Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


Ghost Fire

Doug Ramspeck

The old men are unsure. Something is twisting up and up to become a stair. And what is the end for? Who would stop here and dream such accumulations? Once there was a fire. It was sinew and bone. It was a small thing. They thought their ribs curved into it, that the scaffolding within them flared up into a ghost. And they are trying to dream the smoke of it. The real is always at the mercy of…


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.

[SPRING: MOSAIC::]

J.P. Grasser

Touch them, the tesserae, the shards of floating glass, which skim the rain-full gutter. Not dead: us/them—mere stutters, gluttons for new skin. Life, peel back your veil. Now, see? See it again: To be dead another time is a deciduous explosion.

Spread

Caitlyn GD

The morning of Claire's funeral, I lie naked on the table and wait for her mourners to arrive. Thomas scrapes a knife against whetstone in the kitchen. When he appears above me, the blade glints harsh in his hand. It's all I can see. To minimize the pain, he explains with a paternal smile. I smile too.

[SPRING: MOSAIC::]

J.P. Grasser

Touch them, the tesserae, the shards of floating glass, which skim the rain-full gutter. Not dead: us/them—mere stutters, gluttons for new skin. Life, peel back your veil. Now, see? See it again: To be dead another time is a deciduous explosion.

From the Archives

Three Found Poems: Virginia Woolf's The Waves

Nazifa Islam

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

COMPARTMENTALIZATION, OR, SOME THOUGHTS ON BOXES

Katie Bellamy Mitchell

Two sides of what used to be one wooden box hang on the walls of the Smart Gallery in Chicago. At first glance they are unremarkable: vaguely Italian-looking landscapes populated by two vaguely Italian-looking lovers, all flowing hair and slit silk. In the panel on the left, a woman lies improbably across some rocky ground—perhaps sleeping or dead—while a man leans on his staff and peers over her with a neutral expression. In the panel on the right, in front of a section of silvery sea, the same woman stands apart from the man who reaches toward her. His mouth is open. Her hands cross upwards into two woody stems and blossom into the unmistakable broccoli-floret silhouette of a tree: Daphne, turning into a laurel to escape the god Apollo.

Artificial Flower Garden

Sara McGuirk

excuse me this chambray tie / this cummerbund, these plain chops, / these dull lips. I’ve no guilt for gild's sake.

In-Articulating in Tongues

Joanne Dominique Dwyer

The coroner is piecing together the tale of the pair in his possession. / As if their corpses are jigsaw puzzles laid out on a wooden table...

From the Blog

An Aesthetic of Flow

Eliot said that modern poetry is required to be difficult to understand because modern reality is difficult. But some poets are going to want poems to…

Epigraphs

The epigraph: that little sentence or quote that precedes a story, chapter, or essay. Roxane Gay can’t stand them. Over the last decade, she’s made her…