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We don’t know why he came. Ours is not a big city. There are no stadiums, no conference centers, no airport hotels to fill with hosannas. Instead, he has a folding chair at the farmer’s market. Behind him rests a banana crate, handpainted. Miracles $10. He does not look like a faith healer. As we …

To read this poem, please purchase a print copy of Issue #2, 2015

I must have peace and this is the only way –suicide note   A question of creation: your discovery             was ours and ours to despise. Its cries were ours, its fear             of burning. You understood   how ugly we think we are. If …