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   Front Cover:
   Paul Anthony Smith
   Port Antonio Market #4, 2013
   Unique picotage on inkjet print with spray paint

   OVER THE SIX YEARS I've been working for this magazine,
   a single question has been put to me more than any
   other. What sort of work do you publish? . . .

   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.. . .