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Ben Britton is a poet and short fiction writer currently living in Exeter, in the UK. He was brought up in London, and would like to think that as a youth he roamed through the disquiet of the city at ease. But instead he was brought up in suburbia (and not the gothic kind either). He alternates his time between writing, sleeping, and attempting to study literature and film at uni.
The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by Ben Britton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Robin Hood Estate
i took a girl to look at it
the windows were boarded and
and around the hungry evening nowhere to go light –
a graffito informs me
somewhere your own architecture
Henry died when he was just a year old –
he was flopped there…dripping…just
i looked at him there
three inches long i thought
his gray whiskers did not twitch
the bin? the pissoir? the garden?
dad got all sentimental…perhaps more so
of course…his dad was no loach
so grandad got cremated and Henry got a burial
Henry…and his stretched out dull and cold and damp
A 2017-2019 Wallace Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University, J.P. Grasser attended Sewanee: The University of the South and received his M.F.A. in poetry from The Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. He is currently a doctoral student in Literature & Creative Writing at the University of Utah, where he teaches undergraduate writing and serves as Managing Editor for Quarterly West. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in AGNI, Best New Poets 2015 (selected by Tracy K. Smith), The Cincinnati Review, Meridian, The New Criterion, Ninth Letter Online, and West Branch Wired, among others.
The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by J.P. Grasser and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
You took spent shotgun shells down
(originally published in Ecotone,
Between the slagheaps, the waste and the slack,
veins nicked open at the seams (fault and lack
caw, and claw. They call it crow coal up north,
Sunflower seed reduced to powder-gray ort,
yet still robed in stipple, like the grackles
(originally published in West Branch Wired)
Cri de Coeuer
At first, we thought the air compressor
belly-down and our algae python-green,
when we finally placed the madcap crash
for dear life, stock-still in place
if not unheard. No choice in the matter,
and buck of his gently coiled neck, I held him close
machine, fixed without repair, the fawn, spotted
(originally published in The Adroit Journal,
Jo Angela Edwins
Jo Angela Edwins teaches creative writing, American literature, and composition at Francis Marion University in Florence, SC. She has published poems in a variety of venues including Calyx, Sojourn, New South, and Adanna. She is the 2014 recipient of the Carrie McCray Nickens Fellowship Poetry Prize from the South Carolina Academy of Authors. Her chapbook, Play, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2016.
The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by Jo Angela Edwins and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Old Wives’ Tale
With a kitchen knife I nicked my thumb
I peeled potatoes, freshly dug and smelling of rain,
When at last my supper was ready,
I finished my supper, down to the last spoonful,
(Originally published in Calyx, Winter 2011)
Photograph of the Author at One Year Old
I look at it not
A Failure of Seeing
Ugliness is just a failure of seeing.
My mother loved babies,