"63rd Street Tunnel" by Julliard Lin

These tunnel walls begin to dome around

our train car when we leave the underground

of Queens and snake into the river’s bed;

inside, the swelling cords of music thread

along the acid-initialed windowpanes,

between the poles whose metal scent remains

like second skin on every palm; his song,

alive, untwists itself against the long

expanse of inner walls; outside is quelled

by iron thrashing like ocean with itself:

These ceilings curve to amplify the sound;

these ceilings curve to hold the river out

that pours its weight against the masonry.

And he sings: “Darlin’, darlin’, stand by me...”

The voice is easy; we ease to a stop —

and hear the dimes inside his coffee

"Instructions for a Self-Portrait" by Jeffrey Landman

Unyoked from look

I want the eye

pulling shadow like a plough:

ox coloured.

Furrows should drape the downs.

The head should be the story

of a limb re-grown each day —

a new word in an old tongue

tried for the first time —

at angle

undiminished.

Excerpt "Selkie, Salt, and Bark" by Frannie Hannan

He fingered each bone in her back as she fell asleep. Her spine curved slightly at the small, only noticeable to a finger trace. He kept tracing even when her breath changed so that he knew she was sleeping. He stopped at each knuckle-like bone until he too was asleep.

When he woke up the sun was in his eyes. He clasped his wrists around the circle where she had slept but she was not inside it. She always left in the early morning. He would often try to stay awake long enough to see her go but would lull himself to sleep on her backbones and wake up clasping his wrists. The sheets next to him were unwrinkled.

The next night as she lay in his arms, he traced her spine first with his finger and then with his lips. Her skin was so smooth it was almost slippery. He counted each bone until a cool half-light came through the blinds. He felt her stir. Her eyes peeled open at the first sign of morning.