Maggie Millner is an undergraduate at Brown University, and is currently living and writing in Prague.
Cindy’s work is in quotation marks. Years back she bought a cloudbuster hoping she could make it rain enough to flood the basement of her mother the logomancer’s corporate office. Some forms of divination you can count on to fail but tea-leaves will always tell what color hair the writer had before she killed the lead. Cindy’s been stirring Darjeeling… Read more →
The stitches will unstitch themselves, the doctor says, but not before the roof of your mouth has fused with your bottom gums on your lowermost gingival palate. Your teeth in a bowl on the window you used to keep change in. Little executives, your molar sockets, taking off their suits at the end of a forty-year day, lapsing back into… Read more →
…but there is only time for fasting and desire, device and design, there is only time to swerve without limbs, organs or face into a scientific silence, pinhole of light —Michael Palmer I Chronology is a field of stars. The mythologue’s statistics a zodiacal map, a glowing quotient taking shape. You know you’re old when you scrapbook the car crash… Read more →
In my backwood rot one thousand moths: owl, browntail, rosy maple, aortic, earworm, antler. Negligees in the morning look like windshield-stricken insects or dead fairies when your brakelights fly off trees out here. In me rot the opposites of blue and luminous, a mostly white poem about a bedspread. The words I chose I found in the treenware bowl by… Read more →