Return
by Meaghan McDonald
“…The same shadows stretch long from the treesThe same crows peck at the unfortunate seedsAnd I, unchanged, lay myself down in the womb of the earth…”
Let us return at once to the sunless lands of my lineage
Where mists control the ebb and flow
of my forgotten mother’s tongue
Through which I have learned to sing instead of speak,
Recitations of a prayer whispered through fault lines
Little grows here that is not smothered and stunted;
No golden sheaves of wheat nor listening ears of corn.
I wonder —
I did not grow from boy to man in this place
No willows whispered their secrets to the curve of my ear.
The same shadows stretch long from the trees
The same crows peck at the unfortunate seeds
And I, unchanged, lay myself down in the womb of the earth
Remake me — right this time
Unravel the spool of my making
Weave me into the shape of a man, of a shawl, of a shroud
A final embrace for the dead
Before they return
As I have
Abbey
by Meaghan McDonald
“I knew her as a horse splashed seafoam whiteAtop the wine-dark sea of her bodyI knew her as a friend before she carried her hundred childrenupon her broad back.”
Dapples and chestnuts
and the hearty patchwork of the paint
Loop around a white-fenced ring
kicking up shredded tires and dirt beneath their heels,
while the birds cluck and kiss and call to them from the darkening sky.
A bracelet around my wrist tells me to breathe,
and I tangle my fingers in her black-and-white mane.
I hold her and not my breath as we fly over the crossbar—
I still hit the ground.
Aphrodite rises from the seafoam of her creator’s semen and she is
beautiful—
She is beautiful and she has emerged fully formed from nothing more than a
dream...
I knew her.
I knew her as a horse splashed seafoam white
Atop the wine-dark sea of her body
I knew her as a friend before she carried her hundred children
upon her broad back.
My friend Aphrodite.
I want her to live forever
I want to wax poetic on her heart,
thundering deep within the barrel of her chest
A truer rhythm than my own
A horse does not know evil
though they may look it in the eye
From the war of the West to the war between a plow
and the stony Massachusetts soil
There is innocence in kindness,
In the soul residing behind glass eyes beer bottle brown
I do not have the heart of a horse—
I do not have the same blood running through my veins
I can only love, weak in my way,
And pray you feel it embrace you
A thousand miles away.
Everyday Divinity
by Meaghan McDonald
“She talks to meAbout dyeing itI talk to her about...
dying”
My mother’s hair is turning gray,
Silver lining wrought through tarnished strands—
She hates it.
She grips them at the root,
pinched between forefinger and thumb
And plucks
She talks to me
About dyeing it
I talk to her about...
dying
And the miracle
that is watching
her hair go gray
Strand...
by... strand.
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Meaghan (they/them) spends their days briefing cases and researching niche legal issues, but finds a certain freedom in poetry and prose. In the space they carved out for creativity, they became fond of fantasy. This love for the fantastical has inspired them throughout their life, and carries their writing as constant as a heartbeat.
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Mad Junius
By Carla Sarett
“He died on a steamboatgambling his way back East.”
Junius Brutus Booth, father of John Wilkes Booth
(1796-1852)
He once crowed like a rooster instead of speaking
to Ophelia. He almost strangled
Desdemona.
But there were nights of fire—
there were many nights.
And in a week of torrential rains he left his sons and wandered
out West — uselessly—chasing debt.
He died on a steamboat
gambling his way back East.
Mad, people said.
Mad Old Junius Booth.
Maybe he did go mad that final weekend,
a woman read his palm and saw
a wild son on a distant stage.
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Carla Sarett writes poetry, fiction and, occasionally, essays; and has been nominated for the Pushcart, Best American Essays, and Best of Net. She has published one full-length collection,She Has Visions (Main Street Rag, 2022) and two chapbooks, including My Family Was Like a Russian Novel (Plan B, 2023.) Recent poems appear in Potomac Review, Stonecoast Review, Harpy Hybrid, San Pedro River Review and Rust and Moth. Carla has a PhD from University of Pennsylvania and is based in San Francisco.
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The City Underneath
by Sean Ahern
“The broken ones
can't find home,
so they wander
and live in cardboard boxes
that held someone else's life,
a family, a husband, a wife.”
There's a city underneath
a false floor leads
below the jigsaw streets,
a cathedral of steelin concert with moans
echoes from the surface.
Where the body shops
build people from ash and bone,
they meander above
to walk and smile
for neon screens.
They pray, but their hands are empty.
They pay, and their hands are empty.
The broken ones
can't find home,
so they wander
and live in cardboard boxes
that held someone else's life,
a family, a husband, a wife.
They watch as shapes stride,
sinking back into their underworld
where they once belonged.
Their fingers and feet filthy from digging
as they try to purchase the ground
but only their bodies are for sale.
The dirt here doesn't seem real,
it knows too much;
it remembers a million stories
written by soles that walk above.
Midnight Sun
by Sean Ahern
“Chest pressed against hera city Angellessdressed in concrete skin,listening to her hum, a hymn.”
A shadow wakes
from the manifolds of midnight,
betweenthesaturationthatsticksthestreetstogether.
Chest pressed against her
a city Angelless
dressed in concrete skin,
listening to her hum, a hymn.
A beat that leads to a black door,
vibrations gather behind,
thrumming seams,
bursting to baptize
asphalt in artificial firelight.
A mouth stumbles out.
Incantations: in liquor,
sweat, and electricity
sung from a womb.
There’s a shadow breathing home.
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Sean is an emerging writer from Southern California where he resides with his two children and corgi. Sean has a B.A in Creative Writing from Cal State University Northridge.
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Petition
By Alex Rettie
“… Have mercy on this little soulwho cannot summon any strength,who cannot forward any goal,who cannot find the height or length…”
My elemental, austere Lord –
Who mutters in Your muffled voice
that virtue is its own reward,
Who wrecks and bids the wrecked rejoice –Have mercy on this little soul
who cannot summon any strength,
who cannot forward any goal,
who cannot find the height or length
or depth or any other measure
of Your might. Sing, Lord, if You can,
a pure canticle of pleasure
contrived for this most impure man.
Bless the poor being before You
who wants only to adore You
Consequential I
By Alex Rettie
“…Why do they call you Consequential I?”And he’s all, “Well, because my name’s Ivan.”So I say, “Sure, but why Consequential?…”
I used to know a guy called Ivan Truch.
Everyone called him Consequential I.
I asked him this one time, I say to him
“Why do they call you Consequential I?”
And he’s all, “Well, because my name’s Ivan.”
So I say, “Sure, but why Consequential?”
Ivan takes out his left eye – it was glass –
and holds it up to me, and says “Just look.”
I do, and damn if I don’t see a light
in it, blinking red and green and yellow,
and a little woman made of silver
balls, rocking this baby who stares at me
and raises his small fist, which starts to bleed.
“Right,” I say. “Eye. But why Consequential?”
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Alex Rettie writes from the top floor of a rented house in Calgary, Alberta. Alex's poems have appeared in journals in Canada, the US, and the UK, including Raceme, the lickety-split, Queer Toronto, Passengers Journal, Sinking City, and SoFloPoJ.
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Post-It
by Melissa McGeary
I saved a scrap of paper that you wrote my name on,
probably to remind yourself that I exist
& i weep at your perfect handwriting
each curve and loop a fingerprint of thought
I have saved them all, the scraps and post-its
hoping to create something out of nothing
a canvas of mundane moments, a portal
to an untested universe where we exist in gray pencil lead
this ink-stained affair that exists only in the margins,
every crinkle a memory that forgot to happen.
A Prayer
by Melissa McGeary
“… & I wonder what tempest simmers in your ribcagewhat passions I could unleash…”
I like your quiet way - silent, contemplative
like the night sky lazily dripping stars into a calm sea.
& I wonder what tempest simmers in your ribcage
what passions I could unleash
like a murder of crows bursting into a fiery dawn.
Let me feel your words on my skin
How your mouth forms around my name like aprayer,
the way your accent colors the vowels in shades of worship,
Oh quiet man, I cherish every syllable like a holy relic.
I've Lived Entire Lives in Daydream
by Melissa McGeary
“… my imagination spins entire liveslived in the infinite spaces between seconds.”
I wander aimlessly around the house, out of focus,
blurred lines of a woman.
Inattention propelling me in listless circles
with no more volition than dust motes sent swirling
through rays of sunlight by a sighing breeze through the
curtains.
Bare feet plodding against aged hardwood
creaking, groaning
the worn wood to my rusty soul, tired and jaded.
An ache, an itch I can’t reach
trying to outpace mundanity
while my imagination spins entire lives
lived in the infinite spaces between seconds.
Discontent, like a worn sweater
wearing circles in the floor.
I’m not living anymore, just waiting
for death to knock at my door
and relieve me this ennui.
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Melissa McGeary is a librarian from NJ.
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Coffee (sonnet 64)
by Kristie Patterson
“… I used to hate this drink, now I crave it And the cup reads ‘caution’ as a mockingAs if I’m too stupid to know it burns…”
The coffee scalds my hand,
my wrist,
my arm
It hits the carpet with a wild vengeance
“Did that wake you up?” it seems to jeer – yes
Since I’m being watched, I bring my lips forth,
And it takes pleasure in numbing my tongue
Scorched
esophagus,
but
warm
inside me
As if intensity fades when hidden
I used to hate this drink, now I crave it
And the cup reads ‘caution’ as a mocking
As if I’m too stupid to know it burns
As if I haven’t done this to myself
My skin still drips and stickiness sets in
“Was that worth it?” It seems we’re of one mind -
I always verge epiphany at this.
But it’s gone now. It’s gone at least for now.
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Kristie Patterson is a 24-year-old Canadian writer. She is currently doing her Master's in Creative Writing at Cambridge University, England, where she specializes in poetry.
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Agonal Respirations: The Space Between Words
by Bethany R. Belkowski
“…I bartered quicklywith god on the bathroom floor,decided I’d be fine to go—but mom arguedit matters how we die…”
“Whether it is a dispersion, or a resolution into atoms, or annihilation, it is either extinction orchange.” —Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.32
At fifteen, anaphylaxis asked for me,
breathless, in evening hours—a call unanswered
but well-received. From the bedroom
it dragged me down
the narrow hall—a metaphor I pointed out
for its convenience. I bartered quickly
with god on the bathroom floor,
decided I’d be fine to go—but mom argued
it matters how we die. So I crawled
to the mirror—let it change around my face:
nose lost in the swell, eyes squeezed dry,
tongue pregnant with my own
name. It’s hard to unlearn the sounds
we make, but a little
death changes everything.
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Bethany Belkowski is a recent graduate of The University of Scranton where she earned degrees in both English and Public Policy. Her poetry has been published by Moonstone Press and in Esprit. She is currently applying to MFA programs to continue nurturing her love for writing.
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Listless Pleasures: The Bathtub Poems #3
by Ace Allen
“… A rope descends from above,Two officers drop onto my patio.They grab the pots,Using both hands…”
I sit back and watch
As my plants die,
Suffocating in tiny clay pots...
Surrounded by death and rot—
Too much, far too late.
Too little light and too much water,
No drainage.
Fertilizer piling up,
I pace frantically
Across the patio, pruning.
Neighbors peek out their windows,
Shaking their heads.
A phone rings,
Police sirens wail sixteen stories below.
A helicopter approaches
In the distance, blades thwacking the sky.
A rope descends from above,
Two officers drop onto my patio.
They grab the pots,
Using both hands.
“Target secured,” they say into a radio,
Clipping the rope and flying off into the distance,
Pots in stow...
To this day
I’m still not allowed to own plants.
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Ace Allen is a writer based in the Washington D.C. area.
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Homer
by Richard Stimac
“… For the love of God, Hector would one day strip Patroclus naked,leave him in rot under the Anatolian sun…"
Violence is the language of men. We will never learn to change
the voice of the Muse when her tongue penetrates our lips
and her voice, coming in our throat, sings, sings of the wrath
of Achilles denied the right to rape Briseis as war booty.
Men long for the honor of other men. Women serve only
as means. When, in my mind’s eye, I saw the Cheiron-trained
swing his battle axe as if a woodsman felling trees,
I saw him side-eye Patroclus. For the love of God,
Hector would one day strip Patroclus naked,
leave him in rot under the Anatolian sun. Achilles rue
determined the fate of history. Our words, men,
are the Law. We speak only to each other.
If you desire to don the mantle of The Man,
you dress in brutality. Everything else is fiction.
Scamander
by Richard Stimac
“… The river grows thin.Near the Greek camp, at the mouth, a wild grinscars Achilles face…”
Ten years of drought. The land, dry like the skin
of an old queen who overlived his reign,
sucks the discharge from the earth, a stale plain
of snags and browned grass. The river grows thin.
Near the Greek camp, at the mouth, a wild grin
scars Achilles face. His pleasure, his pain,
he washes the penetrating stain
from his lover’s body. He would begin
killing again. But the sea does not care.
The salty spume encroaches in the river’s
mouth. The freshwater current, not to gag,
pulls itself upstream. The bone-dry bank quivers.
Achilles, in mourning, cuts his red hair,
ashes his face, wails like an ancient hag.
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Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.
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Womanhood
by Hailey Spencer
“…He kisses her, lips pull taut over teeth.
At night, she climbs the castle’s highest tower…”
A different sight, a stumble into love.
Soft lips and tongue, and she ignores the way
that bits of skin break off and float astray
each time she bathes within the castle’s tub.
She breaks her heart in two for the strange prince,
tears out the garden roses from the dirt
and when he speaks to her, it doesn’t hurt
and his clawed fingers never make her wince.
She hides herself away from walls that glower
and softly pulse each time her husband speaks.
He kisses her, lips pull taut over teeth.
At night, she climbs the castle’s highest tower.
Steps up onto the ledge to feel the breeze.
You are not trapped, he’s said, and she agrees.
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Hailey Spencer is, in the words of her wife Elizabeth, an absolute cloud of a girl. She writes and creates collages in Seattle, Washington. Her debut poetry collection, Stories for When the Wolves Arrive, was published in 2022 by First Matter Press, where she now sits on the editorial board. For more on Hailey and her work, you can find her on Instagram @outofloveinspring and on her website haileyspencerwrites.com
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After Ninety
by Rohan Buettel
“…As thinking channels are clogged with grief.
A cloudy view occludes tomorrow’s cares,
The events of long ago in sharp relief…”
Nothing good happens after ninety years.
Skin tissue as thin as poppy petals;
Organs decay; vision never clears
.Brittle bones replaced by stronger metals.
The drainage systems need constant repairs
As thinking channels are clogged with grief.
A cloudy view occludes tomorrow’s cares,
The events of long ago in sharp relief.
Yet would I stay a while for nonetheless
Although the dark curtains now descend,
I still enjoy the things I once did best.
The simple joys we took we still intend
To take again, not end before they stop.
From oranges we squeeze the final drop.
The Studio
(after the painting by Picasso at the Tate)
by Rohan Buettel
“… below the easel rest some artist tools,
a Spanish skin of wine hangs near to hand —
it’s thirsty work to reinvent the rules…”
Matisse was never in this villa scene:
Picasso’s studio not far from Cannes;
a sombre room contrasts the outside green
with art nouveau windows framing palms.
A sculpted head sits on a wooden stand,
below the easel rest some artist tools,
a Spanish skin of wine hangs near to hand —it’s thirsty work to reinvent the rules.
Yet this setting could belong to Matisse:
the linear patterns in walls and floors;
the window view creating a centrepiece;
the verdant fronds in the sunny outdoors.
What better tribute to pay his release,
your greatest rival sadly now at peace.
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Rohan Buettel lives in Canberra, Australia. His haiku appear in various Australian and international journals (including Presence, Cattails and The Heron’s Nest). His longer poetry appears in numerous journals, including The Goodlife Review, Rappahannock Review, Penumbra Literary and Art Journal, Passengers Journal, Reed Magazine, Meniscus and Quadrant.
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Chicken Processing Plant Allegory
by Richard Weaver
“… They had to be held, upside-downsquawking at arm's length, their legspinned together, or they'd peck…”
Catching them with salt
was Uncle Ross's idea.
For two days we chased them
down the alley, through
the yards, emptying
the salt from two houses
on the tail feathers of darting
pullets, escapees from death.
The last laugh was ours.
A metal coat hanger worked better.
Bent into a long hook, we'd snare
an orange scaled foot and pull
the stunned birds into the defenseless air.
They had to be held, upside-down
squawking at arm's length, their legs
pinned together, or they'd peck.
One at a time we'd carry them
back to the fetid processing plant.
Our efforts rewarded with a nickel
or sometimes a shiny dime.
Other images resurface.
The huge washer which scalded them
free of feathers, steaming like a hunted beast.
And the airborne conveyor with its hooks
that held them upside down, limp
but not lifeless, carried towards the v-shaped bar
which caught and stretched their necks
until the head popped clear and drained clean.
Their eyes caught open in final surprise.
Inheritance
by Richard Weaver
“…Take a thread, a single thread,
and loop it around
one of the dark hind legs.
A simple knot will do…”
Catch one in flight if you can,
but be careful not to wrinkle
the silk-thin wings.
Not the brown ones, May beetles,
earthbound imitators; The green ones,
the real June bugs, metallic cherubs
infused with summer light.
Take a thread, a single thread,
and loop it aroundone of the dark hind legs.
A simple knot will do.
Nothing elaborate.
And then let go.
Watch as it circles, clockwise,
counterclockwise,
against the quickening cord.
Watch the opaque wings beat
against the reluctant light,
and the blur of its motion,
its perpetual moment
like the wings of a child.
Watch it glow and drift
toward the mimosas
that line the street.
Watch as the wind disappears
beneath its wings in a fit of pique.
Watch it turn north in thanks.
South in prayer.
Then follow the closest star
until only memory remains.
Family History
By Richard Weaver
“… The house stands tall
in memory,
bare of light, barely
visiblein
the layers asking…”
What holds these front porch
floorboards together?
Not the dirt that sifts
after an afternoon shower.
Not the broom that walks
its stutter step over
the cracks between.
Or the path worn
from the steps
to the front door that swings
open with the lightest knock of wind.
Or the memory of a hammer
wielding its persistent music
nearly a century before.
As the door drags a foot
across its belly, a scar arcs
across the pine heart
of a house dying this year.
And next. Before the ground
swells and hardens into cement.
The house stands tall in memory,
bare of light, barely visible
in the layers asking: How many coats
of green paint can a life hold?
How much spring is more
than the body can endure?
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The author has returned as the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub in Baltimore. Other pubs:Conjunctions, Louisville Review, Southern Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, Coachella Review, FRIGG, Hollins Critic, Xavier Review, Atlanta Review, Dead Mule, Vanderbilt Poetry Review, & New Orleans Review. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005). He was one of the founders of the Black Warrior Review and its Poetry Editor for the first four years. Recently, his 200th prose poem was accepted since 2016.
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born with thorns
By Ri Ekl
diamond eyes
By Ri Ekl
passenger
By Ri Ekl
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Ri Ekl, mathematician, amateur physicist and artist born in Budapest as the only son of academic parents on April 4, 1984. He writes and composes poems and music.
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