top of page
Moonrise, Brooklyn_Full res.JPG
pearl press logo
Mel Driving: Amanda BernSohn

Mel Driving: Amanda BernSohn





The Lodge: Will Baldwin

The Lodge: Will Baldwin

Preserved Presence: Colleen Fox Breen

Preserved Presence: Colleen Fox Breen


How was I to know that the living

room of clocks told different times?

I learned how to fold a fortune teller

at my grandparents’ coffee table.

I sat cross-legged on the shag carpet,
my sister on the recliner, the couch empty.

The grandfather clock sang its song

down the hall, dinner, but I could not

Read its hands, only folded scratch

paper with promises I prayed to.

Grandmother collected clocks, antique

and analog; four on every wall.

My grandfather died on the empty

couch next to the coffee table.

I saw him in his last days, unable

to turn his head towards mine.

My grandmother told me he asked

god for more time in his sleep.

The grandfather clock still sings,

and I still do not know the time.

Courtney Heidorn

Thomas: Naomi Liechty

Thomas: Naomi Liechty

Pursed_Nanci_Milton a.jpg
Untitled: Nic Anselmo

Untitled: Nic Anselmo

Pursed: Nanci Milton Fitterman


I remember the earth

being tart and pink,

with the wind shuddering

around my shoulders

like a shot dog; run over

with so many rememberings

that the memory begins to bruise.
So many empty breaths I didn’t want

to take. So many hands looking for God

inside of me. Digging into the rotten tree

with cut up fingers. Where have you been,

my Lord?           Where does god go when

I’m sleeping and my mother is in the next room,

being killed? Her blood down the drain

like sun into grass. I remember

the man who killed my mother

trying to wrestle a seed into the ground

and how I begged for God to swallow him

whole. Take his salted eyes, take his sagging shoulders,

take his woes and his troubles; grow a tree

I can remember. So that, one day, I can memorize

the curves and the color of the bark and

the sap on my jeans can be a memory
that is not a memory because it never dies.

Not here, not in the Louisiana heat, not

in the country that taught my mother

the way of burying her body above ground.

Jude Armstrong

Cyclamen #17: Julie Fowells

Cyclamen #17: Julie Fowells

Water: Naomi Liechty

Water: Naomi Liechty


175 pounds even (on a good day)
does not look like it should when
measured in cellophane candies

in carnations lip gloss rose quartz in a pocket
in earrings sunshine lazy susans in the yard
in ivy street signs empty bottles of wine

technicolor time-killers meant to be
only two things: briefly enjoyed and
entirely gone

slumped against the wall with the legs
sticking out, slouched like a gangly child
there is the ghost of a person in that hot
white corner, and he’s the brightest thing
in the room

encouraged to take, unsure if you should
the becoming is born from the loss, a
honeyed paradox ever-adjusting— a
bit to the left. then fall out of sight. 175
even (healthy weight for an adult man)

the pile is a portrait and
the pile is dwindling and
the pile is whole again and
the pile is called ross. a

memoir by a man who had to watch
as people stole pieces heedless of the
disappearing act they created, the only
art in the gallery they want you to steal,

a grieving man’s tiny agony,

and if a perfect likeness takes
your place did anything really change
at all? count out the people who would
be able to tell the difference. wonder
if you are one of them.

taste pink gold green (a beating heart)
know you are taking and becoming
(all at once).

Grace McGory

Five Decades on the Coast: Elizabeth Hopkins

Five Decades on the Coast: Elizabeth Hopkins

First and Final Winter: Will Baldwin

First and Final Winter: Will Baldwin


1976: Elizabeth Hopkins

Preserved Presence: Colleen Fox Breen

Preserved Presence: Colleen Fox Breen

Moonrise, Brooklyn: Amanda BernSohn

Moonrise, Brooklyn: Amanda BernSohn


In memory of my grandmother on the third anniversary of her passing.

You left some notes I stumbled across
I don’t know if they were meant for me.

A few iterations each they said,
When you see a sunset, think of me.

So westward I have tacked my gaze, but
alas, how mystified I have been -
nothing reminds me of you so well
as the way the moldering foyer smells at The Coonamessett Inn.

A foyer no bigger than a phone booth, but

big enough to be the musty waiting room

for the next life. I thought for a moment I

found you here in eternity’s anteroom.

For a moment - dead in my tracks - I thought,

let this be the next life I’ve stumbled into
and let me see your burnished red head bobbing

up from the parking lot and into view.

Come, come into the vestibule beside me
and tell me it smells like home did even in
a puritanical Podunk town like this
where you never would have been caught dead in –

but caught you were and dead you are, and I don’t

get to choose what reminds me of you. I wish
it was more to phone home to you about than

some lacquered wood, but then I realize this:

You’re not a sunset distant.

You’re alive here in this room.

The smell does more than remind

me, it resurrects you in

this place you’ve never seen, never been to

our wedding rehearsal dinner venue.
Here I was, thinking you would miss it.

Here you are, waiting for me

at the front door of the Coonamessett.

Ava Mack


Suz 2: Naomi Liechty

Moon: Naomi Liechty

Moon: Naomi Liechty

Untitled, Hotel: Amanda BernSohn

Untitled, Hotel: Amanda BernSohn


My founding father / Albert Einstein / ground zero for me
For him that was Ulm / Final Destination New Jersey / where his brain was stolen by the pathologist despite the stipulation that it should not be studied / for Einstein was not fond of fanboys / whose fervent adoration might find reason to keep his body parts as souvenirs / a relic for the Church of Science

The pathologist’s wife was grossed out / by the human remains in the pantry / she said she’d deep-six the brain / if he didn’t move it by a given deadline / careful what you wish for, the pathologist’s ex-wife / if you think you can compare / to Nobel Prize Laureate Albert Einstein

For thirty years the thief kept the brain / segmented into two-hundred-and-forty parts / rehomed into two jars / pickled in cellulose / in a cinder box / under a beer cooler / in a basement / in the American mid-west

His neighbour & friend William S. Burroughs / in gross misconduct of his professional duties / never wrote a single poem about it / and wasted words in poetic malpractice / bragging to his buddies about it / Einstein’s brain / in the pathologist’s ex-wife’s ex-husband’s basement / just next door from him

The thief took the brain to California / where all celebrities end up dead or alive / there was a study / most findings were discredited / for lack of academic rigour / but the fascinating conclusion that stands was that / Einstein’s brain was in fact / abnormally large.

Beatriz Seelaender

Thank you for reading.

For more updates check on Instagram.

Delilah Twersky

Pearl Press


bottom of page