By Dean Charpentier She says, I know what it’s like to be dead. She runs her hand up the rough surface of the porch post, lets her fingers trace lightly over the curves, lets them catch momentarily…

By Karen Crawford It takes a minute to adjust. Scrape of sawdust on the floor. Last night’s peanuts on the tables. Old man dank of cigarettes and beer. It’s been ages. We pretend not to notice the …