David Wojciechowski, from YOURSBESTSINCERELY:
Cynthia, Dear Anne, Dear Krystal,
Natalie, & Dear Max,


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Once I also asked myself to marry me. The ceremony was actually really lovely, but then when I tossed the bouquet I also caught it. That’s when I realized everyone at the wedding was me. I was the flower girl. I walked myself down the aisle. I was the priest, and as a priest I realize, now, marrying myself is out of the question, but marrying myself to myself? I can’t do that as a man of God. I’m not sure what happened next. There was a lot of laughing and no hard feelings. Someone stole my shoes. Not that night. A few days later, but, you know. Same week.

Dear Anne,

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Everything is thin-armed and not quite visible. How do we account for that? I think I could choke on the moon. I mean—we all could. Probably even at once. It’s like the snake eating itself; only it’s the moon and everyone. My simile doesn’t make sense. It’s like—remember that burning building and all the people who kept running inside and we don’t know what happened to them? It’s like that only I’m the first one to run in.

Dear Krystal,

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Once, as a smaller boy, I poured honey all over my yard. My parents’ yard and mine. I drenched it: the money shot of yard honey.

I took my parents, by the pant leg or skirt, to the window, and raised my hands like a miniature Moses. I said, look. Life.


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My grandfather used to tell me about a time on his farm when the cows started giving dirt. Instead of milk, they produced dirt. Pure earth. I remember just thinking how awful for the cows. But then I thought what if those cows had secrets and now the secrets have no milk to feed on? Just think, Natalie. Think of all those emaciated secrets. Limping and exhausted. Shards of mental glass. How awful.

Dear Max,

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Earlier today I was chewing on the sky. Just letting it drip onto my shirt. My shirt soaked in sky. Eventually my body just tapered off into nothing. I started offering people wishes but never fulfilling them. I’m not really a genie, just a man disappearing. I still granted them hope if you think about it. Except you, Max. I’m granting your wish. Here’s that gray box full of Styrofoam and a shattered bottle. There’s also a note in there from me. It’s this one.


ART: Rachel Day, Terrell James, Mr. Let’s Paint TV, Peter Van Hyning

FICTION: Paula Bomer, Andrew Brininstool, Chaitali Sen, R. T. Smith

NONFICTION: Anna Journey,
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POETRY: Claire Becker, Heather Christle, Darin Ciccotelli, Jennifer Denrow, Jessica Farquhar, Farnoosh Fathi, Stephanie Ford, Geoffrey Nutter, Brian Oliu, Thibault Raoult, Anne Marie Rooney, Tomaž Šalamun, Jordan Sanderson, Jacob Sunderlin, Gale Marie Thompson, David Wojciechowski

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