The Cafe Review

by David Cope unspoken sorrow of upturned faces, crowds on Michigan Avenue scurrying, whispering their quick talk staving off the night —

by Victoria Surliuga A woman: dressed in black, sitting on a rock, exhausted from the heat, counts the grains of sand fallen from her lap. She

by Alessandro Carrera Take the act of grasping for example. It is a gesture the enclosure of the soul does not explain. No desire arises that

by Mark Terrill The broken mirror above the cracked sink in the cheap hotel room in the ancient harbor on the other side of the island seems to

by Mark Terrill Between these meridians where pastoral alchemy is loosened on tough afternoons these attributes of tension and release

by Mark Terrill In the postbellum antechamber of an old boatyard in Dithmarschen I brush the dust off a book and read how the ancient Chinese

by Sara Toruño-Conley Another trip along the penny’s edge dropped into the pool: swallowed water, we, bags of water. Try this. When they take you

by J. B. Sisson The day my wife’s due back from a long trip, I’ve stumbled on the soft corpse of a thrush beside the morning paper at the door.

by Jefferson Navicky My uncle is a barber. He cuts hair with a pair of chopsticks. People don’t know the difference. It’s like he’s tossing a

by Jefferson Navicky Inspired by Harper’s Magazine, March 2013 On the night of 23 March, I was summoned to 9 Berkeley Place, the home of Mr.

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