paramnesia
by Patrick Kindig

those long pandemic days: all sun
spacespacespa& silence. we saw

the dogwood flower, petal
spacespacespa by petal. we watched

the street blaze blank & black. nights,
spacespacespa we drank wine, dozed,

listened to the wind. when a couch spring
spacespacespa uncoiled above us

in the dead man’s apartment,
spacespacespa we heard it.

 

#brunch
by Sarah Newman

I stroll past the weekend crowds dining al fresco along stretches of city sidewalks, day drinking and laughing. Phones are at the ready to snap photos of Instagram-worthy brunch spreads atop bistro tables complete with centerpieces of fresh-cut flowers. It’s all about filters and framing. Unseen is the sweat dripping into their mimosas and the pigeons hunting for crumbs at their feet. Unheard are the ambulance sirens and the guy standing on the corner yelling incoherently to nobody in particular. Undetected is the scent of summer garbage rot mixed with BO from passersby. The thick-sliced French toast drenched in syrup, garnished with seasonal fruit and a generous sprinkling of powdered sugar, sure does look quite tasty, though. Especially, with the Sierra filter and a witty caption.

 

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Patrick Kindig teaches writing and American literature at Indiana University. He is the author of the micro-chapbook Dry Spell (Porkbelly Press 2016) and the chapbook all the catholic gods (Seven Kitchens Press 2019).

Sarah Newman writes and creates in New York City. Currently, she’s working on short fiction and creative nonfiction pieces, zines, and collages. Her writing has appeared in Luna Station Quarterly and the Singularity 50 anthology.