2 poems

by Katy Luxem

I want to get drunk with you

A shot for every year of our marriage, the ring

and clatter of small glasses on a dark, polished bar.

Licking salt from each rim, or wounds, or bubbles

in the froth of cold beer. Peanuts in a cracked bowl.

Or cracked peanuts in a bowl. What was it

you liked? A hurricane, murky, me rocking

with a baby in my arms, wine after the in-laws left

Thanksgiving. I feel like taking your hand, tipsy

on the highest ledge. What are we celebrating if not

us? Outdoors at the plastic picnic table, the umbrella 

barely covering our flushed cheeks. May we do that?

Tip the bartender who lets us hotly evaporate just a little

bit together into the late afternoon sun. 

first swing

This must be what they make

those little

leg holes in the buckets for, 

tiny &

absorbing your body weight. 

I love these

chains, how they bring your joy

right back to me. 

Katy Luxem is based in Salt Lake City. She is a graduate of the University of Washington and has a master’s from the University of Utah. Her work has appeared in Rattle, McSweeney’s, SWWIM Every Day, Rust & Moth, One Art, Poetry Online, Appalachian Review, and others. She is the author of Until It Is True (Kelsay Books, 2023). Find her at www.katyluxem.com.

sunday afternoon

by Leigh Winters

It is Sunday afternoon

My mom presses flowers into a

National Geographic magazine

I’ve had coffee and a mountain dew and 

Still a migraine protests on the tops of

My temples

It has the audacity to ask for more caffeine

The orange red or cuphea petals

Against the faded print

My mom closes the magazine

Leigh Winters is a 27-year-old poet. When she's not writing, she's doing Zumba, cuddling her cat, listening to loud music, and watching bad horror movies.

slough

 by Molly Kathryn Fisher

coffee-stained canines tear through sweet, 

slurpy strawberry skin, 

               gorging guts, 

a seed-

swallowing prayer that these vines may 

grow in the hollow of my stomach and 

tangle my

loose threads               together, that my mouth

may froth with sugar instead of blood, 

but 

my throat chokes on the saccharine 

sickly

slide 

down.

                                     my sheets stain red. 

please please pretend

i’m a nice woman.

please wake me when my headache

breaks. 

Molly Kathryn Fisher is a writer based in the Chicagoland area, earning a BA in Literature from North Central College. Winner of the 2022 and 2023 Ruth Cooley Poetry Prize, her poems “my stream of consciousness fails the bechdel test” and “Disco Ball Blues” are featured on poets.org. Her work also appears in Moonflake Press, The Erozine, and the fridge at her parents’ house. Molly is fond of Carole King, the color green, and feeling too much.

2 poems

by Kathleen McCann

these days without you

I move slowly, cautious as

the old snapper, pulling

for the dark, filmy pond.

Better to keep moving,

far from the country

of you.

the quintessential shoe

Where is the worry

when they smile

up at you,

a face full

of forehead, no

eyes.

Only that rich

mahogany mouth.

And maybe,

a penny.

Kathleen McCann is a poet who lives and writes in Venice, Florida after retiring and moving from Massahusetts. She recently finished a chapbook, Nothing Vanishes, and is beginning to send it out. Her full-length collection, Sail Away The Plenty, was a finalist for the May Swenson Poetry Award, Jane Hirshfield as judge. Writing poetry and swimming help McCann stay centered in these crazy and fractious times.

delft blue

 by Benjamin WC Rosser

My Delft blue plate, a replication of an imitation, lies smashed in the trash.  Do not know the who nor how, never heard the crash.  Flat circular center an idyllic scene sealed beneath clear glazed-glass, cracked.  17th century Dutch fishing sloop, cuts towards wild reeds by a bygone windmill, beside a thatched-roof cottage before a deciduous wood, white clouds in a soft cobalt sky, distant seabirds soaring.  The plate’s raised outer rim replete with blossoms and feathered leaves.  My Delft blue plate, thousands of meals, sticky egg yolk, thick turkey gravy, steaming potatoes, sweet corn, buttered vegetables, juicy meats, tangy sauces, pasta, chili, sushi, marmalade.  Each dinner I exhumed bit by bit, bite by bite, the motionless wooden windmill, gulls suspended in air, the slicing sloop.  Tiny figures on deck, lifelong companions.  Everything wanting wind.  I sit by the window in my 10th floor concrete cage, peering through grimy glass.  Rows of residential towers resemble headstones in an amber haze, along the barren banks of an asphalt creek.  We all wait for wind.  I scroll the internet seeking a duplicate Delft blue plate.  

Benjamin WC Rosser is a Professor Emeritus of the University of Saskatchewan.  He has published poetry in Consilience Journal (2022), London Grip (2022, 2023), Boats Against the Current (2023), and Verse Afire Canadian Poetry Magazine (2024).  Ben resides in Ottawa, Canada, with his wife Corinne and children Isabel and Oliver.

2 poems

by Ivy Aloa Robb

Isabella

A dog asleep near gate in grass,

She looked like a caterpillar 

In late summer,

A black-ended bear all

Curled up with her back to me,

The sienna fur matted to her thighs 

Like patches of steel wool.

I wondered if she were dead,

Or if shortly she would turn her muzzle 

From flesh to lift her head

Then look at me with smoky-quartz eyes,

But I was already driven off 

And couldn’t know.

if I could go back 

If I could go back to the Ash River, 

I’d bring less with me. 

When my father turns and says “it’s slow fishing today”, 

I’d take more time to know what he meant.

I wouldn’t let the loon look at me

From across the bay.

Her wailing a mockery of my own song.

Her breath a vapor in the wind—

Suspended above the water.

I’d bait my own hook

And filet my own fish,

Even when its flesh becomes warm and difficult. 

I wouldn’t ask for any help.

If I could go back to the land,

I’d spend more time laughing with my mother, 

Watching the black bear 

Nudge its babies into the treeline.

Their legs nearly breaking under their swollen bellies. 

If I could go back to the clearing, 

I would chase the grouse with my sister again

And laugh less at their suffering.

Find another way to feel better, 

So that I didn’t have to strike them myself. 

I still remember their blood against 

The boulder I used to read Millay on. 

I can still smell August burning sulfur 

And the dock’s rotting mold. 

If I could go back,

I’d pray more often.

Ivy Aloa Robb is a poet and artist from central Florida. Her poetry has been featured in various literary journals such as Emerge Literary Journal, Lindenwood Review, Ephimiliar Journal, and more. Alongside her creative endeavors, Ivy is also the founder and EIC behind Magpie Lit, a platform she founded to give voice to emerging voices in the literary world. When she's not lost in writing, you can often find Ivy indulging in birdwatching or exploring the intricacies of theology.

a brief summing up

by George Freek

The sky is like a table

I live under.

It seems as fragile as glass,

and when night arrives,

another day has gone.

A star flickers.

Then it burns away.

It’s what we’re made of.

It does what it was

meant to do. It will rise,

flicker and then it dies.

It’s only left for me

to wonder why. 

George Freek’s poem "Enigmatic Variations" was recently nominated for Best of the Net. His poem "Night Thoughts" was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

grandma’s garden on sundays

by Sarah Robin

Creased, aged hands grasp the watering can with hers, contrastingly small yet strong 

With youth, lifting the weight of the water before letting it drip down onto the earth;

Feeding the seeds that will grow and produce; a creation of new life.

Patience, love and care provides results before long;

Balls of green brightens the soil, the colour of hope and the birth 

Of flowers for all to enjoy, for us and the wildlife.

Every Sunday the grandchildren visit they see inches of new growth. Excitement, 

Joy and wonder bursts out of the girls, crowding around in awe and pride. 

Their work and dedication materialise steadily, buds start to form

And hints of colour give some indication of the beauty to come, anticipation heightened. 

A week later the children kneel on the ground, lean over to take a closer look, eyes wide. 

The flowers now fully open, smudges of red, yellow and orange, the colours warm. 

Bees bury themselves into the silk cups, buzzing back and forth, weaving between 

Bushes and over fences, returning for more. Butterflies circle in the air, momentarily 

Landing in various places, wings like a painting without a frame; as if the paint could 

Run off their wings into the depths of the green, green

Grass below. Spiders weave webs between the plants, silvery 

Threads intertwined in intricate designs. Worms dig down into the mud. 

Grandma brings out jelly and ice-cream - a classic favourite. Different generations

Bask in the sun, calm and contented; silent in joint appreciation of their surroundings

And good company, just the sound of spoons hitting the bottom of bowls amongst the sway

Of the branches in the gentle breeze - nobody could wish for a better location. 

Spending valuable time with family creating precious memories all year round;

There’s nowhere I’d rather be than in Grandma’s garden on Sundays. 

Sarah Robin is a new writer from Bolton in northwest England, only starting her writing journey during the coronavirus pandemic. She uses past and present experiences as inspiration for her work and likes to focus on conveying emotion and being ‘in the moment’. Robin has had several pieces of work published in anthologies and online literary magazines as well as being a competition winner for both short fiction and poetry. She is also the Secretary of the Lancashire Authors’ Association. 

what you built

by Alayna VanDoeselaar

paint on the wall

a color you picked quickly

I pick at it with fingers

that wiped my tears

you tear the picture of us all

frame it and hang it on the wall

do you tell her about – 

the miles crossed and flies on the wall

do you tell her what they saw

the sounds falling through your hands

does she see what you built

what was torn down

this smell of new carpet is not the 

same as new beginnings

you reach out an olive branch but 

I’m on my own now

it’s okay

I know

Alayna VanDoeselaar is an emerging writer who enjoys creating poetry and fiction in many forms. Born and raised in Michigan, she is now attending Michigan State University, studying English in hopes of pursuing her writing passions as a career. 

already far at sea

by Peter J. Dellolio

Already far at sea

there

was

something

askew

a clog in the make-up

        of the valor mandate

        all sands

        cauldron

        flecks of time came

        towards the scepter in

        its cage.

Peter J. Dellolio was born in 1956 in NYC. New York University 1978: BA Cinema Studies/BFA Film Production; poetry, fiction, short plays, art work, and critical essays published in literary magazines and journals.  Poetry collections “A Box Of Crazy Toys” published 2018 by Xenos Books/Chelsea Editions; “Bloodstream Is An Illusion Of Rubies Counting Fireplaces” published February 2023 and “Roller Coasters Made Of Dream Space” published November 2023 by Cyberwit/Rochak Publishing. 

the animal eats

by Kristin Lueke

some evenings on earth an even darker wolf wins.

the body, god help it, can bear more than the mind.

while i plead after goodness, the meat of me tenders. 

i could scream. we both know i won’t stop. 

i have an angel i hate. they won’t shut up about grace.

i have a heart & it howls for blood. 

who am i to say what is mine to feed? 

the moon wanes. the animal eats. 

Kristin Lueke is a Chicana poet living in northern New Mexico. She is the author of the chapbook (in)different math, published by Dancing Girl Press. Her work has appeared in Wildness, HAD, Anti-Heroin Chic, Hooligan, the Santa Fe Reporter, and elsewhere.

I remember the cold

by Nazaret Ranea

I remember the cold

I remember throwing up

Sugar

And something else.

I remember how you looked

At me with eyes

Full of disgust.

And I remember the door

As it slapped behind your

Steps

It was the brightest blue

I've ever seen.

Born in 1999 in Malaga, Spain, now residing in Edinburgh, Scotland, Nazaret Ranea is an emerging poet recognized as one of Scotland's Next Generation Young Makars. Nazaret is the author of the zine My Men, and is currently working on her debut anthology. She frequently participates in many spoken work events in Scotland, and debuted at the 2023 Fringe festival. You can find out more about Nazaret's work on www.nazaretranea.com

animal

by Livio Farallo

there is that reason

              that sugar in time

              that sweetens dawn

              to let you drink it down

and now

                there is nothing for fog to do

                but crack the atmosphere

                letting moisture whistle away

and now

               a rock is the dirt the dirt is a tree

               a tree is a rooted mountain

               i’ve never seen.

up the road

out of stifling topography

drenched in thin rain,

we have a conversation

about the regardless air.

it’s what we talk about

no matter what we say:

                                           breathed in

                                           breathed out.

                                           breathed air

furring every word.

Livio Farallo is co-editor of Slipstream and Professor of Biology at Niagara County Community College in Sanborn, New York. His work has appeared in The Cardiff Review, The Cordite Review, Triggerfish, Roi Faineant, Ranger, Straylight, and elsewhere.

point of view

by Diane Webster

Blurred reflection

of colorful houses

shatters as a boy

jumps in the puddle.

Melted crayons

between sheets

of wax paper

on the sidewalk

mimic stained-glass

windows of a church.

Hot pavement

steams fog

after a rogue

August storm

T-bones the highway.

Diane Webster’s work has appeared in El Portal, North Dakota Quarterly, Verdad, and other literary magazines. She had micro-chaps published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022 and 2023 and was nominated for Best of the Net in 2022.

3 poems

by Mykyta Ryzhykh

The bush is devoid of all berries

Autumn is now stripping off the leaves too

The future is uncertain

By dying like the first time you teach me to feel sorry for you

A cry torn off by the wind is carried away leaving a silent emptiness

I don’t know how to feel sorry for you because you are indifferent to my regrets

Death is just a surprise box that you finally gave me

This is your first gift to me

This is the last gift

I grab the tree but its branches don't care

I'm walking through the cemetery looking for life

I cry about the living because the 

dead are indifferent to everything

I don't find anyone alive anywhere in this world

Only photographs on graves speak to me of love

Mykyta Ryzhykh has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and published in Dzvin, Dnipro, Bukovinian magazine, Polutona, Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, and others. 

reed canes

by Tempest Miller

Weed him out in the reed canes.

Fashion a jousting stick of diesel-black.

Things need to be reeded out, worked out,

fleshed.

I say this because I have worked with trawls,

and my wife was a physician who would sketch biology.

And I would stand and stare

in the doors and halls

with mirrors

with houses with faces with vacuums and holes,

mouths.

It takes a lot of destruction to create the world,

I believe this,

and there is a life of destruction to realise it.

My wife and I, we are twelve-year-olds in the broken places.

We are poultry in the broken places.

Children, dogs lying on each other like hills,

sprawled footpaths.

In my dreams,

I see the reed canes

and mad cowboys with broken bones

riding over them, black and molten,

let down in fire

the size of a shopping centre.

A space carved out,

and even a cough can be beautiful,

even arrogance can make me wince.

Tempest Miller (he/him, twitter: @ectoplasmphanta) is an LGBTQ+ writer from the UK. His work has appeared in Swamp Pink and JAKE, and is forthcoming in the Chiron Review. His debut chapbook, “England 2K State Insekt”, was released in February 2024. He lives between a building and a lake surrounded by green trees.

when I grow up

by Rory Baskin

become the fresh summer air playing on your skin

(become the gnawing in your gut every time you look away into emptiness)

become the brilliant leaves floating to the ground before you

(become the wonderings and wishing about what comes after this)

become the sunset-simple warmth flooding your cheeks

(become the irresistible pull of a fire that’s growing every moment)

become all the everyday pleasures

and only the forgettable pains

before they become the end of you

Rory Baskin is a high school student in California with a passion for creative writing. Her work is published in Trouvaille Review, Cathartic Literary Magazine, Petrichor Magazine, and Dream Noir Magazine. She is also an editor for Flare Journal. 

disco ball

by Lexi Pelle

The disco ball has become domesticated 

like a lion that can lick a face without 

eating it, sidled up beside houseplants

and framed photos of another Disneyland 

vacation. Gone the voracious nights, 

strobed spots, bell bottoms ringing out in the church 

of bodies. Consciousness is a planet 

of mirrors: the Gods of my childhood 

shine, reflect, refract

when I get too close. 

Gourd which guards us against 

solemnity. Atom of a dwindling audaciousness. 

We electric-slid from the seventies to settle 

it here, sparkling among the white 

wire covers and throw pillows.

It still does what it does.

When was the last time I prayed 

for the sake of praying? I’m tired 

of pleas and promises decorating 

the next dimension with desperation: 

Let the lump mean nothing;

the prettier poet not win 

another prize; his eyes, 

stop them from lingering too long. 

How can I be true in my devotion 

to the sliver of light shifting

between the curtains—

I can’t feel it, though I see 

ghost stars dancing up the wall.

Lexi Pelle was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Ninth Letter, One Art, Abandon Journal, and 3Elements Review. Her debut book, Let Go With The Lights On, will be released in May.

everyone smiles but the clown

by Arvilla Fee

“Because no retreat from the world

 can mask what is in your face.”

― Gregory Maguire, Wicked

Always part of the circus,

juggling a thousand pins

beneath the big top.

White-hot spotlights cast

a golden glow upon a face blurred

beneath charisma and paint. 

The audience roars as he trips over

his too-big feet. He’s up in an instant,

bowing, enticing the crowd to eat 

his antics like popcorn. They don’t see

sweat circles under his arms, don’t feel

the jagged edges of his scarred heart.

He’s a performer—and has the cash

to prove it, but as the lights go down,

and the laughter fades, and he slips 

like a phantom into his dressing room,

he alone can battle the demons

behind the looking glass. 

Arvilla Fee teaches English Composition for Clark State College and is the poetry editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, and her poetry book, The Human Side, is available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other.

If I ever go back to confession, I’ll say

by Angela Rona Estavillo

when Rage makes her way 

to my door, I ask her how she 

likes her coffee. Not as bitter as

you would expect. In fact,

a glut of muscovado in the

stippled mug. I oblige such a 

gracious guest. Offer her

tsinelas when she takes off her 

shoes. She compliments the granitic

countertop, spots the hushed garnet, 

remembers it is my sister’s 

birthstone. Says of course your mother’s 

pandesal isn’t too dry. I think she 

must be lying—but she would 

know better than I do. Unlike me

Rage has known my mother since

she was a little girl. To speak of 

girlhood: the mired carabao, 

bellowing. A craterlike scar on the shin 

left by a splinter without a home. Know 

that a foreign body will always find 

its way out. Know that my mother does 

not believe in confession. Tell me my 

penance for when I do not listen 

to her. Tell me my penance for when I 

do. 

Born on Te Āti Awa land (Wellington, New Zealand), Angela Rona Estavillo is a Filipino-American writer working primarily in poetry and creative nonfiction. She holds a B.S. in English from Towson University, where she was also a Writing Fellow. She served as an assistant nonfiction editor for volume 71 of Grub Street.