Restructuring The Box (some news for you[s])

13 Feb

To all who have waited,

We have been taking on new staff to start turning the wheels properly. They are oily humans in a good way. Submissions are currently closed but will reopen after we finish up with Issue 2. Thank you kindly for your patience and we apologize to those who have submitted back when the moon was an inch closer to us. Again thank you, for those who have read the magazine, and those who have awaited for submission replies.

THB Editors

Colin Dodds (poetry)

18 Oct

Something Other

This is the story we cannot help but tell.
Either the bad guys won,
or the good guys became terrible when they won.

It hardly matters.
What matters is the blood in the streets
and the fear in the houses.

What matters more still
is that someone nonetheless looks up
and tries,

in the compromised moment
between being born and dying,
and to bequeath something other than a mute apology

to the generations that draw near
with their eyes wet and bewildered, and their tongues
flicking like the tongues of serpents.

Sam Alex (art)

9 Oct
Sam Alex (art)



My Friends the Grackles


Come Back


The Medicine Cabinet

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz (poetry)

7 May

April in New York City

Rising above the traffic and the skyline, past the fat bus
tunneling through its own smoke like bad magic.

Over the screaming cars and blaring storefronts, the radios
and fussing babies, the pothole’s hiccupy thrum.

Walking or waiting, above ground or beneath it,
all I need is time, its thinnest slice, and you arrive:

your face, the spring sun; your voice, the smoothest
sidewalk; your hands, the racing taxi’s windy fingers

tangling in my hair. You. Why you? When there are
boiled bagels, crisp from the oven? When rare dog breeds

haughtily ignore me in the park? When old friends
stagger with beauty, drink thick fists of beer and dance?

Why you? When this glittering city stretches before me,
steel and dirt and relentless: the everything I need it to be.

Explain to me why it is then, that I stand silent in its middle,
listening to my heart play its one note,

its loudest, its most true:
you. you. you. you.

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz (poetry)

7 May

Years Later, I Hear Your Voice in a Recording

In the dream, I am drunk. You and I don’t drink,
and yet there is the wine bottle, red. And there
are two wine glasses, half-empty. In the dream,

we eventually find ourselves on the floor, and
your collarbone becomes the place my fingers
waltz, where they ride your blood elevator

of a throat to your jaw’s perfect crook. Here is
where I touch a single ear. And here is where
I hold a hand to your chest, where your heart

still beats. I feel the heat of you, the actual heat.
I remember the slow song of your breath. There
is your forehead, is your cheek, is your mouth.

We are, like we never were. The night stretches
and stretches, like it might never break. I wake up
only because the tape clicks off, so loud

I thought it was a gunshot.


Nehiyaw and Mestacakan by Alicia Marie Lawrence

4 Feb

Nehiyaw and Mestacakan


Dalton Saffe (art)

7 Nov
%d bloggers like this: