I.

A labyrinth doesn’t sound so bad provided you have food and water,
A towel, and a change of clothes. You’d never run into them–
Former professors, ex-lovers, skinny girls with pregnant stomachs.
You’d never have to say, I’m so happy for you, a smile like chewing leather.
The minotaur has dark eyes and sharp horns, but he’s like a honeybee:
If you don’t bother him, he won’t even know you’re there.
And when you get lonely, you can sing some songs.

II.

Falling towards the bottomless is OK,
With a good headlamp, and clothing with pockets. If you bring a book.
When you work on your form, your falling form,
You will discover a diver of interminable twists and flicks.
The perfect parallel of two strong legs outstretched together.
Drop your fear below you.  It falls faster.
When you never hear the ring of the penny in the well,
You will forget about the ground and fly.

III.

In pursuit of you are men with terrible, empty faces,
In black suits and black cars and black shoes.
Your sneaker laces are untied but you are running.
There is a taste burning in your throat.
Your belt gone somewhere away,
And all you know is: If you stop for one second,
They will be on you like dogs.
In truth, chimeras are bashful.
If you undress. Walk naked into the light, and stand still,
And look them in their button eyes.
You will wake up laughing,
To cat-scratching at your door.

Emily Rudofsky is a poet and writer living in Cambridge, Mass. Her forthcoming collection of poems, titled Ravenous, will be published by Yes/No Press in summer 2013. Read more of her poetry at http://esclavepoems.wordpress.com.

A bartender gets an interesting customer. Original fiction by Lisa DeBenedictis.

The rain fell, pooling and hissing as it reached the gutters. I wiped at the foggy window with my rag, then continued with the stools.

A man walked in with an accelerated pace, wiping beads of water from his balding head with the back of his hand. He took off his overcoat; he wore a steel blue sweater over a white collared shirt and charcoal pants. His shoes were black and looked expensive. His sweater had a grease stain that very clearly resembled the Italian peninsula; a ragged little boot.

“Here for lunch?” I asked, walking back behind the counter to pour him a glass of water.

He hovered over the bar, but remained standing. “Yes.”

I tried my best to smile encouragingly. “I’ll bring over some menus.”

“I’ll have a Ketel One and cranberry. And the Waldorf salad.”

“Sure.”

He glanced around, and then took a seat.

I poured his drink in silence, plucked a lime from the container, and placed it in front of him.

He picked it up with both hands and took a long sip. “Did you read in the papers about that man in Roxbury? The one that tried to set himself on fire in his own apartment?”

“I did.”

“Yup. Set fire to the whole freakin’ building.”

“Yeah. That was a really sad story.”

“They say he was clinically depressed.”

“Makes a lot of sense.”

“You must know what people are saying, then.”

“Nope. What are they saying?”

“They’re saying: ‘Why couldn’t he just slit his wrists?’ ”

I paused from answering a text and looked up. He leaned forward, gripping the counter with his left hand. The drink remained in his right. He continued to stare at me with wide blue eyes.

“Well,” I said, “maybe it was more of a cry for help.”

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