Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz


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T'Shuva
by Alan Fyfe

for Devorah, a kind judge

You are standing on a balcony
that is the ghost of a balcony,
jutting from the back of an unformed thing:
a house shell on the edge of the Indian ocean.

It yawns, this mass, this shell, this construct.
It is an idea slowly dressing in flesh
in the days before wires and plaster
have finalized its temporal form.

It yawns because it is winter
and it faces the sea wind,
which is at you—cold blooded and insistent.
Its windowless face is a infantile mouth.

At the other corner of the balcony,
there's the ghost of a living girl
that may be half dead yet.
She stands, smoking.

The arm, which isn't engaged in the act
of nicotine rich self harm, is folded
under her breast against
a pain you can't see.

She asks impish koan
in the language of Babylon,
and compounds
on real things too.
The unused pack
of red clay bricks;
a clipped geometric intrusion
against the crisp line of the horizon.


What is it, the straight line of the horizon?
A confusion of water and sky,
the same illusion the Neanderthals fell for...

Endless water... a circle... a return.

A background note behind the smell of rain—
cheap vodka—like nail polish remover,
like the age of twenty five, like dizzy sickness.

A voice whispering, just outside your range
the secret name of g-d behind a diatonic note.

Long, slow, entire.


Alan Fyfe is a writer who lives in Western Australia. He has published poetry, prose, essay, and journalism. He was the poetry editor for the first edition of the University of Western Australia creative writing journal, Trove, and in 2009, won the Karl Popper award for philosophy. He lives by the river, with his son, very far from you.



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