
ALT The Stags BY KATHLEEN JAMIE This is the multitude, the beasts you wanted to show me, drawing me upstream, all morning up through wind- scoured heather to the hillcrest. Below us, in the next glen, is the grave calm brotherhood, descended out of winter, out of hunger, kneeling like signatories of a covenant; their weighty, antique-polished antlers rising above the vegetation like masts in a harbor, or city spires. We lie close together, and though the wind whips away our man-and-woman smell, every stag-face seems to look toward us, toward, but not to us: we're held, and hold them, in civil regard. I suspect you’d hoped to impress me, to lift to my sight our shared country, lead me deeper into what you know, but loath to cause fear you're already moving quietly away, sure I’ll go with you, as I would now, almost anywhere.
![Prognosis at Midnight
by Yuki Tanaka
I listen to the moon but it doesn’t say much about my life.
Quiet night is for my cockatoo. He keeps chattering
until my neighbor comes over to complain. Then I read
a local newspaper: no murder, no robbery, one grandmother
fell down the stairs and broke her hip. I lick my inky fingers
and order my imaginary chauffeur to get ready—I’ll visit her
and comfort her. I’d say, I read about you, I’m terribly sorry,
this is my cockatoo, he’s twelve and loves carrots.
We’d share her hospital dinner and be happy.
Other sick people gather around us, admiring my cockatoo,
who looks proud in his cage, unfurling his light-pink wings
like stage curtains, and I’m his assistant. Grandma,
worried that I’ve become silent, tells me how tired I look.
“I had a series of nightmares,” I say, “my boss returned
from the grave and fired me, bats attacked me like slow bullets
but bigger, I was bleeding.” She says: “When I’m alone...
[ran out of space]](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/HHLxlWraMAAzBrh.png?name=small&format=webp)
ALT Prognosis at Midnight by Yuki Tanaka I listen to the moon but it doesn’t say much about my life. Quiet night is for my cockatoo. He keeps chattering until my neighbor comes over to complain. Then I read a local newspaper: no murder, no robbery, one grandmother fell down the stairs and broke her hip. I lick my inky fingers and order my imaginary chauffeur to get ready—I’ll visit her and comfort her. I’d say, I read about you, I’m terribly sorry, this is my cockatoo, he’s twelve and loves carrots. We’d share her hospital dinner and be happy. Other sick people gather around us, admiring my cockatoo, who looks proud in his cage, unfurling his light-pink wings like stage curtains, and I’m his assistant. Grandma, worried that I’ve become silent, tells me how tired I look. “I had a series of nightmares,” I say, “my boss returned from the grave and fired me, bats attacked me like slow bullets but bigger, I was bleeding.” She says: “When I’m alone... [ran out of space]





































