MISS / KAMAL E. KIMBALL

The morning is silver with birdsong. Clapboard chapel sides thunk down in the grass as nude pews shudder. The priest is sick. His coughing will curse both houses. The rings will roll off the knuckles that don’t exist. Crinoline waits, a virgin in the dress shop, untouched
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STAINED / KELLY WEBER

Across the old woman’s ceiling, the stain spreads its puckered areola, water hooping frayed ripples in the plaster where something broke, leaked in the apartment upstairs, where naked lights shine cold-clear as through windows cobalted with Madonna and child. This godforsaken place.
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