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I am obsessed – I am happy as I have seldom been, pleasure and will – will and want and need, bound within these – stretched – open wide: Machine gun danger and that slow slide and that jackhammer lust when all is...

In hiddenness I wander; a tiger stalking the tall grass – waits a rabbit shivered and frozen in fear – listens Who am I, when? For what do I wait? A capture an escape, a kill? No matter, the spirit fades equally well. All fates...

That long coaxing moment the choices – the voices the words – the fear I’m here – I’m there And I wait… Fearful glances, hungry children cameras and Americans pass this way old men sit in the marketplace death etched...

DANILO BILYK, SIXTEEN, JOINS THE UKRAINIAN ARMY BY ROBERT COOPERMAN I was raised by my older sister, Sofia, after Mama and Papa passed: their memories a blessing, as much as I can recall of them. But Sofia scolded when I locked...

I was dragged from my warm bed and Katya’s warmer arms and belly, hauled out by a recruiting sergeant who copped a feel of her beautiful breasts, the fat bastard daring me to do something so he could kick the crap out of me,...

Something was weighing down my right arm in the hospital bed. Finally prying open my eyes from my painkiller haze, I saw the cast, heavy as a battleship’s anchor. When I tried to rise—my bladder beating like Hi-Ho Silver!— a...

Some things you don’t forget. Alas, I fail to recall the names of friends, from time to mortifying time. Likewise, I neglect to take my meds, so use the mnemonic of turning the bottles upside down after I pop a capsule, then...

I thought about calling you. Then I thought about how the bark on the sycamore unravels year after year before it finally dies. Knowing you is like yesterday knowing the day after tomorrow. You never need to know the extent to...

Fields of unmade bread burn in Donetsk. A man, seventies, sits in his arm chair, wheezes from the cancer sacks his lungs shrunken into. His wife, also seventies, sits on the couch, knitting. Their daughter, fifties, sits next to...

It’s cold again. The ink in my pen has frozen. I’ll need to write the rest of this in blood. Open my wrist with a fist full of dead pens. If sadness has a color it would be the color of the universe, which is the color of ink...