60.3 is live! The latest issue from PRISM features work from Tammy Armstrong, Farah Ghafoor, Courtney Bates-Hardy, Matthew Pitt, Noel Cheruto, Suphil Lee Park, Meaghan Rondeau, Yaissa Jiménez Trans. Emily Hunsberger, Kyle Gervais, Rachel Deutsch, Sandra Tsz Ching Lau,...
frank: sonnetsDiane Seuss Milkweed Editions, 2021 Review by Clara Otto Diane Seuss’s 2021 collection frank: sonnets explores addiction, disability, death, and love. In the hands of a less skilled poet the combination of these themes might make for a maudlin...
The Scent of LightKristjana GunnarsCoach House Books, 2022 Review by Kris Rothstein This winter, the term “autofiction” followed me around until I felt the need to investigate further. At its most obvious it is autobiographical fiction—but just below the...
Chemical ValleyDavid HuebertBiblioasis, 2021 Review by Peter Szuban “What you might find, if you were handling a dead pigeon, is something unexpected in the glassy cosmos of its eye: a dark beauty, a molten alchemy.” The characters in David...
What have you been haunted by? What echoes are in your midst? Spirits aren’t just apparitions that linger in empty hallways and portraits. They are the songs from your childhood you still know all the words to, the figures...
SwolleningJason PurcellArsenal Pulp Press, 2022 Review by Catherine Harris Jason Purcell’s Swollening begins in childhood, where the microbial landscape of the body is formed. In “Bathing” the speaker says, “For years / could not say the word I—could not...
Our shortest-form contest deadline has been extended until May 15! The Grouse Grind Lit Prize for V. Short Forms is judged by PRISM’s editorial board. We’re excited to dig into your flash fiction, micro-memoir, poetic hybrids and everything in between...
The Glory of Dirt The dirt under Lenny’s nails is an industry. The mud on her knees is a fashion. Her boss tells her if she wants to keep selling ice-cream under the umbrella at the wharf, she needs...
If It Wasn’t for the Nights I have buried my father every night for the last fifty-seven days, every night since he died, and I couldn’t fly home for his funeral. When I fall asleep, I see myself standing...