Volume 29, Number 1


2017 has been that year.
Now doors zap a shock at entry, 
handles sting ferocious, forcing 
supplication. Feel your way through
walls and frames to lessen the pain.
Even chargers jolt unwary 
hands, clothes fit snugly but peel off
in prickly betrayal, sizzling 
hair maliciously. Messages
patronize—trying to help—codes
to quieten down, or leave, GO, don’t 
speak of past seasons of mellow
fruitfulness, don’t walk through black ice,
the impatient gales are growling,
The Dream is so pale, too pale
beyond what you may imagine.

—Dipika Mukherjee