art. literature. commentary.
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?
************************
my poems don’t want
to heave one dew-soaked sigh
then die like mayflies
************************
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…
