I think everyone’s glad I’m dead, said the stripper / with the caved-in face. Her fingers were bone with no / sinew. She flapped her arms at the two wrens / caught up in the rafters and staring down / on the empty dance hall at the Möbius Strip Club / of Grief. . . .
Read MoreIN Fall 2016
Discussing her creative process in a recent interview with Brandon Lussier for the California Journal of Poetics, poet and artist Bianca Stone posits: “There’s a power in not asking what something […]
Read MoreIN Spring 2015