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N. C. Germanacos

Spring 1989

Sanctity

By N. C. Germanacos

Everything, he said, is sacred. I never knew when he was serious— the poses, the rhetoric—he lectured his son, me, on backbone—as though he were flashing his prick. (My suitors […]

Spring 1989

Makers

By N. C. Germanacos

He runs calloused hands over the flanks of a ship, a horse, a bitch, his son’s cheek, a rock— face, plucks the blade of his knife (the one his father […]