I think of you

by Dave Nash

When your grandson comes down in the morning and I know that’s your gift he’s wearing because only you would search and search for the perfect pjs, when I crack eggs, mix flour, butter, water, listen to the sizzle, and study the pancakes for the golden brown remembering our big holiday breakfasts, when a friend stops by for coffee recalls your kindness and how you helped, when I think to call you about what the boys said, or there’s a too cute picture I have to share, a new show in the city we should go, let’s try this restaurant, I’ll meet you at grand central by the clock and that’s when I realize you're not coming back from this vacation and then I remember to hand wash those pajamas.

Dave Nash enjoys coffee in the city on rainy Mondays. Dave is the Non-Fiction Editor at Five South Magazine and writes words that can be found in places like Bivouac Magazine, Atlantic Northeast, The Airgonaut, and Roi Faineant Press. 

write the work

by Zary Fekete

Write the work.

Graveled drive.

Poet’s hive.

Reread. Resist. Write.

Lettre étrangère.

Étouffante au pair.

Pausing, musing. 

Daubing, choosing.

Widened field.

Years of yield.

Persist. Fail. Write.

Write the work.

Come back…

Attack.

Revise. Rephrase. Retype.

Pebbled slope.

Book-shaped hope.

Babaházat

Magyarázat

Write.

Write the work.

Consider.

Fritter.

Place in space.

Efface, erase.

Rows to tend.

Personally offend.

Amend.

Send.

Write.

Zary Fekete has worked as a teacher in Hungary, Moldova, Romania, China, and Cambodia, and currently lives and works as a writer in Minnesota. Zary has a debut chapbook of short stories coming in February 2023 from Alien Buddha Press and a novelette (In the Beginning) coming out in May from ELJ Publications. Twitter: @ZaryFekete

2 poems

by Emily Moon

always raining

It's raining 

in my left ventricle.

A flood flows 

through my aorta,

rushes to my brain,

drips out my eyes.

I want a hurricane 

to rip through my consciousness,

churn the seas of memory,

wring showers from my dark amygdala,

make a nest of driftwood 

for my inner demon to rest upon.

I want fat drops the color

of black plums to purple me clean,

refresh my brain,

make me want to 

lean into love again.

I want to be the rain 

falling like love,

falling like the ghost of love,

falling like the love that might have been

had we been 

the people we thought we were.

immortality

Our atoms 

are likely the only bits 

of us that will come close 

to immortality.

We carry the minute imprint 

of everything each of them

ever touched. 

Tinges of us

carried on our former atoms 

will join collections of molecules 

ad infinitum 

until they shred

into quarks and leptons

dissolving 

into the event horizon 

of a black hole 

at the heart

of a new galaxy.

In this way,

we shall live

forever.

Emily Moon (she/her) is a queer transgender poet from Portland, Ore. She is author of "It’s Just You & Me, Miss Moon" and Editor at First Matter Press. Her work includes appearances in or forthcoming from Pile Press, Boats Against the Current, Banyan Review, Culinary Origami, Roi Fainéant Literary Press, [in her space] Journal, and elsewhere. You can find her on Instagram @emilymoonpoet and Facebook at Emily.Moon.57/. Her link tree can be found at https://linktr.ee/EmilyMoonPoet.

bicycle

by Allison Thung

Exactly when did I get so wary, so overly vigilant I catastrophized seven different ways before attempting anything even slightly risky? She must at least be in hibernation, that incarnation of me who at ten decided the best way to learn how to ride a bicycle was to take off from the top of a hill with nothing but momentum on my side, throwing all caution to the classmate who had offered to hold my bicycle upright, but whose generosity was ultimately no match for my heft. I sure had life all figured out then, certain that triumph lived in eliminating all options but “succeed” and “die trying.” Two lifetimes later, I still recall with absolute clarity the exhilaration that coursed through my entire body as my thick brown hair whipped back from my sweaty face, the way the wind swallowed my well-meaning classmate’s words of assurance or maybe admonishment, and how my sunflower-yellow bicycle flipped right over at the bottom of the hill, sending me crashing to the ground, but only because I had slammed too hard on the brakes to stem the velocity I had gained too quickly, and certainly not before I learned how to maneuver that two-wheeled menace; to ride a bicycle. As I washed the massive oozing scrape on my right knee with murky seawater, bicycle unscathed and leaning against a palm tree, I knew that that was the way I would hope to live forever — with abandon, and without regrets.

Allison Thung is a poet and project manager from Singapore. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Chestnut Review, ANMLY, Heavy Feather Review, Maudlin House, Lumiere Review, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @poetrybyallison or at www.allisonthung.com.

after October

by Natalie Marino

It is morning. 

The sidewalk’s maple trees 

offer their final applause  

of leaves.  

A faraway field is faded  

like a fallen orange. 

I want  

to find a reason to make 

everything seem worthwhile 

but the street is vacant.  

Mountains in the distance  

reveal their blue hue. 

The air is as still  

as a broken promise, 

the sky an empty pasture. 

Natalie Marino is a poet and physician. Her work appears in Atlas and Alice, Gigantic Sequins, Hobart, Isele Magazine, Pleiades, Rust + Moth, The Shore, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Memories of Stars, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press (June 2023). She lives in California.

put the chairs back

by Sean Selbach

the ghosts haunting me

kind of just ask what i’m looking at.

spirits who sweep up the pieces

& suggest i see someone.

put the chairs back where they were

& return to the great beyond.

my prayers always sound like diaries.

first person train wrecks, piling up 

at my knees.

under never answer skies, the questions 

all remain.

close my eyes, address the stars anyway.

run out of names for God, but not 

things to say.

there’s a bump in the night

& i greet the noise with a 

Where were you?

Sean Selbach is a poet living in Chicago, IL whose work has previously appeared in The Indianapolis Review, Sledgehammer Lit, and Door is a Jar.

and the rains fall

by D.C. Nobes

And the rains fall.

The fields are full to overflowing,

roads become streams

the streams are rivers

the rivers lakes

and the lakes become seas

broad and brown

where our minds meander

like small boats

caught in wind and tide.

D.C. Nobes is a scientist whose first half of his life was in or near Toronto, Canada, then 23 years based in Christchurch, New Zealand, 4 years in China, and has now retired to Bali. He used to enjoy winter, but admits that he doesn’t miss the snow or the cold.

ghostly sick / yellow memories

by Rachel Orta

Street light lined sidewalks 

Sunset rolls into dusk 

Flicker of iridescence 

Unnoticed by most 

Light will not let itself 

Be forgotten; 

As for ghosts – 

Young children wear 

Dandelion crowns 

Atop pixie cut heads 

Polka dot dresses 

Autumn leaf foolishness 

Lemonade mixed from 

A frosted can 

I thought Sunflowers were 

Everyone’s favorite 

Until after you were dead 

I’ll no longer 

Stomach yellow 

Touching my skin 

After watching yours 

Turn jaundice and thin

Rachel Orta is from Milwaukee, Wisconsin where she lives with her spouse and her dog Mumford. She gravitates towards dream-like themes, often inspired by nature and music. Along with poetry and flash fiction, she enjoys walks with her pup, cold brew coffee, and lately, Maggie Rogers' latest album. Orta’s writing has appeared in Limelight Review and The Aurora Journal.

tropism

by Julia Wendell

for Barrett

I lean toward you

like a plant in a window 

leans toward sun.

I lean toward you,

like a shadow to its body,

the way I am drawn to a fire, book in hand,

not afraid of being burned. Not now.

Yearning comes from loss, absence

spilling from the pen.

Night slips in and drowns the light,

the leaning,

the ease of being alone, the way

one of us eventually will be.

A car spins and settles,

light skews

at an unnatural angle.

Boots come tromping through the tall grass

at the verge of the littered highway

to see what has become of me. 

I am learning to lean away.

Julia Wendell’s sixth collection of poems, The Art of Falling, was published by FutureCycle Press in 2022. Another collection, Daughter Days, will be published by Unsolicited Press in 2025. A Pushcart winner and recipient of Fellowships from Breadloaf and Yaddo, her poems have appeared widely in magazines such as American Poetry Review, Missouri Review, Prairie Schooner, Cimarron Review, and Nimrod. She is the Founding Editor of Galileo Press. She lives in Aiken, South Carolina, and is a three-day event rider.

siren(s)

by Acadia W. Buro

thick swirls in the water

softer, and then gone

my nymph,

she wouldn’t look at me

her eyes –

could they see me?

clouds shrugged

in the water

she stayed there,

my face paralyzed too

sagging limbs,

stiff joints

was she smiling? 

i wasn’t sure

sirens, and a red sea

drop

your

weapon

Acadia W. Buro is a writer, researcher, and educator who has a doctorate but often gets asked if she is in high school. 

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.