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Oh, Man, Even the Birds in This City

                    Lee Chilcote lives in a 1900 Victorian in Cleveland, Ohio with his wife, Katherine, and their three children. He has worked as a community organizer, real estate developer, writer and teacher. He once read his

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Fall ride on the chestnut

A river runs beneath his copper hide, shoulders of tight-bounded fibers bearing us forward, his chest reddening with eagerness under my own aching thighs, as the sun hangs still in a September-blue sky, browned grass crunching under us. This was his one prayer for his

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the heavy beauty

                                Heather Bourbeau’s fiction and poetry have been published in 100 Word Story, Cleaver, Duende, Eleven Eleven, Francis Ford Coppola Winery’s Chalkboard, Open City, The Stockholm Review of Literature, and

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Capture

                                Heather Bourbeau’s fiction and poetry have been published in 100 Word Story, Cleaver, Duende, Eleven Eleven, Francis Ford Coppola Winery’s Chalkboard, Open City, The Stockholm Review of Literature, and

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firekeeper

                                                                Zareen Zahra Zeero is a currently-itinerant trans nonbinary woman and stimulus arranger from

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Archetype of the Cage

            Robert Evory is a poet and musician from Detroit, Michigan. He is currently the Assistant Coordinator for the Creative Writing at Western Michigan University where he is the Poetry Editor for Third Coast; he is also the Managing Editor

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Wingdings

                            James Croal Jackson rediscovered his love of poetry while pursuing the film industry in Los Angeles, and his poems have since appeared in magazines including The Bitter Oleander, Rust + Moth,

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Cape Hatteras

DH 1979-2002 Coyote wakes me up at 2 a.m. He taps his paw against my shoulder blade— he’s never looked this old before. He turns away when I pull on my shorts. there’s the shadow of his back against the wall, the ash of my

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Coyote is Dead Near Exit 202 in Ohio

This morning the hens greeted me at the barn door, clucking and pecking along, checking my bootlaces for grain dust, while our four goats cried from their pen in the corner, climbing the woven wire gate, little beggars. It’s just past Full Peach Moon— walking