"Calamity or calumny,/ the autumn in its hue: is red"

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Issue 13: Free Form

Issue 12: The Necessary Ear

Issue 11: The Necessary Eye

Issue 10: Out on a Limb

Issue 9: The Missing Body

Issue 8: The Lily

Issue 7: Passages

Issue 6: No More Tears

Katy Lederer

Against the Gate

Before the bell tolls, she must


Through garden plot and broken


Against the gate, the devil has come.

The push

of his fingers on the cast-iron


The entrance, the last to have entered


Commence with sudden diligence to


The iron in the fire is hot, the cello in its coffin,


and all around the rooftops sighs of jaundiced



It Might Be True

It would be better not to say it

It might be true

That the people in this world, like me and you, are elevated

evening stars. In dark.

A bright idea—

I hear the dolorous bell

In sunset, which is wrapped in fir

Calamity or calumny, the autumn in its hue: is red

as paintbrush: Persephonous, blue. I will you to believe it

If we dwell

much longer under light.




Directed, through legend, to a fatalistic

want. Singed by sun and shown, through

dedication, that to have it is not

to have taken possession

in lit intent—in a regimented lyric

that defines itself by order and


defies through mishap—clasped

discarded, calamitous.

The black-petaled flower does

entail itself generically

through wind, as a cherub, through weather

as barb.