherry Simon
Examining photographs taken in the 1930s in the city
of Czernowitz, Marianne Hirsch and Leo Spitzer try to
imagine which language the men and women are speaking
as they stride confidently down the main street. . . .
The Joints That Hold Us Together,
an essay by Annie Lampman
My oldest half sister was first, not long after I was born.
Eleven years old and an early developer, she already had
the beginnings of breasts, hips, thighs. . . .
Whose House, Whose Playroom,
a poem by Virginia Smith Rice
I have never found sex a sustainable
solution to want. This lack-
tragic has not contributed to my greater
personal happiness. It is possible
I am doing it wrong.. . .