In Poems & Fiction

The worst of it is, when I close my eyes now, I nearly forget what you looked like. Your back turned to me, your departure, a misshapen blur. Bags already packed and in the car, you left so quietly, without protest or complaint. At the door, the dog, its head bowed, obediently waited for a beating.

– Brad Rose, “Shelter”



Right Hand Pointing, Issue 100, July, 2016

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