by William Kelley Woolfitt
Featured art: Crow and the Moon by Kawanabe Kyōsai
I’ve been told Crow’s story so many times I remember it better than my own memories. It was my bedtime, naptime, and story-time story. I think my parents told it to each other too, in whispers, in each other’s arms, striped with moonlight coming in through the blinds, too tired to say anything new.
There was a storm the night my parents drove me home from the hospital. I was a few hours old. Mother says that the rain was too fast for the windshield wipers, that Father pulled over three times. Father says that Mother sat in the backseat and held me the whole way. When we got home, we had to wait almost an hour for the rain to die down. Father found some jazz on the radio, climbed into the back to be with Mother and me. That was the first time he held me. Mother fell asleep, and dreamed she was a passenger in a boat.
Wind toppled the elm in our front yard, though later on some neighbors claimed it had been hit by lightning. It just missed our house. One branch scratched our bedroom window. Crows spent the night on our porch, their nest in the elm ruined.
Mrs. Yamato across the street saw the crows on our porch swing, screamed and dropped her chopsticks. An omen of death, she thought. She came running over with a broom. All the crows flew away, except a baby. Father put the baby crow in a shoebox and thanked Mrs. Yamato for her concern. Mother went into the yard, walked around the fallen elm and its jagged stump, poked into the fallen nests and found shiny things: bottle caps, bits of tinfoil, Father’s screwdriver, her own gold pendant necklace.
by Jessica Pierce
The female in particular seems worthy.
She carries mud in her jaws to make her nest
one mouthful at a time, setting up
in a crevice or a corner. One egg,
one chamber. One egg, one chamber.
It’s better to keep them apart, as larvae don’t
know the difference between food and
a brother or a sister. They aren’t wicked,
just young and hungry. She has pirate
wasps to battle—they want her young
to feed their own offspring—and she does this
alone, drinking flower nectar to keep
herself going. Let’s just try
and see what happens when we raise up
this winged thing who will hover by your feet
without attacking. Covered with dense golden
hair and sometimes described as singing while
she works, all she wants is bits of damp dirt.
She has a slender thorax and two thin
sets of wings to carry her and
her earth. She is exactly strong enough
for what she needs to do. She doesn’t burn
or proclaim or fill your head with visions
as she hunts crab spiders and orb
weavers and black widows. Yes, let’s ask
her to pray for us as she stings
a black widow, brings it to its knees,
and sets off to feed her children,
singing as she holds up the world. Read More
by Michael Chaney
Featured Artwork: Diner by John Dubrow
By the time the cow set down the samosas, covering the spot where he’d earlier hooved his name, Fox seemed different to Pig.
“Simply marvelous,” Pig said with an air, trying to play it off.
Fox coughed. “May I have more water?” Annoyance puckered her auburn snout.
“Not a problem,” said the cow. “Mind if I brag about our wines?”
“Please do, darling.” Fox had a lovey-dovey way of talking. To Pig, she was not so different from the elegant junk in herringbone patterns on the walls: bugles, radios, troughs, collars, toys, and white puffy gloves. Read More
by Catherine Stearns
Featured Art: Landscape with Dog by Thomas Doughty
“We may be in the universe as dogs and cats are in our libraries, seeing the books and hearing the conversation, but having no inkling of the meaning of it all.” —William James
On sunny, cerulean days I go all the way
to eleven when I stretch and sniff among the leaves,
whereas you stay inside, hunched over
your moral universe. Old girl, if you
stopped trying to decipher those fossil bird tracks,
you might see the thermal-gliding hawk above
or that zaftig possum gnawing on fallen
persimmons under the window. I’m just saying
your preference betrays a certain fear
of your own nature. Remember
last summer when you left me in the car
to pick up a book they were holding for you,
and a page or two in you recognized
your own penciled and may I say
obsessive marginalia, although you had
no memory of the text itself?
Whatever made you think your mind
could be disenthralled with words?
As a pup, I once took Mark Strand’s
injunction in “Eating Poetry” to heart,
devouring one or two slim volumes,
but soon realized I prefer the raw
material of life, what e e cummings
calls “the slavver of spring”: smells
of fresh earth, the ghostly scent of
rabbits, even the mounds of dirty laundry
piled up on your bed. If you found answers
to your questions, do you truly believe
those answers would transform you?
So many of your species seem
susceptible to revelation. We’re all
browsers, old girl, without an inkling,
waiting by the door for a treat or to be forgiven
until our unleashed immortal part bolts
for that hit of dopamine. Then
all good dogs go to heaven.
by Erika Brumett
Featured art: Summer: Cat on a Balustrade by Théophile-Alexandre Pierre Steinlen
“One by one—in convents across medieval Europe—nuns began to believe they were cats.”
–Michael Garerda (Shared Hysteria: Group Madness and the Middle Ages)
Happened after mass
last sabbath. We broke
fast (curdmilk, cabbage),
sat rigid in our hair-
shirts and worship. But heard
then—urgent as prayer
by the dais—a purr-
purring rise from Sister
Mary Iris. Since then, Read More
by Abby Horowitz
Featured Art: Sleeping Lion and Lioness by Samuel Raven
I am trying to tell Francine about the new babies in my life. They’re lions, baby lions, and they have fur the color of corn flakes and little ears that look straight off a teddy bear and they turn my heart right to butter. But here is the kicker: their mother is dead. Something weird must have happened when she birthed them because a little while later, they found her stretched out in the dirt up front by the viewing glass. The father lion was roaring on his big rock, with his mane standing on end, while the cubs were kneading their paws into the mother lion’s white underbelly and gnawing at her black teats. But no dice, that lioness would roar no more and now things do not look good for those little cubs. Because they’re not taking well to the fake milk they’re getting now or the plastic nipples they’re getting it from, and the father lion keeps pawing around with an evil look on his face that is making the zoo staff nervous. Read More
by Nancy Eimers
Featured art: A Bird’s-Eye View by Theodore Robinson
My neighbor Lee is calling her cat home again
in a voice high and sweet
up there in the ether where everything is in question.
Back down inside her the urge
is probably to answer the questions herself—
the name of the cat is both question and answer—
or to save time and actually see the cat Read More
by Geneviève Paiement
Featured art: from A Picture Book of Practice Sketches by Rinsai Ōkubo
-In September 2018, Johns Hopkins University neuroscientist Gül Dölen
published a scientific study wherein she dosed octopuses with MDMA
to see if they would react like humans and become more cuddly. They did.
She hypothesizes that humans are more closely related to octopuses
than we think. Fills a tank with ecstasy. Plunks in us two octopuses.
Just five hundred million years of evolution between us, she muses.
Surely what MDMA does to humans it will do to us octopuses.
Surely we’ll break out in the same cold-sweat/hot-flash, will twist-grind
our visceral humps, bump beaks, squish-entwine our fellow octopus.
Oh wow. I’m at the other’s central axial nerve pump in a house beat,
sucker-to-sucker, lights-out smoke machine to my sister sextapus. Read More
by Winnie Anderson
Featured Artwork: The Waterfall by Henri Rousseau
Eons ago, during the Pleistocene Epoch, the jaguar left his home and traveled across the cold arid grassland: his resolve set. The floods were coming again. If he stayed, the land would either be covered with water or be broken into land pockets, from which there’d be no escape. The time was now. He had to go.
In him the jaguar carried echoes of history, tens of millions of years’ worth of heat spikes, ice ages, tectonic upheavals, and mega-explosions. Time swirled uniquely around him. He felt two trajectories at once—like a stone cast into the deep lake of time, sinking down to the bottom where all life may have begun, as well as the outward rippling cat’s paw upon its surface. History. Present. Future. All there, his for the grappling. Read More
by Tom Whalen
Featured art: Still Life with Poppy, Insects, and Reptiles by Otto Marseus van Schrieck
One more step and we are out of the circle and have entered the domain, equally delineated and autonomous, of a different species.
—Vladimir Nabokov, “Father’s Butterflies”
My wife departed on the day I began in earnest my Critical Insect Studies. Before this date, I had only jotted down a few thoughts and titles, cut and pasted a few class papers, nothing more, but I was sure, as much as I had ever been sure of anything, basking in my certainty like an oiled blonde in Cannes, that I had found, at age twenty-seven, the subject on whose wings my career would soar from campus to campus, lecture hall to lecture hall around the globe, sometimes Sam coming along, though increasingly, I imagined, taken up with his own concerns. Perhaps we would have had children by then, or new avatars, I didn’t know, or perhaps we would have drifted apart, he wanting nothing to do with me or my fame. Read More
by George Kalogeris
It must be the shade that draws them. Or else the grass.
And it seems they always alight away from their flocks,
Alone. It’s so quiet here you can’t help but hear
Their talons clink as they hop from headstone to headstone.
Their sharp, inquisitive beaks cast quizzical glances.
The lawn is mown. The gate is always open.
The names engraved on the stones, and the uplifting words
Below the names, are lapidary as ever.
But almost never even a chirp from the birds,
Let alone a wild shriek, as they perch on a tomb.
And then they fly away, looking as if
They couldn’t remember why it was they came—
But were doing what our souls are supposed to do
On the day we die, if the birds could read the words.
by Daiva Markelis
Featured art: Two Camels by John Frederick Lewis
We came across the camels every time we picnicked that merciless autumn, huge herds grazing on sparse vegetation. Camel comes from jamal, the Arabic root word for beauty. From a distance they did look lovely, their curvy silhouettes mimicking the contours of the dunes. Up close, however, they seemed slightly ridiculous, like bad female impersonators, batting their Scarlet O’Hara lashes to keep the sand out of their eyes, their long necks sloping towards us, then coyly withdrawing. Read More
by Kathleen Radigan
Featured Art: Abstraction on Concrete by Howard Dearstyne
In the garden I cup a hand
before you, strain my wrist,
willing you to perch.
A nearby woman grips her cane.
“Young lady. If you touch them,
Born again from a gauze
coffin, you’re blackwinged,
fragile on a wax leaf. Read More
by Melissa Cistaro
Featured art: A Farm in Brittany by Paul Gauguin
It’s a nice place to visit my mom, a lot better than the last one. I get to stay for almost a week and even be here for my tenth birthday. There’s a bed with a blue quilt, a shelf piled high with boxes of puzzles and the scent of my mom’s L’Air du Temps perfume drifting down the hallway. She lives on this dairy farm with 180 cows and her new boyfriend, Roger Short. One of the first things she mentioned about Roger is that he’s colorblind. She says he can’t see how horrible the wall-to-wall chartreuse carpet looks in his house—in fact he can’t see the color green at all. I think that’s a shame, because there are green fields like patchwork for miles around his farm. But then again, I suppose that being colorblind is just fine for Roger since he only raises black-and-white cows. Read More
by Janice N. Harrington
Featured Art: Crows in a Tree by Charles François Daubigny
Circling above bare limbs, like Dalí’s wild and articulate capes,
black wings undulate. Raucous hundreds settle and splat
their stench. A murder of crows, a give-a-fuck mob,
stirs the air above ash and oak and hackberry, milling
and loud with news: day heralds, unwelcomed Cassandras.
Dawn light pinched by a crow’s beak, pieces of light falling
everywhere, bright meat that the crow pecks, strips away.
The crows know my neighbor’s face. Knowledgeable birds,
they know the way I hurry each morning, the way my eyes try
to read their dark signs: articulate smoke, curtains
of a confession booth. Blessing? Pardon? Mercy?
The stories say that crows suffer scorched wings, that they
are cursed for stealing from the gods. But the stories, as always, err,
wind-running, wings wide, a-glide on a slide of air,
black bodies, bituminous-black, cosmos-black rising to soar.
There is no damnation in their dizzying speed, the break-wing
improvisations of their flight. God–blessed and black,
their sharp notes strike my skull like hailstones or chunks
of sky, dark bodies that lift my eyes and scorn gravity, a lesser law.
By Susan Allison
The thing about good living
is that it happens, despite
plotting and planning, it happens
contrary to all devices. It happens
when you are renting the only room
you can afford and you somehow
catch the way the light is coming through
the broken dirty windows.
The door is open
and the wind blows in like balm.
It’s warm and you see the colors of the
faded gray frame of the door
against the rust-colored leaves
in the small patch of jungle
down by the alley.
The good life
comes through your eyes
and your ears and your skin,
the way a wild animal comes at you
when it is just curious.
by James Lineberger
Look at this, this
petri dish. Here are stem cells
as heart cells. Look. The heart cells
are beating. The cells do not
know the difference. They think they are hearts. Read More
by Patrick Bernhard
Featured Art: Daemonie 39 by Paul Klee
The undertow had carried Daisy far enough out to sea that her bullseye swim cap probably looked like a floating pastry to the judges, even with their binoculars. She hoped that rest of her looked similarly delectable to the Medium-Class blues that the scouting report had placed a reasonable 19% of hunting in the Frontier Belt; nobody had caught anything elsewhere, outside of a zebra shark that wandered into the Sandbar Belt that the chatterbox from Bethany Beach managed to cosh, catch, and drag. Not that she was worried by that bag; Chatterbox’s zebra had the telltale torpor of a bad fungal infection, so it barely put up a fight, and she’d repeatedly coshed more dorsal than skull and in shallower water, too, losing major accuracy marks that she couldn’t afford to have subtracted.Read More
by Barry Peters
What I know of her
cackling in the back row,
sassing the boy next to her,
absent, tardy, bathroom pass,
not doing any goddam work
and this is the easiest
history class in the history
of American education:Read More
by T.J. Sandella
Featured Art: Actor’s Mask by Paul Klee
I confused guacamole
until I was seventeen
when my girlfriend’s mom
patiently explained the difference
plopping a dollop onto my plate
next to the Spanish rice
on the long flight
from meat and potatoes
to masala and paneer
for the first time
as a freshman in college
tartare and foie gras
as a grad student
and so it goes
Featuring poems by Ruth Bardon and Jiordan Castle and a new story by Joseph Rakowski, as well as a variety of timely pieces from previous print issues of NOR: poems by Tanya Grae, Okla Elliot, Emily Sernaker, and Emily Mohn-Slate; a story by Max Bell; and an essay by Kyle Minor.
Each piece is accompanied by beautiful artwork, some by contemporary artists Corran Brownlee and Barbara Pierson, and others courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Open Access collection.
by Max Bell
Story originally published in New Ohio Review Issue 25
Featured Art: Recharge by Corran Brownlee
Lisa left when the droid arrived. There was no period of transition, no time for Richard to adjust. After she signed for it, she carried it into the living room, set it down in front of him on the worn shag, and began saying her goodbye. Like the stitches in his hip, she was disappearing, dissolving in front of him. He did not, however, rejoice in the knowledge of her impending absence. Read More
by Kate Wisel
Featured Art: “Neurons, No. 3” by Madara Mason
What I did was held my hand out like a gun and sprayed. I was supposed to be wiping down tables. But there was something about walking through the pink mist, I can’t tell you the feeling. That clinical smell that clung to my neck like antiseptic perfume. At that time and that time only, I liked doing the opposite of what I was told.
by Alan Sincic
Featured Art: “My Blue Garden” by Madara Mason
“Look at you, boy.” Cochrane gave his junk another shake, stuffed it back into his Levi’s. “You trying to tell me you could lift—we’re not even talking carry here—lift a quarter ton of bacon?”
“I been training,” said Barnett. The pudgy frame, the warble in the voice, the baby-fat of the face all pocked with rivets: we nobody believed he was old as he said he was. Fifteen? Sixteen maybe?
“Training?” said Cochrane.
“Dynamic Tension,” said Barnett, parsing out the syllables in the verberant tones of a preacher.
We laughed. We pictured the ads in the back pages of Gun Molls and Flying Aces and Popular Mechanics. Charles Atlas. The guy in the skivvies with the strapping chest and the husky, solid fighting muscles that every man should have.
by Kerry James Evans
Featured Art: “Ursa Major” by Madara Mason
Summer, but not cantaloupe-ripe summer,
not tomato-ripe, not watermelon-ripe,
not making love with the windows open,
riding downtown at midnight
with the top down, radio blaring
another teenage pop sensation
No, it’s burnt sod, thunderstorm summer.
Don’t lie to me! It’s a World Cup summer.
Don’t lie to yourself, Son. Get up
and drink that Dr Pepper. Another
bullets in the street summer.
Another blood-hot, angry Apollo
chasing the ice cream truck with a buck
for a Popsicle kind of summer.