Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


Potatoes

Marcela Sulak

this once-heretical root, domesticated / for latkes. My calendar's terribly reduced.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Three Found Poems: Virginia Woolf's The Waves

Nazifa Islam

I see the moon—flickering, broken leaning against the sky—and am afraid.

Seasonal Without Spring: Summer

Andrés Cerpa

Was that season artery or vein? when the days stretched like Broadway, & the nights undid our shirts – the temperature so slight you could raise your arms in flight & feel nothing, the body as air. But there was also the need for hurt. And dusk: a ghost of a boy tempted to feel his weight, to put his palm to the depth, touch the pupil, the dead turbine of god’s one good cataracted eye.

A-Side, B-Side

Dylan Brown

He had kept the bulk of his music library, which covered every genre from obscure Sub-Saharan drum tracks recorded on cell-phones to honey-tongued R&B to Norwegian black metal, in his parents' basement. It was the only place, he had argued, that could support the weight of it all.

The Lord's Earth

Callie Collins

The whole town of Garland sweltered and glistened. There was fog for months that fall, and the sun hung behind it round and shining like the moon or a piece of fruit. It was hard for Roger to stick around, so he didn’t. Then, after some years, men came to his door.

From the Archives

Resuscitation

Patrick Tobin

You drive the El Camino with the gold phoenix etched on the hood. Two other boys ride with you. Your younger brother and one of his friends...

The Hunger Essay

Claudia Cortese

Catherine of Siena ladled the pus from a cancer patient’s sore, lifted the spoon to her lips and sipped till the desire for food spasmed from her stomach...

Lobster Dinner

Alexandra Kleeman

The lobsters were dead in a pile and with a froth on their shells they waited and watched us undress each other...

Fugu

Kaveh Akbar

the liver of a blowfish is said to / be the tastiest part it’s also the / most toxic an ounce enough to kill ten men

From the Blog

A Microinterview with Dorianne Laux

I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.

Experiments with White Heat

That exalted moment when, out of nowhere, you are obliterated—completely, blissfully destroyed—by a voluptuous euphoria. A lightning flash of inspiration.…