POETRY

Remaining Evidence

By ARDEN LEVINE | 02 MAY 2018

By Viviane Sassen — TOAST © 2005 boston_camera

In the morning, when I hear water run, I no longer look for you
in the kitchen. I place the toast on the table
in front of an empty chair. Later, I remove

the empty plate. I hear the door close and tell myself
it’s the neighbor’s door. Crumbs pattern the plate

like footsteps in snow. Hoping to see birds, I toss the crumbs
out the window. When the crumbs are gone,

there will be no way to know whether it was birds that ate them.

Arden Levine’s poems have recently appeared in Sycamore Review, The Missouri Review, Barrow Street, RHINO, and River Styx, and been featured in American Life in Poetry (a partnership of The Poetry Foundation and the Library of Congress). Arden is a D.C. native, an Advisory Editor for Epiphany, and an adorer of all things avian. She lives in New York City, where her work focuses on the development and preservation of affordable urban housing and neighborhoods.

POETRY

Thumbnails of America

By SARAH GIRAGOSIAN

Do you wish for a heart
less like a turnstile or a mother tongue
other than a dollar?

POETRY

A Heart Can Be Broken Only Once, Like A Window

By SARA BORJAS

I miss things, but I don't say it anymore. My palms
are turned down against gusts taking themselves away.

FICTION

I Looked For You

By ANTONIO TABUCCHI

“I landed on this island late in the day. From the ferry, I watched the harbor approaching, and the small white town perched around the Venetian-style castle, and I thought, maybe he’s here.”