I’m so sorry. We didall we could. Another mothermight cut off all her hair. I grow mine longand longer. When I lean forward,it cups my face like a lover’s hands.I’m in St. Francis’s cave praying on my kneesin the dark: tell me what to do.I am nine again under the dining room table,peering out through a wall of laceat my father’s high black shoe.He never told us what he did in France,if he killed anyone. He had thick wavy hairlike my son’s. Mine’s poker …

Pulled from the Anacostia,a remora hitched to the Potomac,Sligo Creek draws its stomach away from the sculpted cageof its ribs, dupe for the trickle-downof everyone else’s appetite, loosening and tightening its beltone single, seasoned notch at a time.Withstanding the wash, neck outstretched, the turtle is engravedlike a cave wall, filled with the fleshof adaptation. We have come from where we have replaced the birdswith sun-phantoms, their woven poucheswith semaphores dripping from …

Giving intocircumstancewe find ourselveslike chains we clasptogether hurrying thislanguage in our limbs ourlips our fragile nerves in paleattempt to cross the expanse wehave failed here to define not surehow much a question of such magnitudewould cast a shadow over this our tender momentyou pause and shift sculpting the silence like a tunnelI count the line breaks as you breathe and let the questionweave into the nest we’ve made letting it go unanswered nothing isbetween us but thin sheeted …

David Felix is a youthful septuagenarian English visual poet who lives in Denmark. For more than half a century his writing has taken on a variety of forms, in collage, three dimensions, in galleries, anthologies, festival performances, video and in over sixty publications worldwide, both in print and online. Born into a family of artists, magicians and tailors, he was raised on oil paint, sleight of hand and Singer sewing machines. …

The bottle tips downwardand dye purls horizontal. Before it hits the tableI remember how the elk falls: blood runs across shoulder,vision floods with blindness. Ink rips through skin andchildren begin to yell. The white cotton,bundled into nests, cannot be saved.The hoof still twitches. I remember crying, pleading,will we be red forever? The next morningour shirts are strung up in a line, shot from long distance. Serena Deng is currently a junior in high …