Maybe I Am Looking  for You in Moab 

Renée Lepreau 

Head fogged from fitful night’s sleep dreading
white noise drone of mini-fridge, wheezing

heater, contracted under too few blankets and yes, it’s the same motel. My first time alone

in a rented room, like a grown-up,
like someone who doesn’t need

to be taken care of. I’m turning thirty
this year and that’s one way

to measure time. So I am looking for you
but you’re not here today, among the polygamist

wives, flocks of offspring flying
through banks of sea-green skirts and sneakers.

I see why we mostly came at night, the desert
deserted, moon shadows claiming sandstone

tourists swarm now. Like the other pilgrims, I pay my dues to Delicate Arch, ensconced

in old coats so familiar I almost believe
they are mine. Afraid to document

your absence, I take no pictures. You’ve made it hard to track you down, driving always under

cover of darkness while I slept, each waking a surprise, leaving only a briefcase

stuffed with tattered maps to go on.
Truth is, I’ll never find you, or what you took
of me when you left. What happens in the looking — it’s something else.

The Fly and the Spider Narasu Rebbapragada

Waves come in, waves go out, 

Brushing sand in muted twilight. 

Everyone gets the sea they want. 

The sound of surf, the sound of om, 

Yogis’ early morning quiet. 

Deep breath in, deep breath out. 

Sunscreen oozes out from pores, 

Spreads into the water, a filmy white. 

Snorkelers change the sea they want. 

A holiday to rekindle the spark, 

She holds him close, he averts his eyes. Love comes in, love goes


Fish ride the waves, get stuck out on

land, Fish die, dry — slowly eaten by


Scavengers get the food they want. 

Workers take breaks in the parking lot.

Staff cleans the resort, hidden

from sight. They clock in, they clock


Girl slips into the water, unseen by the crowd,

She swallows her tears, dives down into the

night. Waves come in, waves go out, 

The sea will take whatever it wants.


Lucy Zhou

our faces are not quite lined yet 

leathery with knowing and the feeling

of wind drafting past our sapling


soft bellies sticky with taffy, saliva 

and later booze. we drink under

bodies and pink lighting throwing up


in between breaths and dance slow 

staccatoed time running down our

necks to tell us no more 

spend these chlorinated days longing 

for a dried up myth, the pain of growing so

hollow husked like the pistachio shells 

we drop in between our toes. there will be

more time later, we intone, later there will be

no more time to want. we consider love to be


like the curve of a sleeping volcano, and so

we wait for our mothers to turn into

parchment and for our fathers to press the


of their fists into petals. our children shall

come to know the imprints of our language

on their lips 

and the moon, too, shall make a

sound like a trail beckoning to god.