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Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away
into the far corner between sleep and waking.
Belgium, 13th century
I saw a queen, wearing a gold dress, and her dress was full of eyes, and all the eyes were transparent,. . .
we are not scaling we are hunters in this drape called body we have / hardened our old selves pricked peeled consumed . . .
Short fiction by Tyler McAndrew.
Age-old anti-labor strategies get a liberal twist.
The push to reopen the schools pulls parents in all directions.