last call

by Annabel Mitchell

last call I’m sure you heard it

echoed down to the garden

please thank you well I wouldn’t trouble

you

thinking of being a poet a baker

an arboretum photographer

thirty five cents and a tin of tuna

weird word isn’t it really

arbor – e – tum

tastes oversaturated

like stone bridges and stainless steel taps

and the bricks left over from the old mill

I saw a deer on the train well it wasn’t

on the train I was but I saw it out there

poised all ears and haunches and alone

the sea sparkles when you look at it

haven’t

you noticed haven’t you haven’t you

please thank you and good

night

Annabel Mitchell lives, works and writes in Leith, Edinburgh and has a degree in Classical Studies and English from St Andrews.

rhino

by Ellen Lusetti

Skin, lattice, like the quilt my mother won’t finish.

Wrinkled, like the back of her hands.

Head devoid of hair.

The last time she took me to the zoo,

there was only one rhino.

The exhibit sign read, “vulnerable.”

As she threads her final needle 

with trembling fingers,

lips formed around a curse,

I note the ways our hands

resemble one another,

the deep ridges of our middle 

knuckles, stout, pink beds 

topped with clouded crescents.

A split runs down her thumbnail 

to the nub, threatening breakage 

beyond the keratin, beneath 

the cells of flesh and tolerance.

“They have tools for that,” I tell her. 

She scoffs, for she is the force

that weaves a taut backing

and exacts her isolation,

the lone rhino with armor stitched

to defend but sheer enough to burn.

Ellen Lusetti is a queer writer whose work explores themes of feminism and the nature of morality. She graduated with an MFA from San Diego State University in 2022 and currently teaches writing at New Mexico State University. 

murmurations of starlings

by Terri McCord

“the most subtle spooking will do it, a dog’s bark, the slam of a car door down the street”

Nautilus Magazine, March 4, 2020

To delight in the scattering

a heavy sea spray

a funneled sky ash

an old-time amusement

park ride

The covetousness in the blue

tearings and mendings

above us

the quick repatternings

Possibly 100,000 in a winter flock

To start, too,

at the slightest wind-shift

Feel the air grapple with birds

A South Carolina Arts Commission literary fellowship recipient, Terri McCord has work forthcoming from Lucky Jefferson, Panoply, Orchard Poetry Review, Slippery Elm Literary Journal, Black Lily, and Coast Lines Anthology.

instructions for staying put

by Shannon Swearingen Gabriel

after Joy Sullivan

In the evenings, sit on your front porch with a whiskey sour in your hand and witness the sky’s pastels dim from peach to lilac to bruise.

On Sundays, fill the house with the warmth of every baked good you can think of: 

double-chocolate-chip muffins, craggy biscuits flaked with cheddar, lemon pound cake so tart your mouth can’t help but squeeze around every forkful.

Each day, fill your belly with what it craves: the punch of laughter, the entire bowl of watermelon. Every night, stroke your daughter’s soft hair.

Let the quicksand of her eyes root you here till you rebloom — barrel cactus or blazing tulip.

In the long winters, let your body take up the entire narrow beam of sunlight. Lie still on the made bed and absorb the dark.

Always insist on a tangle of stars. Bury your doubts here so that you always have their graves

to return to. Remember — you can make wherever is under your feet your home.

Remember — just a mile west are the greenest fields, your emergency exit.

You can make your own peace.

Shannon Swearingen Gabriel is a professional copy editor by day, a mother around the clock, and a scribbler of poems whenever possible. Originally from Nashville, she now lives in the Chicago suburbs, where she enjoys frequenting great restaurants, cute coffee shops, and vinyl record stores.

when this house was standing

by Stephen Brown

A fence is erected. The dirt path connecting our home to the creek fills in with leafy chaos. Networks of a thousand metal gleams show us freedom we children once had.

But this cannot stop us from leaving.

Drumming the links produces happy kitchen sounds, forks and spoons, while locusts simulate the laughter. Our heated debates replaced now by the catbird’s sirens.

Inside, there is no one to grit the fabric on the couch, or borrow without asking. Carpeted lanes of traffic collect dust. A death-curled spider occupies the neglect-formed crack.

I am satisfied with the crumbling.

Stephen Brown (he/him) is a writer-activist with a Philly attitude and a background in LGBT+ studies. His fiction and poetry have appeared in The Queer Gaze, Tofu Ink Press, SCAB, Beneath the Soil, Querencia Press, Wicked Gay Ways, and others. Stephen's debut chapbook, His Boyfriend Materials, is available now from Bottlecap Press.

that which precipitates

by Ivy Aloa Robb

The storm’s far off, just below 

A veil of grey. 

I can only smell it, or 

Imagine its pattering on leaves. 

There is no thunder, 

Yet I hear it in the distance –

Louder than the trains I used to hear at night, 

Like children closing cupboard doors 

While I am meant to be asleep. 

Rain sweeps in on faerie’s feet, washing 

Against my home. 

It all gets louder, 

Like plunging ivory hands 

Into a church pew. 

Then silence, such stillness 

I think it is over. 

Finally, where I have laid 

On the porch grows mild. 

I am left with the mire and 

The chorus of one bird, 

Who I think underneath the Spanish moss 

Was singing the whole time.

Ivy Aloa Robb is a poet and artist living in central Florida. Her poetry has been featured in print and online in various literary journals, including Emerge Literary Journal, Lindenwood Review, Ephimiliar Journal, and others.

reparations I’ll pay piecemeal until death

by Elly Katz

I converse with

nobody all the time,

a liminal voice singing.

But I write to complete

discourse between lines.

I owe them that –

for stepping up

when life stood me up,

for proving the palpability

of dusk,

of spaces in

between,

that wholeness can be harvested  

out of breaking,

that earnest beauty beats in the ear,

not in the eye,

for being abiding open lines that

never end even when

syntax says they do.

At 27, verging toward a doctorate at Harvard, Elly Katz went to a doctor for a mundane procedure to stabilize her neck. Upon waking from anesthesia, she searched in vain for the right half of her body. Somehow, she survived what doctors surmised was unsurvivable: a brainstem stroke secondary to a physician’s needle misplacement. Her path toward science, amongst other ambitions, came to a halt. As a devout writer, she feared that poetry, too, fell outside what was possible given her inert right fingers. However, in the wake of tragedy, she discovered the power of dictation and the bounty of metaphor.

what she wouldn’t tell:

by D. Walsh Gilbert

That the silence of rural woodlands

was louder than any city sirens,

and crickets scared her. Her sisters

had been pulled from her as surely

as the moon pulls the tides. And tidal

pools trap sand crabs which require

salt water to survive.

That her man in dress uniform wanted

her to spit shine his leather shoes

and lately, she’d been using tears.

That lately, she was drowning, her only

lifeboat the cellophane wrapped around

a package of Pall Malls. And at the end

of her cigarette, all she had was ash.

That there was something heavy on her

heart, the weight of it hidden in her

breast. That it was the worm in the apple

she’d promised to feed her man. That it

routed through her, intent on absence,

chewing as it went along. No map at all.

That women die from a million small bites.

A dual citizen of the US and Ireland, D. Walsh Gilbert lives in Farmington, Connecticut on a former sheep farm at the foot of Talcott Mountain, previous homelands of the Tunxis peoples. She’s the author of six books of poetry, the most recent, Finches in Kilmainham (Grayson Books). She serves with Riverwood Poetry Series and is co-editor of Connecticut River Review. 

a photo from Rota, Spain, 1963

by Taylor Thackaberry

Never knew my grandmother

when she wore those 

trajes de flamenco, 

full, flowing skirts,

rings on each finger, 

clack clack clink

With each turn of the wrist.

Flush with wine, 

Swinging side to side

with her husband

on the coast of Spain.

We cleared her house 

In Sarasota, Florida

and found the rings in a box

with the photograph. 

My sister and I 

took turns picking out

our favorites, 

cobalt, ruby, amethyst 

slipping them on our hands

and inspecting them in the light. 

Grandma watched from the corner

Bright scarves draped 

on the arms of her wheelchair

as we twirled and danced

our own rat-tat-tat

flamenco dance, 

Wrists flicking 

flick-flick, click-clack,

while her hands tremored

like they remembered

how they made that dance

come alive.

Taylor Thackaberry is a software engineer and writer from Seattle, Washington, and balances her love of science fiction with the gut-wrenching fear that as an engineer, she might one day have to build something from science fiction. Her work has appeared in the Summerset Review, Voyage YA, The Red Cedar Review, and Silhouette Magazine, and her poetry was longlisted for the Steger Poetry Prize.

i saw a possum on my way to work

by Arlo Arctia

the sun meets heaven 

in a momentary dance –

blending breath and air,

for the bassoons chant. 

a D-minor blues,

lacrimosa in its tune,

catches the light,

now dimly lit,

of a foxtrotting man. 

his arms like bows, 

lifted as though, 

tilt him back, then sideways,

releasing an arrow. 

he’s a soloist in flight,

emotive and visceral – 

striking, like the swiftness 

of a ribbon dance. 

he stretches outwards,

rolls his shoulders again,

above the sky, to the trumpet’s 

metallic blare. 

and like a cupid 

shaded obsidian black,

his arrow comes back. 

erupts roses from his chest – 

and with a final gaze towards the light –

the showman calls forward the curtains,

and his staccato breath,

comes to a rest, 

to the sound, of running footsteps –

the sun meets heaven 

in a momentary dance –

under yellow headlights 

in a desolate dance.

Arlo Arctia (they/them) is a 22-year-old poet living in Washington DC. Through their Instagram poetry account and Substack, @arloarctia, you can find their personal works and conversations. 

extra

by Jaime Jacques

Julia wants to perform her piano piece for the school talent show, but with a blind fold. For a little extra pizzazz, she says. I’ve been drinking four cups a coffee a day instead of two, and linger a little longer each time I walk past the new bar. My massage therapist is really going for it, talks over the 528 Hz about how men can’t bother to put on clean shirts, how a watermelon costs eight dollars and nobody is willing to stand up and say anything. Like, how long are we going to take this? I say I don’t know about the men but the watermelon is still cheap in Mexico and my co-worker Grady says in 10 years we’ll all be poor so I might as well just quit my job and go. He’ll keep delivering mail though, because he likes how it lets him interact with architecture. Louis wants to climb K2 because Everest is too commercialized. Sixteen years old, he gets up at one in the morning to run 4 x 4 x 48s. Pounds the pavement under a dark cold sky. Says he likes the feeling of accomplishment. I hear: I’m terrified.  During my haircut I mean to ask for a little extra off the side but instead I say genocide. I think we should focus on what’s going on here, my stylist replies. Some people get beds and some people get tents. Rent control has really saved my ass this year. There’s a bit more money for gas. I drive to the beach after work, where whales get together to ram up boats. As if to say: The party’s been over for quite some time.  Don’t you think it’s time you went home?

Jaime Jacques currently lives in the ancestral and unceded territory of Mi'kma'ki, where she delivers mail and sometimes writes poems and always drinks too much coffee. Her poetry can be found in places like Rattle, Rogue Agent, Variant Lit and Birdcoat Quarterly. Her reporting can be found in NPR, Salon and Lonely Planet among others. She has a deep and abiding love for Central America, where she lived for several years working as a travel writer and binge eating mangoes. She is a poetry reader for PRISM International.

pyromaniac

by Maddy Sneep

The house is on fire

and you’re asleep in bed

with matchstick fingers 

and gasoline breath

burning hair like 

morning pancakes

& the smoke on your tongue

thick like syrup – 

it’s all happening now

it’s all happening now

the indelible urge to buy 

the indelible urge to make 

seared into each palm

with a cattle prod

& each passing thought 

is a shrieking alarm

give me a window

to jump out of

a rosebed below

to cushion the fall

give me an adderall 

and I’ll build Rome in a day

give me Rome and I’ll 

finally be quiet. please, 

give me something

my house is on fire

Maddy Sneep’s work has been published online and in print. She lives in Austin, TX with her two cats who inspire her to work less and lounge more.

inaka

by Kaille Kirkham

sometimes I wander, 

reading fading, peeling print off of tattered signs 

rusty shutters, boarded windows 

books, a sign assures me 

confectionaries, a shutter brags 

TOSHIBA, a boarded window promises 

I don’t know why it makes me sad, 

but that’s all they are: 

things that used to be. 

maybe that’s why I’m here too.

Kaille Kirkham is a queer American writer living in Tokyo.

ancestral

by Nina Richard

The wind whistles in patchwork.

This storm is a quilt

Stitched from my grandmother’s patterns. 

Thunder before lightning, rain before snow, 

I am a part of this earthen ritual. 

Bathed in sunlight 

On this journey to the tip of the sky

I only dip down into the sea. 

East to west. 

I move clockwise, 

Studying the clouds’ formless figures, 

So I may discover them like constellations. 

Stories told a thousand years ago

I engraved on my mother’s headstone.

Nina Richard is a queer, POC graduate student, and a writer. Living in Knoxville, Tennessee, Nina spends nights working on her craft so in the day she can take her beloved naps. Nina has a publication in orange juice and upcoming publications in Working Title and Rogue Agent.

fireflies

by Jenny Turnbull

Tucked in a corner

broken and bent

full of life.

Moonlight

finds lost memories

begging to visit.

In an instant

the years float free

like fireflies.

Moments

dissolving with time

catch sparks

electricity

in faded articles

photographs

reveal eyes

you’d forgotten

reminders

when risks were fire

a cork from a midnight

made of dreams

a dog collar still carries salt air.

Harnessed memories

call back

dreams released

realized

paths twisted

goodbyes

secrets dimmed

but still living.

The fireflies gather

content to hold the years

once again

sealing the beauty in not letting go

they make space

for the rest of the story.

So much life

in the things we keep.

Jenny Turnbull is a children’s author who also writes poetry. Her debut children’s book, Tate’s Wild Rescue, was released in June 2024 with Random House Children’s. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA she now lives seaside in Manhattan Beach, CA with her husband. Jenny’s poem “Ghost of You” was also published by boats against the current in 2022. Follow Jenny @JennyTwrites on X or @JennyTurnbull_writes on IG.

waking in the woods

by Mary Simmons

after Mary Oliver

This morning, I saw my heartache

on the backs of insects fleeing 

my body as I stirred. I woke

with only what I had been before, 

that which I could have been floating

among milkweed fluff, the grass beneath

and around shaped to some signifier

of all the versions of me.

A red-winged blackbird from a low branch

shook her little head, and I nodded. 

She took through the leaves,

and I gathered myself, padded my pockets

with dewed moss, for protection, or faith.

I stacked smooth rocks in prayer

for some unnamable lightness, for something

I could carry long after the moss crumbled

into fabric, long after the wind stopped

strumming music from the weeds.

A flurry of sparrow wings, startled

at the thought of me, and I brought my lips

to the earth, and she knew. I think she knew.

Mary Simmons (she/they) is a queer writer from Cleveland, Ohio. She earned her poetry MFA from Bowling Green State University, where she also served as the managing editor for Mid-American Review. She has work in or forthcoming from Moon City Review, One Art, Beaver Magazine, Yalobusha Review, The Shore, Whale Road Review, and others.

epilogue

by Liz Pino Sparks

The silence 

you can hear, 

the kind that 

rings, the kind 

that buzzes, the 

kind that presses 

in from the outside, 

into the spaces where 

the noise hasn't died down, 

where all the things already 

said are said again and again, 

pressing out, against the silence 

you can hear, where, together they hum 

against one another, like a microphone left 

plugged in.

Liz Pino Sparks is a parent of five, a teacher, a legal scholar, a singer-songwriter under the name Liz Capra, and multi-genre writer. They hold a law degree from Case Western Reserve University School of Law and an MFA in Fiction from San Diego State University. Their poems have been featured in Hayden's Ferry Review and Boats Against the Current Magazine. Their recent chapbook, Generic American Household, is now available as part of the boats against the current inaugural chapbook series.

fragments from a distant sky

by Ling Yuan

a shard of sunlight

pieces through grey clouds

my shattered thoughts 

flowers in bottle

I dab on skin

to draw lovers 

magpies weep 

even stars in love 

have to part

Ling Yuan lives and writes in Singapore. She is a Chautauqua Janus Prize finalist and a Kinsman Quarterly Iridescence Award semi-finalist. She has attended fiction workshops at the Asia Creative Writing Programme and presented at the Singapore Writers Festival.

belly up

by Mattingly Gleason

In the beginning, there was  

Darkness – 

a pinpoint of bright orange light, 

a mingling of silent, greedy bodies. 

I remember my first words, 

the first night I brought tears 

to my father’s eyes because 

despite this blanket-wrapped flesh, 

death was a shhh, it’s ok away. 

I remember the music of moonlight,

dancing in daisy fields – 

the beginning 

of a welcomed end. 

Loneliness a child can squeeze 

like a ragged doll, 

the sun laying its head among a sorbet sky,  

the pungent smell of a lake flipped 

belly up like a rotten fish. 

Mattingly Gleason is a visual artist and poet from Eugene, Oregon, and is as rare to find in the wild as Bigfoot herself. Her work appears in The Raven Review, Stone Pacific Zine, and L’Esprit Literary Review, among others.

elsewhere

by Annie Williams

One of these days the theater burns down, but not today. 

Let me rephrase: I want the flat sound of this place, 

its murky groan. I carve shadows from streets. I stutter 

through the wall between me & that life. Once I learned 

transgression I could never stay warm. Forgiveness 

an indent released. In the humid relief of memory, 

the tape unsticks. Rusty old waterpark on the edge of the frame. 

The laundromat rain-warped. Baseball field crowded with snow.

Houses swimming in light, wire-crossed, lethargic. 

No hills here to act as jaws, land corn-rough and bruised. 

Forgiveness shoved in an unmarked envelope. I bare 

my sins. I bear this name, the one we share. One of these days 

the swamp, blackened, will swallow us whole. 

Imagine everything made wild again: massacre turned jubilee. 

The lake’s tide lush & unmapped. Brackish unmanageable shapes. 

This wound open for business. Carcassed. Too much sinew, 

chewed tough. Wildflowers writhing on the plane. 

Let me rephrase: the ten at night swell, panic-laden.

When the phone call arrived and the glass shattered —

I’ll admit it, I went bone dry, muzzled, my teeth the only thing 

still unmarred. Confession delivered right to my doorstep. 

I saw the wishbone split but managed to coax out the unshed years.

Afterwards, passenger seat always plaited with your timbre, 

never any static on the short drive over, no ash to swallow.

For now: the mangled mornings, havoc a compulsion,

the dream blistering beneath this starving sky. 

We stretch out enough for our limbs to hit the asphalt, run until 

the ache creeps further behind our spines. The only lie I ever told 

was that I could ever really escape.

Annie Williams is a writer and photographer based in the Midwest. In her free time, she enjoys street photography, attempting to listen to every album ever released, and playing Geoguessr.