A new poem by Sarah Layden.
“The neighborhood keeps changing, pieces gone missing, as if the waters that once rushed through drowned an entire culture. No more brunch, no more Sunday leisure and crème brulee French toast. Now we have rats, cement.” A Mythic Indy story by Sarah Layden.
“Jellyfish slithers in and out, surfs / the waves, looking more like a brain / than we who have them, who hide that / organ in skulls beneath skin beneath / hair elaborately styled,” New poetry from Sarah Layden.
“He spent ________ on ________, eventually exchanging it for ________. / That ________ helped. / In her purse were gift cards worth ________. There was ________ she wanted to buy.” New poetry from Sarah Layden.
“A car, listen, a car / on tape is a little beautiful. A little like / a book, blasting. Pull up. I like you.” New poetry from Sarah Layden.
“Sit on roof at sunset. / Share cab, plate of calamari, milkshake. / Irrigate dusty remote village. / Sing duet, harmony, or high register.” New poetry from Sarah Layden.
Memory-challenged CIA assassin Jason Bourne wanted to know who he was. But first he had to know where he came from. Sarah Layden has a treatment for that.