Laura LeHew, Rachel Contreni Flynn, Kat Lillian Steiger, Stephen Lindow

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Laura LeHew poems have appeared in such journals as Alehouse Press, Arabesques Review (Contemporary Women Writers, edition), Ellipsis, Her Mark Calendar ’07/’09, Outrider Press, Pank, and PMS. She coupled with the California College of Arts, incising a MFA in writing in ’03, interned for CALYX Journal in the winter of ‘05 and won a writing residency from Soapstone in ‘06.

The Witness

At precisely eleven you snap back your gold custom-made, imported Thai silk curtains. Spy the child across the bordering property. Like to imagine a smile etched on the girl’s bleak bone face. Some days while you wait to pull your green Cadillac with tan leather interior into your three car garage you nudge your car window open and call out a polite “how-do-you-do” to the child playing dead on the concrete. “You should come visit,” you entreat. The father hustles over whisks her inside for having bothered you. One day you turn the corner into your newly poured stamped concrete driveway only to discover the untidy girl inert on the decking of your front porch. Your gardener rounds the corner and glimpses the unmoving child at the same time. You both rush to her aid. Angry you go ring your neighbor’s bell, holler out a firm “hello, come quickly.” There is no answer. You run back, gather the child in your arms, prepare to rush her to the hospital when the father looms out of the garden. Clangs his shovel to the cement. Wrenches her free from you, wonders how she got out, mutters how she’s sick, she’s dying probably like the last one—some thyroid condition, plasters a smile on his face, manages a curt thanks and is gone. No ambulances come, no cars leave his garage. You speculate with the neighbors the whys and wherefores of his Victoria's Consort, a late blooming, pale white rhododendron, that grows so well. Later when the police detectives arrive armed with accusations about the “nice” man who lives next door, you are not surprised.



its not so simple to slip
beneath the slap in the shower

walk through the broken glass
to avoid the puddle

dishes sudsing in the sink
the siren song of the washing machine

outside it’s raining hailing snowing
or the sprinklers are on

vacations offer no relief sandy
beaches surround an unbridgeable horizon

cruise ships canoes rafts hold her

 Rachel Contreni Flynn grew up in a small Indiana farming town and now teaches poetry and practices law near Chicago. She received degrees in history and journalism from Indiana University, then went on to law school. In 2005, her first book, Ice, Mouth, Song, was published by Tupelo Press. She received a 2007 Literature Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Flynn's work appears widely in magazines and journals such as Barrow Street, Washington Square, Spoon River Review, Oxford Magazine, and Epoch. Rachel Flynn also works as a corporate attorney for Fortune Brands, Inc., a Fortune 500 consumer products company where she specializes in employment law. She lives in Mundelein, Illinois with her husband and two children and is working on her second book.




Courtyard LaGuardia                                       


I slept all day in a brown room and woke dressed as a waiter.  Everything was still as it was:  the fake geraniums, my umbrella, the waste can overfilled with milk.  But something was expected.  I milled around touching things.  The leafy lampshade, the long black wires.  These things burned me, so I returned to the pillows and screamed for a long time.  I am dressed as a waiter.  I have been waiting.  I have been waiting and nothing else in the brown room.  My breath is old.  My flesh is older.  I will keep waiting until it’s over, and the sky pins me to the box of home.



Kat Lillian Steiger While attending Emerson College's undergraduate writing, literature and publishing program from 1996-2000 she co-edited the on campus literary magazine The Emerson Review, was an Editorial Assistant at Ploughshares and received the college's Best Poetry Evvy Award in 2000.

The Sex of a Single-Mother

moves motionless
as Braille.
Curtseys between humps.
Cracker jacks along the barley.
Stupid curls along
the donkey’s ass.

Identifies with the
waterweed and mortar.
Unfaltering falcetto.
A half-muting, slow archery.

Radium girl
model that dickie.
Show me
jackknifed nobility.
Now, pass the paella
with your tongue.


It is a tired, eclectic eye.
A hitch-hiking gecko
working the mud strip.

A geisha’s
snot and bile.
Taste and tasting
as nonchalant
as parsnip.

Waxy poinsettia
slush covered
in the night-lot.

Gnarled placenta.


Wants only
to be a couplet
in its cove.

Or an orchid
in its idle
air cupping

Stephen Lindow earned his MFA in English from University of Massachusetts-Amherst in 2004 and now teaches full time 8th grade Language Arts in Springfield, MA. He interned at The Massachusetts Review and was a poetry editor at The Old Crow Review. He's been published in Redactions and The Tampa Review.




Instinct as a fluid

which keeps our candles lit


to our smallish eyes

will be enough

for inference.


Knives             do have the cleanest smile.

Their white shadows flit over the cold room

like insects.


The three pairs of scissors

in the spider’s mouth

crack, clean and gesticulate

to the god of the Ferris Wheel.


Instinct as the red flag

disguised as a cardinal

alights on the thorny fruit.


May there be dust from another continent

in my shoe.


An esophagus of wind

massages the blue health of the flowerfield


Instinct as a telescope;

a cable car through the galaxy.


Eyelids of stars

sputter on the tongue.