Contributed By: Pamela Miller
Make no little plans;
they have no magic to stir men’s blood
—Daniel Burnham
why address the world
through the wrong end of
a bullhorn?
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my poems don’t want
to heave one dew-soaked sigh
then die like mayflies
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want to watch poems
climb a half-inch Everest?
don’t call me
************************
make no teeny din—
let your poems rampage on stilts
like tornadoes
Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.
I’m masturbating across the hall from her dying. I’ve just finished giving her a bed bath. With that crazy half-detachment required when someone you love has stopped being that person. And has become instead this sickness. A moany…
When we decided to co-edit an issue of MAYDAY Magazine dedicated to nonfiction, we knew we wanted to see as wide a range as possible. We were particularly interested in work that pushes or blurs the boundaries…
I’m going to stop coming out in the usual I don’t want to offend you way. I’ll tell the next children’s librarian who asks me my husband’s name about the time a cop held my wife against…
I heard my hands were yellow, and in the lines I could feel deeper, like tea I never knew what any of that means if colors have smells then yellow lingered in front of my…
Tat tuam asi (You are this: that is, you are one and the same as all that surrounds you; you are the thing in itself) He who knows he is one with God achieves Nirvana: a Nirvana in which all darkness is illuminated; dizzying expansion of human consciousness, which is only a projection of the […]
“We were arguing,” she said. Her eyes felt wide. Her palms were drenched in sweat.
“What?” Her boyfriend grabbed her elbow. He felt like fire. She pulled away. And he looked pale to her. Pale as bones. She smelled smoke. “When?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” The incense singed her nose. Everything was aflame. “Wedding invitations?”
I recall the prickly pear shrub that never failed to pierce me as I tucked my skinny body behind it, trying to hide…
