Volume 53.2


sample haibun


Clocking Out from the Crab Factory

And me cocksure waiting at the gates. She cracks a tired smile, slides one chaffed hand into mine. The other holds a weighted plastic bag. She is much older, and intoxicating. Her hair smells of the ocean. Two minutes later we are on the harbor's seawall, our legs dangling over granite. Scallops too small to make the cut laid out between us. She opens one, touches its muscular foot with her knife, watches it react and withdraw. "That's what they all do," she says, before biting into the meat.

finding the grave
by her given name
wild flowers

by Lew Watts



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