by Travis Cravey Marcel Ardivan Peter Cortez learned how to play chess as a boy from his grandfather, Reynaldo, who watched after him while his parents worked. Reynaldo would take him to the Calle Ocho café near Domino Park and tell Peter to sit while the older Cuban men would complain bitterly about the past, drink coffee, and play chess. Reynaldo would occasionally wave the boy over, point at the board, and ask him, “What do you suggest, little Capablanca?” The men would la

by Travis Cravey Annie Spratt Peter Cortez had no need for an alarm clock. Almost fifty years of waking at 5:30 a.m. had made the item superfluous. It didn’t matter how late he went to bed, how much he’d had to drink, or whether he had somewhere to be. He opened his eyes at the same time. And as he had done for almost thirty years, he rolled over to lay his arm on his wife’s shoulder. It too was a habit, born of so many mornings: hurried mornings, intimate mornings, forgotten

by Travis Cravey Hassan Pasha The pieces moved across the board in his mind. Mike felt confused, lost. What the hell was Peter trying at? Now, two months after he had sacrificed his pawn, so goddamn foolishly, he moves his knight to e6? And he doesn’t expect a swift, violent response? Mike stuffed the postcard into his jacket, closed his mailbox, and walked up the staircase to his apartment. His apartment was spartan, clean. A couch, a small table, several Andrew Wyeth prints

Doctor Tinieblas Saturday Night Sage by Noah Lekas, Blind Owl, $15 paperback, 2019 Reviewed by Travis Cravey Noah Lekas’ collection begins and ends with travel. In between we are told some amazing stories about work, philosophy, and the Midwest. We will deliver art to the wealthy in New York and wait impatiently with others for the factory bell in Racine to free us. The subtitle of the collection is “narrative poems of mysticism and menial labor,” and Lekas delivers powerfu

by Travis Cravey Mahbod Akhzami Shaving as Metaphor I was teaching my son to shave when he cut himself, deeply, along his jaw. He turned to face me, his father, red blood running down his neck, covering his hands. What do I do? he said. Someday all I have seen and known, all the blood, smoke, and fire, the low days and different stars, will follow me, forever, into some great, distant somewhere. When My Wife When me wife asks me To touch her I flinch. When my wife asks me To