the king of Marmaris

by Carson Wolfe

He lifts me onto his blue suede shoes,

for two weeks a year, a father 

at a wedding, dancing me across 

the sunbaked boardwalk into his bar,

where I tell anyone who will listen

Elvis is my daddy.

I am blonde, blue as the Turkish eye 

jangling on my bartered bracelet.

Against the two medjools of his, 

It’s evident I am temporary 

as the tribal tattoo orbiting 

my belly button.

This year, his absence is a song

I know all the words to. His sequined 

suit hangs over our holiday, 

a white cloud blocking the sun. 

The ocean breeze fills it with life 

and it dances on the wire hanger, 

as if the fabric longs for his 

gyrating hips, the way he flexed 

the damp animal of his chest 

and strummed a woman’s 

bleached hair as she cruised by.

This is how he got customers. 

It’s how he got my mother, 

though her curls are a palette 

as foreign as his. 

The other Brits assume her 

his wife, ask in shouty English 

which direction the supermarket is.

Mum says prison in this country 

isn’t like back home. I think I know 

what she means, 

he’ll have everyone

in the cell block dancing 

to the jailhouse rock. 

Carson Wolfe is a Mancunian poet. In 2021, they were an Aurora prize winner and a Button video contest winner. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming with Fourteen Poems, Rattle, The Penn Review, and Button Poetry. You can find them on Instagram @vincentvanbutch.

as evening falls

by Claire Taylor

A woman on the street sees

My belly and says 

You must be an optimist

What else is there

but this moment

              — my life

a seed planted

straining

to survive

There is nowhere to go 

but forward

             — home

as evening falls and lights blink on

windows glowing 

like eyes

my five-year-old says 

our house is a face

I open the door and 

let the mouth 

swallow me whole

Claire Taylor writes for both adult and youth audiences. She is the founding editor of Little Thoughts Press, a quarterly print magazine for and by kids, and she serves as an editor for Capsule Stories. Her debut picture book, Benjamin's Sad Day, is forthcoming from Golden Fleece Press. Claire lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and can be found online at clairemtaylor.com. 

winterbirds

by Sam Moe

Fire birds. Soon, logs, calls, smooth stones, amber

lights in the shape of onion blooms, when I ask if

you want to sit near me for warmth you laugh. I keep

a series of ticks in my heart. Today I think you loved

me. Tomorrow, who knows. I swallow half of my

words, maybe more, trying to think about a way to

tell you about the forest. How it felt like I sank into

the earth and no one saved me. Why is this the only

thing I want to tell you. We could be talking about

tanagers, what flavor of champagne is best, you could

tell me when you get sick of me, promise me, I’m

begging you, to let me know if you’ll leave. I don’t

want bedsheet ghosts, I don’t want to keep howling

in the fields and eating with the sparrows. Are you 

glad I’m in your life? I’m sorry about the bonfires

and the jealousy.

Sam Moe is the first-place winner of Invisible City’s Blurred Genres contest in 2022, and the 2021 recipient of an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. Her first chapbook, “Heart Weeds,” is out from Alien Buddha Press and her second chapbook, “Grief Birds,” is forthcoming from Bullshit Lit in April 2023. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @SamAnneMoe.

writing cranks a grinder and feeds the movement

by Karen Walker

A woman cranks a grinder and feeds the moon. A wonder cranks a grinder and feeds the morale. A woodland cranks a grinder, feeds morality. A wool cranks a grinder on a winter morning. Feeds porridge. A word cranks a grinder and also feeds mortality. A worker cranks a grinder to feed the mortgage. Bigger, a workforce cranks a grinder and feeds the corporate mosaic. Smaller, a workstation cranks a grinder and tries to feed the motivation. A worm cranks a grinder and, falling victim, feeds the motor. A worry cranks a grinder and, distracted, feeds the motorway on the way home. Tragic. A worship cranks a grinder, feeds mankind into a mould. A wrist cranks a grinder, feeds it another helpless mouse. A writer cranks a grinder and feeds the mouth. Bigger still, writing cranks a grinder and feeds the movement.

Karen Walker writes in a low Canadian basement. Her work is in or forthcoming in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bullshit Lit, The Bear Creek Gazette, Blank Spaces, Janus Literary, Atlantic Northeast Magazine, miniskirt mag, and others. She/her. @MeKawalker883 

Art Inspiration: Celestial Pablum by Remedios Varo (1958)

we have survived winter before

by Aishwarya Jha

When the cold cartilage of November

wore our fingers like gloves

and those we loved most

bleached into silence

that once grew song

amidst tulle mists

the echoes of a favorite 

dress and the crisp 

lash of betrayal

against our cheeks quenching

the sun

succulents to wrap

around our tongues, formerly 

named Spring, now septic 

and sequestered

from pleasure

in the ligatures of

flambéing logs a weary

prophecy: they both burn,

fire and ice, passion and

passion, a pillaged pit

of a world we could never save

we could never hold

so we held ourselves and 

each other 

steady

steady we stay

in fathoms we remember:

we have survived before

we will make it through again.

Aishwarya Jha is a writer, designer, and entrepreneur from New Delhi, India.  Her work was recently included in a digital anthology by Oxford University and has previously appeared in multiple literary journals, including Atticus Review.  Her award-winning one-act plays have been performed in cities around the world, in addition to being taught at workshops.  Her debut novel will be published in 2024 and she is working on her second as part of the Asian Women Writers program.

small mug

by Bryan Vale

later, 

after the dread has passed, 

i will enjoy my memories 

of a small child drinking tea 

out of my espresso mug. 

because you see, 

you don't know what it's for. 

red porcelain with a sloping 

exterior and a curving handle. 

small enough for a single 

espresso, sparkling water on 

the side — 

but you think it's for you. 

just your size. 

“i'm a lady,”

you inform us, sipping lavender 

tea mixed with water out of

the tiny mug that sits in both your hands. 

of course you are. 

soon your brother 

will be out of the hospital.

Bryan Vale is a writer based in the San Francisco Bay Area. He writes fiction, poetry, and (for some reason) technical documentation. His work has appeared in Trash to Treasure Lit, Unstamatic Magazine, Moving Force Journal, and Short Fiction Break. Follow Bryan on Twitter and Instagram: @bryanvalewriter 

as we traveled north

by Michael Cooney

We talked to people from various states.

We looked for rest stops with convenient bathrooms.

I picked up take-out for the motel.

I carried your oxygen concentrator out to the car.

We crossed into Georgia and South Carolina.

Last year we went up into the Smoky Mountains.

You were feeling much better, and we saw bears.

Our favorite café was closed.

The radiation seemed like nothing after the chemo.

The top of the mountain was beautiful.

Your hair had grown back.

We returned to the hotel overlooking the town.

In October we went to the coast and ate oysters.

You really liked apple martinis.

I don’t think you ever had the fish tacos.

I do not want to talk to anyone

or go anywhere without you

Michael Cooney has published poetry in Badlands, Second Chance Lit, Bitter Oleander, Big Windows Review, and other journals. His short stories have appeared recently in Sundial Magazine, Bandit Fiction, and Cerasus - and his novella “The Witch Girl & The Wobbly” was published by Running Wild Press in 2021. He has taught in public high schools and community colleges and currently facilitates a writing workshop with the New York Writers Coalition.

mountain I

by Kelsey Lister

I visit the church on the mountain 

stepping in from the rain 

I round the halls in curiosity 

and I should’ve known 

that I’d think of you here 

I have never belonged to religion 

and it’s obvious in my gaze 

my match touches a wick for novelty

in the basement lit by candles 

I forget to tie a prayer to my flame 

so I don’t think it counts 

I’m overwhelmed because it’s beautiful

but I cannot be your eyes 

and a picture will never reach you 

on the last pew in the row 

I wonder where you are now 

and if I’ll go there too 

your heaven exists in a world 

that I don’t believe in 

in a place like this I could almost be convinced

but if I cannot feel god here 

if i cannot talk directly to him 

then I never will 

I focus on the altar 

my last time beneath a steeple 

the priest said god loved you 

more than anyone ever could 

but I stayed up all night 

sorting through the pictures for the slideshow

of the child that grew up 

and died alongside you 

so I have no confidence in his words

I cannot live with your conviction 

though I can sense it in this room 

the faith you found I never felt 

but here I must be close

Kelsey Lister is an emerging poet residing in Alberta, Canada. She has work appearing or forthcoming in Maudlin House, Selenite Press, Roi Fainéant Press & others. You can find her on Twitter @stolencoat.

the dog is quiet

by Mildred Kiconco Barya

I want to dissolve 

into a raindrop that 

enters my mouth like 

my lover’s tongue, 

aching hunger 

swirling within, 

bringing me to tears.

Suddenly, the radiator 

comes on forcefully 

ejecting heat. Outside, 

pounding rain. The dog 

that normally barks at 

this hour is silent, as if 

aware that this moment 

does not need more din.

Mildred Kiconco Barya is a writer from Uganda now living in North Carolina. Her publications include three poetry books, as well as prose, hybrids, and poems published in Shenandoah, Joyland, The Cincinnati Review, Tin House, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. She is a board member of African Writers Trust and coordinates the Poetrio Reading events at Malaprop’s Independent Bookstore/Café. She teaches creative writing and literature at UNC-Asheville. The Animals of My Earth School is her fourth full-length poetry collection forthcoming from Terrapin Books, 2023. She blogs at: www.mildredbarya.com

christine isn’t home right now

by Angel Rosen

I have a stack of books

so high I can't see what’s behind them.

I hope it’s you.

All the How-Tos and What-to-Expects,

everything telling me to declutter and stock my

refrigerator, implying that

healing isn’t linear, if I hear grief

described clinically one more time,

I will forfeit.

If I read one more sentence

about the flowers and fancy of the

grief-stricken, how to let devastation pass

through my fingers like sand,

I will close the lid.

I’m collecting the books that lecture me

about my feelings until they topple.

I want them to come straight down onto me

until I’m a smooth, paved road.  Someday,

I will meet myself there and take

the road less traveled by at the same time I take

the interstate. When I became halved

in the very instance of my greatest loss,

I didn’t become two, lackluster portions,

I didn’t become myself divided,

I doubled in size. Now, I take every road,

and I’ll take it twice,

until my two hands are four again,

until my two legs

are another two.

Angel Rosen (she/her) is a queer, autistic poet who writes to save her life. She can be found watching Law and Order: SVU, listening to The Dresden Dolls, or trying a new hobby. She is passionate about friendship, art, and bubble tea.

the language of flowers

by G.L. Maverick

i wish i spoke / the language of flowers / i wish i was fluent / in roots & petals / which is to say / i’m sorry for leaving / and i should’ve just handed you / butterfly weed / that whispers “let me go” / through its itty-bitty offshoots / into little orange blooms / instead of crying / maybe you would’ve just smiled / maybe / instead / you wouldn’t have actually listened / maybe you would’ve held on / anyway / i wish you were a bumble bee / and i wish i was pollen / which is to say / i wish you still needed me / like i needed your patient asters & trusting freesias & loyal suns / like i still / need you / need you / need you

G.L. Maverick (she/they) is a poet and aspiring novelist who lives with her family in Virginia (US). Feel free to monitor their nonsensical musings on Twitter @gracenleemav.

clean

by Mark Burgh

White light

shines on 

polished plates.

Bulbs reflect

misshapen 

on china.  

We stack

clinking 

porcelain 

onto a shelf

where they

nestle hard

against smooth

flat coldness

impressions

of themselves. 

Mark Burgh lives and teaches in Fort Smith, AR. His work has appeared in numerous journals both in the US and across the world.

for a motionless midnight

by Willow Kang

clouds form the afternoon’s paraphernalia:

here, a closet,

there, a heart-shaped necklace

like an overripe apple tree

that once bloomed & does not understand existence

without blossoming, I am a chrysanthemum

feasting on nebulae,

on anemic ghosts

waiting, for moonlight to thaw.

Willow Kang is a writer from Singapore, where she is studying. Her current preoccupations include taking naps, and taking naps. While not in school, Willow reads a copious amount of fairytales and writes the same way to keep herself sane. Coffee breaks are also on her mind.

shamrock

by Danny Daw

Three is perfect. So many

of you already agree,

with your three-personed

god, the fairytales I hear

you read to children

through open windows.

My three leaves

were your healers

once. It was I

who calmed your bones,

I who thinned the blood

to ease your heavy hearts.

I was Belfast’s medicine,

Dublin’s remedy, panacea

for Antrim and Cork.

Even now, no snakes

prey on this isle

I have given you all.

So why do you stamp me

into the earth searching

for a cheap imitation?

Let us love and live

together once more,

as in times gone.

I am here. Four leaves

bring no luck,

only wasted time.

Danny Daw is a Ph.D. student studying poetry at the University of North Texas and previously earned an MFA in creative writing from Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. His work has appeared previously in Inscape, Wales Haiku Journal, tsuri-dōrō, and elsewhere. He lives and writes with his spouse, the poet Alexandra Malouf.

eclipse plumage

by Akhila Pingali

it was already monsoon when the last day of summer rose

in a final burst nearly purpling the sunbirds again. 

a future gaped open. a season become palimpsest. 

but there we were. baggage straining on the other side of goodbye.

you came around or maybe not.

a point trajectorized or blotted out.

we held fast. our bodies ground years between them. 

forked tongue of memory split at the seams scattering 

personal codes across the concourse. 

we could pick them up later. we could unpack them all prospectively in fact —

the rain wasn’t due for a cycle at least. 

when we parted at last, it was the most we had ever loved. 

in a pocket keys turned cosmic mass burned heavy. 

an itch beginning in dead cells ballooned into life 

portending. then

i opened my eyes at a chirp 

to a yellow and eclipsed thing.

Akhila Pingali is a research scholar and translator based in Hyderabad, India. She has an MA in English Literature. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in SoFloPoJo, Five Minutes, Brave Voices Magazine, Tint Journal, Contemporary Literary Review India, and in an anthology called Ninety-Seven Poems.

lungs

by Dipti Anand

the day we finally met   after not meeting

me    the butterfly  with a quiet past

you   catchy   like a tune

I recited an old story:

once I was barely here

mother’s heartbeat held me

while doctors said I was a natural

while father called my to-be brains his

but I knew       my birth had been a magic trick

yours too   you are air

with you   I discovered how to breathe

dancing twelve steps   in my tight button-less red dress

swaddling my body like saltwater pruned skin

though underneath    in a hollow cavity   filling with a drunkenness    

the air again   I suppose   full-bodied and heavy

moved inside me like a hurricane.

Based in New Delhi, India, Dipti Anand is an Indian writer, curator, and editor with an interdisciplinary master's of arts degree from New York University, among other adventures. Her writing has previously appeared in Catapult, the Aerogram, TXTOBJX, Scroll.in, Enormous Eye, as well as an anthology and several art catalogs. Her first novel was long-listed for the DZANC Books Diverse Voices Prize in 2020 and is seeking publication. 

day to night

by Catherine O’Brien

To say the rain clouds had a cotton candy center

that wasn’t hearsay – it was a solid fact.

What are you scared of? they used to say

Consider it tickled pink and tinged with violet

make it experience a spontaneous paroxysm of laughter

treat it to the unexpected beauty of a grocery store saxophone

marvel how it expands itself into the interlude

hear its existential sigh. 

Night isn’t everything that you fear

For a start, its dorsal markings are that mood board

you wish you had bought but you thought yourself rich. 

It is crackling moments of clarity that are a chiropractor’s sturdiest dream.

Though gentle in flight like a paper-based ornithopter.  

Catherine O’Brien is an Irish writer of poems, flash fiction, and short stories. She writes bi-lingually in English and Irish. She holds a Ph.D. in English Literature. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Orbis Quarterly International Literary Journal, Reflex Press, Ink Sweat &Tears, Ellipsis Zine, Tiny Molecules, Gone Lawn, Bending Genres, Books Ireland, Splonk, Flash Boulevard, Janus Literary & more. Her poem ‘Embezzled Emotion’ published in Janus Literary received a 2023 Best of the Net nomination. You can find her on Twitter @abairrud2021.

sunset in Istanbul

by Ina Merdjanova

One of these rare translucent summer mornings,  

in my green balcony in a far-away northern city  

I will come to peace with the memory  

of you and me  

mesmerized by the crimson sunset over the Bosphorus,  

the domes of Hagia Sophia and Sultan Ahmet  

frozen in their separated sad magnificence,  

the syncopated calls of the muezzins stirring the air  

in melodic succession  

like prayer beads with the ninety-nine names of God,  

and dissipating before we can find our way around.  

Our sudden togetherness growing larger  

than the haunting silhouettes of the vanished empires,  

yet remaining painfully fragile  

to defy them.  

Ina Merdjanova is a Bulgarian-born researcher and author of five academic books on nationalism, religion, and politics in Eastern Europe. She published two poetry collections in Bulgarian in the 1990s and started writing poetry in English after she moved to Ireland in 2010. She is currently affiliated with Trinity College Dublin.   

[false] beacons

by Elizabeth Bates

Late summer on the Skagit: the first fallen 

maple tree leaves impress

ripples into the river the way early spring 

water skeeters did. Tracing the path 

of the leaf underwater, the salmon mistakes 

it for a bug.

Late summer in the Edison Slough: a Blue Heron dips its beak 

& it surfaces, 

muddy. The fish slips away from the shallows

masqueraded in depth. In estuary waters

a fisherman snags, reels in what turns out to be 

a torn line: hook & split shot weights lost in battle

with an underwater log. 

His wife leans in to pat him on the back, to 

commiserate him on the one that got away,

but he snags a kiss

misreading the meaning of her gesture.

Elizabeth Bates is a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated writer living in Washington state with her family. She is the author of poetry chapbook, Mosaics & Mirages (Fahmidan Publishing & Co., 2022). Twitter: @ElizabethKBates

compact

by Ian Kirkland

after marlene

shelled on the floor

a linoleum shiver

gloam blushing in

bruise goose-stepping colour

inclement fever

in through the glass

nacreous shining

silver and brass

mirror phantasm

mute and concave

blush in the window

tiles by the grave

cracking the greasepaint

over the sink

shades of a gruesome

and dazzling pink.

Ian Kirkland (he/they) is a scholar, storyteller, and meanderer based in North London. Their writing investigates contemporary engagements with queer futurity, the digital diaspora, and the modern abject. They also manage a bookstagram collective in their free time for all your TBR needs! @bookpushers