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Toiling amidst the smell of peanut oil and potatoesA stool to hold our port-of-callWe gather in a longshoreman’s barTo tell our split of historyHow it was and will never be again. And left to a generous demise of muscle and workPensions too small and odd jobsWe tell of storms thatContinue Reading

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TV is Ellie’s escapeafter a long day of work;she likes slipping into livesshe’ll never have, losing herselfin foreign places, giving her heartto fictional characters.The British sitcom Ghostsis her favorite because she adoresthe ridiculousness and lovelinessof this found family of dead souls.Of course she knows ghosts aren’t real,but she can’t helpContinue Reading

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When he woke frisky this morning,I thought to cancel.But bad days outnumber good.He grows insubstantial,as though life vaporizes through skinthat hangs like laundry on a line,and he struggles to rise,each stiff-legged step painful. Fur-draped boneleaves few places to insert a needle.But he doesn’t whimper or struggle.He trusts me. I feelContinue Reading

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(with a nod to Rumi)The you I once knew is tied up in a basement. It’s dark and cold and isolated from view. When I illuminate your body, with a candle’s flicker, and the knots that bind you to that sturdy wooden chair, I can’t let myself stay too long.ThisContinue Reading

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Do I force it?Do I yank the words to their feet when they are tired and hungry?Do I prime the pump with docile paragraphs, cat stories for work and case studies in my neuroses?Do I trust that the main thing is the meeting itself, woman and words, moon and sea,Continue Reading

On:

The raucous sea, far belowan outgrowth of colorful flowerswafting fragrances into the air,its undulant swelling movementcarries the tide surging toward shore,its waves heaved high into the air,with splashes of briny teal,topped with white whiskers,like an old man with his restlessness. James is a retired professor and octogenarian. He is aContinue Reading

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I would sit in the blazing Alabama heat with my cousins. Picking nectarines from my great aunt’s tree. I must have swallowed a pit,Since I’ve had a knot in my stomach since I was 10. Or maybe the pit wasn’t the first knot. Maybe the fermented juice running down myContinue Reading

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Z.B. Wagman is an editor for the Deep Overstock Literary Journal and a co-host of the Deep Overstock Fiction podcast. When not writing or editing he can be found behind the desk at the Beaverton City Library, where he finds much inspiration.Continue Reading

On:

(after Henry Darger’s collection, as told by Olivia Laing) amazing howbits of stringconnect the daysdarn up the weak spotsentertain the eyeflower in a dark roomgutter rescuedhandled carefullyimagine being threaded through a cityjust as you were falling apartknots to puzzle over at nightlines crossing lines, patterningmyriad layers appearing asnesting material forContinue Reading