Front cover:
  Jaccueline De Jong
  War 1914 - 1918, detail, 2013
  Courtesy of the artist and Chateau Shatto, Los Angeles

 DO PEOPLE CHANGE? The team of rivals currently
 competing for attention in my brain was consulted
 on this question long ago, but the jury’s still out. . .

 A River in Egypt, a poem by Chase Twichell
 Denial is not a river in Egypt
 says my t-shirt, once Dad’s.

 But it is, with its crocodiles and palms,

 and all the answers flying this way,
 little vanilla egrets low over the water. . .

 Why I Get Lost, an essay by Vince Granata
 When I was eight years old, my mom invented a game
 called “getting lost.” She was worried, she later told me,
 that I was starting to feel less loved. . .

 The Christian Girl, a story by Edie Meidav
 That morning, I had not exactly been spying on the
 Christian girl taking her bath outside in the strange area
 my father had rigged up for her, because though it had
 been permissible for him to get by the women of the
 house the idea of this young girl . . .

This Is Autumn, My Dear: Talking with Yunna Morits,
    an essay by Philip Metres

 Yesterday, I passed a line of trees that edge the
 campus where I walk. A yellow maple and red maple
 stood side by side, their leaves a stunning carpet of
 yellow and red around their respective trunks. . . .

 Oranges, a story by David Zellnik
Nine years after my mother died, I saw her in Berlin.
 She was Turkish this time, religious too from the look
 of it so there was a headscarf. Her skin was slightly
 darker but it was her, no doubt. . .

Godsblood, a poem by Matthew Westbrook
 Sumptuous, yes. And inviting:
 the junction of bone and bread.
 How I rise to this task
 before I, too, am smote, smitten
 with love of living, here in the middle
 of the kitchen. . . .

 Anna's House, a story by Mhani Alaoui
 Beithe was a loud city. It had the loudness of a city not
 yet used to itself. Steel clicked against steel and stone
 echoed stone. There was no respite from its noise. . . .

 The American Dream Writes to Orpheus,
   a poem by Cynthia Dewi Oka

 My love,

 The tide is poised. Between you and I the end of the world

 where an abandoned crane will either spit blue
 blazing desert from its graffiti lips or smash
 the crow-bedecked tenements in search of a trumpet. . .