an on-line poetry magazine
for the 21st century

WINTER 2021-22


Craig Czury


sleep in a bed in the attic of our grandmother’s house in Weatherly. Because she sometimes pees the bed and because I’m too scared to climb downstairs to the bathroom, past where Big Nana sleeps with her elephantitis, we wake each other in the dark to pee in a porcelain chamber pot parked under the bed. Every time a car rounds the corner onto Carbon Street, its headlights slice the venetian blinds in a way that cause my uncles’ army uniforms, hung from nails in the rafters, to walk around the room.


Craig Czury has been quarantined to the backside of Scranton until the borders of Chile open, where he will continue his work with students at Universidad Arturo Pratt, the poets of the Atacama desert, and (new to the mix) Venezuelan refugees camped out on the beach in Iquique.