when you write us—
write yourself a lion,
bone mass of comparable size to muscle ratio,
write how even in starlight your eyes were effective.
write me a small vineyard,
orientation towards the sun,
write me silent, write me in the middle of living.
About the author
Helen Vitoria, born in Greece, raised in NYC, visited Paris six times, lived there for a year and believes Bassett Hounds come from a…
Read the full bioIssue 11 · January 2011
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Ars Longa, Vita Brevis by Joshua Michael Stewart
- The White Village by Daniel Aristi
- [PostScript] by Helen Vitoria
- Raising the Dead by Ian Khadan
- Nashville by Janice D. Soderling
- Navigation by Donna Vorreyer
- Instead of a Hand Feathered by a Fountain Pen by R L Swihart
- Cologne by Rick Mullin
- Two Poems by Ani Gjika by Ani Gjika
- Manifest by Lisa Ortiz
- Market in Marseilles by Stephen Harvey
- Postcard Prose
- The Well by Annabella Massey
- Long Distance by Arlan Hess
- Midnight Voices by Matthew Zanoni Müller
- Travel Notes
More from The Journal
- Postcard Prose
By Kelly Hill
Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
- Travel Notes
By Sandra Larson
A dinosaur dangles over my grandson at the Field Museum near a pink thumb that pops into the prom picture of my granddaughter dressed in strapless red leaving her house in Medina …
- Travel Notes
By Megan Hallinan
The bill in question is actually a 2,000 West African franc note, and it’s the equivalent of about four U.S. dollars. A helpful sum, really, but as I clutch the weathered crinkle in my sweaty palm, its value feels as dirty as the grime that is undoubtedly being transferred to my fingers.
- Poetry
to Egg and Berry brewery, to the pack / of Czechy words I made but didn’t work / in this pink town. I’d readily go back / to your best spots, the unfired gun, that perk //
- Poetry
By Jason Warren
And if the neap tides of my beauty / sadden him, I cannot help it: / I hang high, the waxy night light …
- Poetry
By Anastasia Vassos
Three thousand ancestors ask how I straddle / the sea, a foot on either shore. //
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose