Robert C. Hardin

Prismed Autumn (an Imitation) You who denigrate the Fall as nature’s end: Have you beheld the brilliance of its dying? It is not cloaked in mourning, weighted by some sable hood, but nakedly chromatic, varie...

The Editors

Here's the complete list of all the pieces from our 13th issue, along with the back cover, a collage of mugshots from the collection of Mark Michaelson, submitted for your perusal. If you'd like to support us, please purchas...

The Editors

This was so much fun last year, I thought we'd do it again. (Two of my favorite books of the year were ones I picked up from last year's list: Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel, recommended by Deborah Pintonelli, and ...

Robert C. Hardin

My father liked to say that I’d always been impossible to find. During birth, he recalled, I couldn’t be extracted with forceps. No one could see me, so I made my own way out of my mother. The midwife only located me aft...

Robert C. Hardin

The experience of bliss means different things to different people. For this frustratingly former arranger and studio keyboard player, euphoria is conditioned by the search for perfect sounds. To me, bliss means the slow...

Robert C. Hardin

Cirrhosis isn’t half as bad As maladies you might have had. A failing liver strains the muscles But liberates the red corpuscles. When voided kidneys soak one’s dollies, Relief, like spasms, comes in volleys. Rope-...

Robert C. Hardin

Being the Recollections of a Late Inmate (1931–1946) of the Dalmarnock Asylum for Children in Glasgow, Scotland The eyes were what changed and flayed me above all else—the eyes or, rather, the doll’s eye...