by Tina Mozelle Braziel
by Cynthia Atkins
by Elizabeth Ryan
This is the third summer since you left me with nothing but a playlist to remember you by & I still haven’t listened past the first song. Your anniversary approached & I thought I saw your face in a passing car, but you’re dead. Maybe when you played “The Reason,” it cut through the night like a siren—the guitar riding out the speakers while you sat in your still-running parked car & the Oxycontin kicked in. I turned up my radio dial while driving, let And so I have to say before I go, that I just want you to know, I’ve found a reason to be, trickle out & I don’t sing along, only take jagged breaths. When I want to feel closer to you, I lie down in the middle of the road at 2AM, streetlights splayed across me, June bugs crawling towards my warmth. They flip onto their backs, wiry legs scrambling towards heaven, moving fast until their bitter end. I gingerly pick them up, rise to my feet & carry them to the grass. Turning away, I tell myself I did enough, that they will walk on their own again.
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Elizabeth Ryan is a poet originating from Omaha, Nebraska. She is a graduate of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln where she studied Psychology and English with an emphasis in Creative Writing. While at UNL, she worked with emerging student writers as an intern at the Young Writers Camp. In her free time, Elizabeth will most likely be found reading, writing and binging mid-2000s reality television shows.
by Anjuli Sherin
A hard sun lights
a whirl of life
Dust hardly settles
nor does smell or sound
Worn out engines back fire blasts
while horse drawn carts leave behind
steaming piles of dung and white capped
men headed from the mosque, with
scarf headed women on household rounds,
drag school worn children with one hand,
while the other carries naan,
newspaper wrapped & warm,
ready for afternoon lunch
Alhamdolillah.
Thank Allah, for these blessings.
She watches them,
haunches low on the ground
Brown desiccated body
leathered by the sun
One arm long, thin fingers outstretched,
while the other adjusts a scarf
white as the lanky strands
on her wizened head, while
a million lines crucifix her mouth,
four toothed, gaping wide,
a parched cry, calling out
Beta, ghareeb hoon. Kuch Khila do.
Allah tujhe sawab dega.
I am poor, son. Feed me.
Allah will bless you.
Their eyes so recently engaged with heaven,
fall to the ground,
accompanied by rupees,
more often with sound,
impatient, reluctant, indifferent, proud-
Maaf karein, Maaf Karein.
Sorry, Sorry.
Forgive us.
and
in the tightness of each heart
that meanest begging bowl
small coins clink out a
meager, persistent rhythm
not enough, not enough
it's not enough to
lift your hands up in prayer
starving they sit, sleep,
die on your stony ground
with eyes your same color
made deep with despair
O Believers, O Believers
this is not enough
to buy Allah's forgiveness.
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Anjuli Sherin is a Pakistani-American feminist poet and psychotherapist, with a love of sensual language and eastern poetry forms. She focuses primarily on spirituality, nature, politics, and the human condition in her creative work, and writes poetry that is meant to be read out loud. Her latest book, available through Penguin Random House, is Joyous Resilience: A path to individual healing and collective thriving. You can follow her on Instagram at anjulisherinmft or find her at www.anjulisherinmft.com.
by Jen Ryan Onken
for Nicole Chvatal
You on the telephone—I’m ready
to throw myself off a bridge. I’m losing it.
The snowmelt stretches out from gray
to blue. I know this tender bridge with its white
limpets and cement. The way your toes
grip the edge so hard it hurts. The grassy bank
all bare despite the leftover snow. Bald eagles
and their awful noise. What could inoculate
against this? The tidy nest waiting in the eaves,
the vernal pools, the purple tulips swelling
underground. The dog sniffing out the breathing
moles. Sister, shall we sink by land or sea?
Nothing floats. We laugh because all our brothers do
is beat us up at Hearts. They ignore our parents.
They’re always fucking around on boats.
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Jen Ryan Onken lives and teaches in southern Maine. Recent poems have appeared on Maine Public Radio, The Night Heron Barks, and Love's Executive Order. She was the Maine Poet's Society winner of their 2019 prize for previously unpublished poets. Her micro chapbook, That First Toss, was a finalist for the 2019 Washburn Prize at Harbor Review. Jen recently completed her MFA from Warren Wilson's Program for Writers.
by Nancy Reddy
by Jessica Freeman
the sunlight bowed down, and the lightning
bugs weren’t yet out. The city lights just on, we threw
our whiffle ball bats in the lush yard, and ran between this
world and that one, taking two steps at a time up to our
steamy back porch where last year a hummingbird had trapped
herself inside a plastic bucket of bleach left outside the door,
her green and purple wings shimmering and bent as she buzzed
inside the soppy solution next to a scrubbed rag made
from dad’s old underwear. On some nights like this one,
when we knew we were driving to the river house in the morning,
mom had us take turns in the bathtub. My brother went in first,
singing The Beatles in his blue bathrobe, a towel swinging from his hand.
A slush of water welled through the pipes, shaking the walls
as it nearly ran over the bathtubs edge. From the couch in the next
room I yelled and told him to shut the faucet off, afraid there wouldn’t
be more of that tepid-ness for me to run through
my mud-caked hair. This night, he emerged, a frightened look
on his face. I rushed around him to get to my Cinderella bath powder.
He said to tell Jesus hi. An instant, his words shrouded the room,
coloring the air, burning it and making everything smell electric.
I knew he believed what he was saying, I knew he was too old
to imagine it, I knew that here was yet another thing
that he knew well that I did not.
______________________________________________________________
Jessica Freeman has work published in Mississippi Review, The McNeese Review, Third Coast, Foothill Journal, UCity Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and has received an Honorable Mention from the Academy of American Poets. She is a former winner of the Joanne Hirschfield Memorial Poetry Prize and a Slattery Arts Award. Currently she teaches poetry at The Women's Center in Carbondale, IL,and English at Southern Illinois University Carbondale, where she is an MFA candidate.
by Heather Bourbeau
We were smaller once.
Our bones thick, our breath heavy from hunts and hungers.
Still we distinguish the piss of humans from cats,
the mark of dogs from the musk of lovers.
In dreams, I smell brine and baleen, the slow drip of resin.
Mantis shrimp see more colors than any animal on earth.
We see blue and red and green, and call it a rainbow,
pity the dog with only yellow and blue.
Shadows play on the backs of our closed eyes.
There once were hippos and lions on Trafalgar Square.
Now the last male northern white rhino has died
under armed guard, unable to breed.
Marsh tits fly through a Paris airport, feast on our debris.
In Quedlinburg, a wooden house bears graffiti
“No Hope” and lovely cakes of six layers nearly hide
racist caricatures on antique coffee tins.
We marvel and mock the feathered dinosaur.
The browning camellia blossom, fallen mid-storm,
with folds of pink and ochre, long past prime,
calls my fingers to learn the geography and beauty in dying.
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Heather Bourbeau’s fiction and poetry have been published in 100 Word Story, Alaska Quarterly Review, Cleaver, Francis Ford Coppola Winery, Short Édition, The Cardiff Review, and The Stockholm Review of Literature. Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she is the winner of La Piccioletta Barca’s inaugural competition and Chapman University Flash Fiction competition. She has worked with various UN agencies, including the UN peacekeeping mission in Liberia and UNICEF Somalia.
by Hannah Craig
For Bill
I dreamed of an earth in the body. Sky
pulling back into eyelids, adjourning.
Oh, those colors, the green aquarium
of how I come into the morning.
A girl, and mortal, and dumb
with sight. I wish I could keep this
sweet. That there was not ash sown
into the rust, into the water.
Into the leve green of breath,
the flight of birds away from the body,
home to the body. The first warm
night in so many. That I am tired
of dignity, that I have received so much
of it, more than my due,
and like the mourning dove, I now call
mostly from the bridge of the world's
black night. Untaught, I've lived.
Smoothed it out, like the lilac's
wild hair, like her high, high violet hat
and head. I wish that I could keep this sweet.
That, in her tender gray neck
there was not a buried burr,
a barb, a knot of wire, rusting.
That the borrowed sumac
was not poisoning the entire lawn,
casting his wide shadow of harm.
That we were not so hungry
all the time. Impatient with
one another. Burning one another,
wet branch by wet branch. The smoke
of one another lilting, covering
the valley, like a threadbare sheet
lofted over the bed. Christ, it's true.
I dreamed of the snuff-colored ground,
the burnished erosion, the neck
and harp and tension of the cords
in the voice. Its twang and century.
How, like a she-bear, I have licked
this language into shape, and now
the fat lies aside, white and leaved.
Now the body lies aside, for a moment.
Then lifts itself to go on working.
————————————————————————————————————-
Hannah Craig lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of This History that Just Happened (Parlor Press, 2017). Her work has recently appeared in journals like Copper Nickel, Occulum, Mississippi Review, and the New England Review of Books. See hrcraig.com.
by Mara Jebsen
by Margaret Ray
I am undercover at the grocery store.
I am behind enemy lines and the line is adulthood.
I am standing here, pretending I am not
a child teetering on stilts under a giant overcoat.
Do you ever have trouble finding your dead letter drops?
No, probably not, you are the cover, there’s nothing under,
the way you talk here is the way you talk in real life,
but I have to pretend to mean things all the time.
Pretend that I feel at home in this life,
say convincing things like I’m going home now and mean
the place where I live with a man who scares me. I can’t remember
why it matters so much to wake up at the right time
but I have to do it with gusto just like my many colleagues.
I have gone to the grocery to fill in the gaps in my backstory
and I am standing in the home goods aisle asking myself
how much copper plating do I need in my kitchen
to shore up my cover? Will this this shatter-proof
plastic stemware give me away for the broken-hearted child
I really am? I am standing holding an apple corer, realizing
they don’t have anything I need here.
________________________________________________________________
Margaret Ray grew up in Gainesville, Florida and holds an MFA from Warren Wilson College. A winner of a Chapbook Fellowship from the Poetry Society of America and the Third Coast Poetry Prize, her poems have appeared in FIELD, The Gettysburg Review, Threepenny Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She teaches in New Jersey. See www.margaretbray.com.
by Sonia Feldman
I haven’t been scandalized in months.
I wish I could see your face
when I tell you a very good secret.
I wish I could smell your fake tan
getting dressed in a locker room.
I want to show up at your house
unannounced and make your brother
let me in. I want to buy you
a sushi dinner and have a good cry.
How better to remember the ferocity
of our love than by breaking something
together (say, a brown glass bottle
on the bathroom floor)? Once I cursed you
for peeing on me in the shower.
Now I’m baking my own
lemon birthday cake longing
for the filth beneath your fingernails.
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Sonia Feldman is a writer living and working in Cleveland, Ohio. She attended Washington University in St. Louis and then the Master of Arts Program in the Humanities (MAPH) at the University of Chicago, where she studied English literature and creative writing. She runs a poetry email newsletter, Sonia’s Poem of the Week, which reaches an audience of more than 1,500 readers every Friday. Her poetry has been published in Rattle, Juked, Chicago Quarterly Review, and Pembroke Magazine.
by Lisa Shapiro Flynn
Awake at 3 AM, I want
to plunge my fists into something, but don’t
know how to bake the bread
that others bake. The lilac light is hanging
as the droplet-shaped bud clusters
in my small yard, the plant I didn’t know
was there until my daughter
pointed out a bee-strafed bush. This spring is
lush, the hemlock and holly bursting. Even
the giant fir that shadows my child’s room
seems to be thriving, its trunk wrapped
in finger-thick vines and climbed with ivy.
I know the tree is dying/needs killing, for mercy
or to save my home, but I don’t know how
to take it down. Instead, I keep my daughter
in my bed, twined in my arms every night,
my eyes open and dry as I listen for impact,
the explosion of wood and glass.
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Lisa Schapiro Flynn has poems in or forthcoming from Birdcoat Quarterly, The Tishman Review, Radar Poetry, Bluestem, The Crab Creek Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, and others. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American Poetry, and she received Honorable Mention for the 2018 Crab Creek Review Poetry Prize judged by Maggie Smith. Lisa has an MFA in poetry from Emerson College and has studied at Bread Loaf, VQR, Eckerd College, and others.
by Caroline Plasket
by Jean K. Dowdy
If time is truly a fixed and linear construct
(marching from one beginning or another towards each ruled end,
rank-and-filed across calendar pages and appointment books
and chronological memos stuck to the refrigerator door),
then how is this:
that just now, in this still room,
your mother’s slow slip into oblivion
is measured instead by the ebb and flow of a pulsation softly spherical;
something breathily more round and pliant than you could ever imagine
—————————————————————————————————————
Jean K. Dowdy, a displaced Appalachian horticulturalist who lives, works, and gardens in the relative wilds of northeast Florida. Her publications include the occasional gardening/food column in local periodicals, a contribution to Oberon Poetry Magazine, and a couple of flash pieces featured on John Dufresne's "Flashpoints" website.
by Nicole Greaves
by Sandra Yannone
From the pages of all those Tiger Beat magazines
you purchased with your allowance, I became more
like sugar with each poster you pulled
from the centerfold’s staples. I never liked
that my crotch was always pinned to the crease,
that girls tugged at my sleeves, ripped off my clothes
and shredded what was left of me at my concerts.
I was hoping to be a firefly that feasted
on night flowers, leaving my scent behind
with my original songs, the ones no one heard
over the din of those pop hits that ABC’s money moguls
shoveled into my mouth. During boxed lunches
on the set, I had to sign thousands of postcards
to girls I’d never meet. I was drowning, Sandy,
in the fountain of teen idol fame, and I didn’t know
how to swim. Who does in that kind
of water? So I vanished into those cheap
newsprint pages of 16 magazine. I became a paper
ghost and only the drugs and sex told me
that I was alive. What can I say? Why am I risking this
from the great beyond to share with you? I think
you know better than the lyrics to “I Think I Love You.”
Every poem is a spotlight that shines the light
back into your eyes. You need to keep them open
to honest desires. Don’t get caught underneath
the undertow of the trap door’s weight. Come on,
you know how to escape, to get happy. You almost do it
every day, except you act like it’s your shadow side.
You never let yourself fully embrace the miracle of you.
I sang all those songs on those albums that I know
you still sing, when you are alone or driving with your sister
in her van. I know you gave a private concert to Tara Hardy
in your living room, that you have two microphones
at the ready to practice when you feel inspired by my lips
open to songs you wore down the needles
on your record player to hear over and over again.
I wasn’t ready for everything that came next
after the gold records and the show’s opening credits
dressed in mod. I should have shaken off that Partridge
Family tree sooner, but this isn’t my ending;
this is your beginning. So come on, stay happy, swallow
my songs, my prayers for that girl long ago
who loved me as no one could. Retire all those faded
fan magazines; you know you are happier
when you are locked inside the glass house
where you’ve been waiting your whole life to sing.
________________________________________________________________
Sandra Yannone published her debut collection, Boats for Women, in 2019 and will publish The Glass Studio in 2022 with Salmon Poetry. Her poems and reviews have appeared in print and online journals including Sweet, Ploughshares, Poetry Ireland Review, Prairie Schooner, Impossible Archetype, The Blue Nib, Live Encounters, Women’s Review of Books, and Lambda Literary Review. She currently hosts Cultivating Voices LIVE Poetry on Facebook via Zoom on Sundays. Visit her at www.sandrayannone.com.
by Loisa Fenichell
There has been little recently in the way of myself. The body manifested by a loneliness that predicates my questions. My queries release themselves unanswered. But textured, like the icy fog hanging in dense form above this earth. It’s the desire I have to wane, to disappear into the dusted-over horizon like a peck of icing. In the hospital I missed the deer the most. How they trampled with the ease of hydration over the grasses. I loved those who came and went, dis- and reappeared with the fainter hues of the grasses. Say that was what got me there, to that strange place of low lights and no valleys. That I survived on cinnamon for the length of a winter. Took in the ocean, breaking apart like bone, come spring.
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Loisa Fenichell's work—poetry and a review of Alexandria Hall's Field Music—has been featured or is forthcoming in various publications, such as Winter Tangerine Review, As It Ought To Be Magazine, Voicemail Poems, Sundog Lit, Poetry Northwest, Guernica Magazine, and DIALOGIST. Her debut collection, all these urban fields, was published by nothing to say press. She is an MFA Candidate at Saint Mary's College of California.
by Victoria Sanz
of resolution
is to agree—
every bearer of life
gives a gift to the mouth
of a dying
We level
I move in one traceable direction
so sure of nothing
Then Mondays
grim mornings
full of turnstiles clicking
and the silence of strangers
how that silence is a contract
between us
none of us wrote
My mother translates for me:
So what you’re saying is
life carries us
No. Yes? Wait.
________________________________________________________________
Victoria Sanz (Garcia) lives and works in Miami. She received her MFA in poetry from NYU, and holds degrees in Creative Writing and American Sign Language. Viki is an educator, activist, and doula-in-training. Some of her work can be found in Smoking Glue Gun, Phantom Limb, and Columbia Poetry Review.
by Diane LeBlanc