Size / / /

Armor for Main Street,

Armor to face the world in, day by day.

A borrowed shape to fold your heart away,

More powerful than I have worn before.

A tough hide, used to smoking every night,

That's heard a lot of bad jazz in its time.

I put it on and belt it round my waist,

And all the dark minds that wore it in years past

Stand up again and walk the world with me,

Strengthen my acts.

Here's your own world, bounded by one coat:

Buttons to close, a cold smooth front to wear.

A collar to turn up hard,

As action suits the word, to sneer and walk away.

Pockets that could hold a .22,

A wallet, a passport, a postcard from out East,

Your hands when you are baffled in the end.

Just shove them in and drift off down the street,

No one will trouble you.

A belt, if you can tie it right,

Will hold you up and walking for a long time.

For a guy, long skirts and stone-cold manliness.

For a woman, broad shoulders,

A soldier's shape, hard angles, edge-sharp beauty.

I wish for rain day after day, to wear it all the time.

It could catch a bullet in its elbow crease,

More than lawman, beggar, brute, or thief,

It holds my splinters in sharp strappy shape,

My waterproof and worldproof loan of strength.




April Grant lives in Boston. Her backstory includes time as a sidewalk musician, real estate agent, public historian, dishwasher, and librarian. Among her hobbies are biking and ruin appreciation.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
You take your time putting on the shirt of the walls,/ just as others might put on the shirt of death.
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
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Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
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Issue 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
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