Allan Peterson

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earth is a centrifuge, and what we take as normal
            is in flux.
Eons of atmosphere, continents racing and languages
flung about the planet
are sorted like blood, providing for strange arrangements.
            Baby in a well pipe,
lizards in the slit between the window and the screen.

So daylight is a mystagogue explaining the inner
            well-being of our cells,
but excluding scrutiny. It will take years to know
concerned with confusions as we are,
what is ample, what is spare, interstitial or dry,
            why any stick’s a sword.

So we grow to believe in the two-fisted,
            our symmetry,
the even-handed black/white, as if each question
was divisible by two,
a mirror looked at edge-on frequently.
            So the cells
become sick with evidence, derangements, infiltrations,
country music,
the enzymes line dance and the separate functions
lean against the bar with lime and longnecks.

We explain the urgency by saying the heart’s a pump,
            biceps a lever,
So deceptively simple, the verbs going one way
            nouns the next,
if the shoe fits, bird in the hand, their fleece was white
as the remaining morbid anatomy.
So if things ever stopped spinning, we could walk
right through.


ART: Zachary Tate Porter, Jeannie Vanasco

FICTION: Katya Apekina, John Henry Fleming, Lacy Arnett, Claire Harlan Orsi, Chantel Tattoli

NONFICTION: Emily Carr, Nancy Singleton Hachisu, Johanna Stoberock, Steve Wasserman

POETRY: Janelle Adsit, Ryan Bender-Murphy, Monica Berlin & Beth Marzoni, Dan Chelotti, Lisa Ciccarello, Christopher DeWeese, Elisa Gabbert & Kathleen Rooney, Tyler Gobble, Fanny Howe, Lo Kwa Mei-en, Nick Lantz, Matthew Lippman, Aditi Machado, Alice Miller, Marc Paltrineri, Christopher Rey Pérez, Allan Peterson, Jessica Poli, Lynne Potts, Dan Rosenberg, M. C. Rush, Ed Skoog, Cindy St. John, Russel Swensen, Emily Toder, Laurie Saurborn Young

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