Late-Season Outdoor Wedding

by Chelsea B. DesAutels

Featured Art: “Panel No. 1” (Leaning on a Parapet) by Georges Seurat


The night before, we’d eaten fried walleye

with tartar sauce in a big white tent and passed

the quaich filled with Irish whiskey to our loved ones

who sipped and said blessings. There was music.

You played guitar. I went to bed early, happy.

You joined me later, happy. The next morning,

we woke to snow and gray skies. All morning long,

I cried and heaved and my mother and bridesmaids

whispered, afraid I was having my doubts. I wasn’t.

I was rupturing—a violent fissure between

my wanting to be good at loving and wanting

everything, like a river island suddenly shorn

from the bank and flooded by ice melt. Over my dress,

I wore a fur stole that I’d found two summers earlier

in a roadside antique store. We’d been road-tripping

through the northwoods, you behind the wheel,

me gazing out the window at Lake Superior, a body

displaced by thousands of shipwrecks. Read More

If French Kissing Was As Good As Promised, Shouldn’t I Be Happy By Now?

by Emmy Newman

Featured Art: Southern France by Simona Aizicovici


I am accidentally thinking

about snail sex when we start. Mouths open.

Tongues. When snails have sex

there is a slightly gruesome amount of suction.

First, a tingling graze of eye stalk on eye stalk.

Then a lack of movement. Wet flesh. Fireworks. Read More

The Art of Longing

by Emily Sinclair

Featured Art: Pandora by Odilon Redon

We knew that we wanted a change, my husband and I, although we were unclear about how—or, more accurately, where we’d make it happen. The change was coming because I had, once again, a feeling of anxiety and inauthenticity. It comes on periodically and when it comes, I think that I am not living the life I was meant to lead—that, in fact, I am leading the wrong life, and I start fantasizing about the right one. So in the spring of 2017, we cleaned out our basement, fixed what was broken, touched up the paint, and put our Denver house on the market. We were leaving.

Read More

“Metaphor Offers the Promise to Move Us”: A Conversation with Nicole Walker, Author of Sustainability: A Love Story

by Kay Keegan

KK: In your essay “On Beauty,” the narrator observes that Michel de Montaigne inadvertently uses the concept of beauty to stitch together his vast collection of essays. When you were writing Sustainability: A Love Story, when did you discover that love would be one of the most prevalent themes in your braided collection and how did that influence your writing on the environment and sustainability as a result? (Or, was love a constraint you gave yourself at the beginning of the drafting process? Why?)

NW: I have to admit, I mean “love story” almost as tongue-in-cheekily as I mean Sustainability. Read More


by Kenneth Hart

Featured Art: The Bathers by Roger de La Fresnaye 



Couples who fight in front of you. Couples

who call each other every hour. Couples

who show up early.

Couples who are business partners.


Couples who say “Absolutely.”

Couples who met in rehab.

Couples who sleep with other couples.

Couples who make out in front of you. Read More

How I Save My Husband’s Life

by Patricia McMillen

Featured Art: Forever Roses by Simona Aizicovici



He’s dead asleep at 4 a.m. the day

after my bunion surgery, when I

climb out of bed to pee, rising too fast,

and pass out in the bathroom, landing slumped

against the tub, waking him with my cry,

and he too rises, runs to the doorway,

and catching sight of me, kneels at my head

distraught, cradling me like a mortician Read More


When We Were Neanderthals

by Chrys Tobey

Featured Art: The Visit – Couple and Newcomer by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner 


I hunted deer for you. I scratched your back with stone tools

and we swaddled each other in fur from sabre-tooth cats


and laughed as we said, burp me. We’d say things like, You know what

they say about a large cranium. I’d chase a woolly mammoth


just because you thought it was sexy. We’d snort chamomile

and talk about how after we’re dead others will ponder our


big toes and our inability to ice-skate. When we were Neanderthals,

you’d make me necklaces of shell, and because this was a few years


before the Pill, we had a kid, but because this was also a few years

before the Catholic Church, we eventually mastered when to pull out.


When we were Neanderthals, we had no buses to take, no offices

to be at, no flights from Germany to wherever. I was never


lonely. You’d run and hide in the woods and I’d try to spot you. We

thought the stars were ours. We thought the earth was square.


We thought the sky was a song, and then the Homo sapiens came. Read More

All That Shimmers and Settles Along the Roads of Our Passage

by Mark Cox

Featured Art: Still Life by Ben Benn


After seventeen years, I return home to my ex-wife,

without the cigarettes and bread,

without the woman and children I left her for,

older, empty-handed, and yet

to the same clothes

still in the same drawers,

as if nothing has changed. Read More