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Miss Mangelli’s Antennaed Pest Problem by Charles J. March III

YANY MOONS after the Mexican Revolution, just inshore from a harbor in California where roaches are in the swim alongside anglers, and where many of the revolutionaries’ ancestors work for burghers who are whiter than a bakery cockroach—a hornet’s nest was in the wings, as a toothsome woman was unknowingly harboring something less smashing.
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2 Poems by Sean Chapman

diffusing my bunkmate.
at night and often times
during the day I share
a bunk bed with a sulky skeleton.

Belly wet. by Charley Barnes

The boy prefers the fields before they’re cut –
likes the lick of grass along his small gut,
how the blades make tongues
of themselves, the dew their spit and dribble.
When the turf is slashed I feel the absence
for him, see in his infant face
the loss of tickles, touches from nature.

Yemen food crisis can actually help you to get over Eating Disorder. by Sobia Ali

Write this by pen. Don’t type into any device, in case. 
Don’t forget this is a mental health condition—
you are suffering from a psychological disorder.
There is nothing wrong in benefitting from 
watching others suffer. Voyeurism is not a crime, 
not as long as you don’t get caught.
Who knows more about hunger than you? 
The hunger claws at your insides relentlessly, 
digs at the hollow of your belly. 

Adult Play. + 2 more, by Trevor Conway

Act I

A barren scene: furry things
like bodies flat on a battlefield.
Baby coos, strapped in a chair,
beholding a performance like a queen:
Father hides his face
behind his trembling hands,
in the hope she’ll be amused.
Baby claps a stuttered applause,
still learning the language of arms.

Before Christmas by Gosia Nealon

23 December 1943
Gestapo Headquarters on Szucha Avenue, Warsaw, Poland

An armed Nazi guard walks me through a maze of corridors into a small room. I detect a whiff of bleach that fails to mask the ominous smell of blood. Harsh light pours through the window.

The guard pushes me toward a chair with spots of brown paint peeling off across from a desk cluttered by issues of Wehrmacht magazine, a black telephone handset, and a lamp. A faded picture of Hitler on a wall gives a sickening sensation in my stomach.

Soon I hear the heavy click-click of heels on the corridor floor. The door swings wide open to reveal a fair-haired man in a gray uniform with a diamond-shaped SD insignia, accompanied by a severe-looking brunette. He pays no attention to me as he walks around the desk and settles in the large wooden chair. His female companion takes a seat at a small table with a typewriter.