by Ann Dernier
by T. Le
by B.J. Buckley
Forty-eight frigid hours in a row
lambs fall bloody into wet fog
and snow, twins, triplets, fast one
on another—a hundred ewes bleating,
mounds of afterbirth, earth churned
to mud, dogs nervous and circling—
coyotes are out there, silent, waiting—
and how quick we must be to sort out
the dead, skin them to cover with sad
bloody shirts the rejects whose mothers
nosed them away—we shove the imposters
towards grieving ewes, crooning, here, here,
here's your sweet one—our jeans frozen
dark and wet to our thighs and our hands
red ice and the tired sheep tonguing
wet lumps of wool till they wobble
and stand to nurse.
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B.J. Buckley is a Montana poet and writer who has taught in Arts-in-Schools/Communities programs throughout the West and Midwest for over four decades. She has recent or forthcoming work in Sugar House Review, Whitefish Review, ellipsis, and Calyx. Her most recent book is Corvidae: Poems of Ravens, Crows, and Magpies (Lummox Press, 2014).
by Lisa Marie Oliver
by Richelle Buccilli
Cut apple, my son says.
He doesn’t understand the work of a blade,
why the male cardinal becomes September
in a tree, showing off his bold flame
like men on the street who whistle at me.
I always wanted a son. Now that I have,
how do I have a son and make him
the kind of man I want for a daughter?
Is it in the field of daisies I say to smell,
but not pick? Is it in my voice
as I comfort him, never demanding to be
a big boy, but instead yes, that hurt.
Is it the way he already knows to kiss
a baby doll made of plastic, her flimsy
eyelids and lashes shutting then opening
faster than seeing any wrong thing?
Maybe it’s in the love I want for myself.
The kind that holds promises like a child
does a pinecone. Small, and always wrapped
in a soft fist. Protecting, but never
diminishing. As if the child knows
something this primal can always be taken.
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Richelle Buccilli holds a BA in Creative Writing and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rogue Agent, NELLE, Uppagus, Pittsburgh Quarterly, and Rattle, among others. She lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and son.
by Leslie Sainz
Our dwindling pink,
something like sovereignty,
our pillows stuffed
with fables.
We were acrobats
too young to fathom the constraints
of the body—your bad knees,
my selfish need to rise.
Outside, the crabgrass spreading
like scripture. Our father will abandon
this land too, will call it unsaveable.
Still, I stretch
my arms as if receiving.
You nest in hush,
and lift.
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Leslie Sainz is a first generation Cuban-American, born and raised in Miami, Florida. The recipient of a 2021 National Endowment for the Arts Poetry Fellowship, she received her MFA in poetry from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from the Yale Review, New England Review, Kenyon Review Online, AGNI, jubilat, Narrative, and others. A two-time National Poetry Series finalist, she’s received scholarships, fellowships, and honors from CantoMundo, The Miami Writers Institute, The Adroit Journal, and The Stadler Center for Poetry & Literary Arts at Bucknell University. She is the managing editor of the New England Review. Her manuscript in progress has been a finalist for the National Poetry Series twice (2021, 2019) and a finalist for the Jake Adam York Prize, and the AWP Donald Hall Prize for Poetry.
by Merie Kirby
by Samika Swift
If I enter the Other Kingdom
before you don your own crown,
burn my earthly shell, that fleshy husk
and anoint the Superstitions with my ashes.
(so much paper to write postmortem poetry)
Make sure the watchful eyes of the guardians turn
toward my dusty remains which dance in desert crosswinds:
Shimmy, shimmy, serpent arms. Circle, reverse, pose.
I will bury my own bones inside
open flowers reaching from their needle beds;
cactus bees with pulsing wings of no more substance than
my diaphanous undercarriage will fly me from the nectar,
carrying a little of me back to our Texas
where I can sit with you on the front porch.
You can’t expect me to leave without you.
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Samika Swift writes from the huge fantastic city of Denton, Texas. When not restricted by a pandemic, she leads summer writing workshops for incarcerated youth. Her poetry can be found in Illya’s Honey and Dallas Poets Community’s anthology Cattlemen and Cadillacs and is forthcoming in Belt Magazine.
by Sara Eddy
Tucked up
in a strange blue bed
under the eaves
the mind of this house
by the lake has me held tight
like a gem in its mouth,
it has me close and new
and I’m making only
memories of this house.
Sears-built and funky,
hand-rigged cabinets in every room,
none of it is professional
none of it quite square or normal.
I’m a fresh new thing here;
made for this moment—
the tool at hand.
Outside the lake freezes
and my car crouches in the drive;
friends sleep narrowly
in the rooms below me,
but I’m in the rafters.
I’m unhooked from life.
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Sara Eddy's poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in the Threepenny Review, the Baltimore Review, and Spank the Carp. Her chapbook of poems about bees and beekeeping, Tell the Bees, was released in October of 2019 by A3 Press. Another poetry chapbook, Full Mouth, was published by Finishing Line Press in November 2020. She is Assistant Director of the writing center at Smith College, in Northampton, Massachusetts, and lives in nearby Amherst with a teenager, a black cat, a white dog, and three beehives.
by Athena Kildegaard
My mother kept a saucepan with no handle
and a tarnished spoon for her wax.
Wax the color of pond muck
more brown than yellow, but green
the color of having once been organic.
The pan she'd set on a low flame
and when the wax had melted, she'd lift
the spoon, the convex part up-facing, covered
with wax, which would begin to congeal
and this thin smear she'd wipe onto
her upper lip, one swipe above the left side
and one above the right. Then she'd light
a cigarette, a filtered Raleigh purchased by the carton,
the S & H Green stamps set aside for a matching
platter to the table-settings for eight
she'd already amassed. She'd deal us each
six cards and we'd play cribbage. She would claim
my missed points, didn't care that I was eight.
She liked to win. Her eyes squinted when smoke
flared upward. When she'd beaten me, she'd
tear the hardened wax away in two swift yanks.
Two curled petals, smooth on one side
and hairy on the other. Two little animals.
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Athena Kildegaard book of poems, Prairie Midden, is due this fall from Tinderbox Editions. Her poems have appeared recently in Prairie Schooner, december, Poetry Northwest, Beloit Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in western Minnesota.
by Anne Graue
by Carly Sachs
Wood floors and built-in bookshelves
were our non-negotiables,
gift of trees, like Bacchus and Philomena,
death will always make life.
The floor holds the things we own:
Calico and stereo, a library.
Words we knew before we knew
each other.
The chair, Grandma’s. The chair, green
where lions roar wooden grief,
curled feet and ears where
patterns are not patterns.
The record player spins but music
is nightfall, a tabby’s pink, pink paws
and mapped markings,
the area rug is a mandala
that does not know it is.
Metal flowers on the chandelier.
We make what we cannot keep.
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Carly Sachs is the author of The Steam Sequence and the editor of the anthology The Why and Later, a collection of poems about rape and assault. Her poems and stories have been included in The Best American Poetry Series and read on NPR’s Selected Shorts. She is a writer, yoga teacher and lactation consultant based in Lexington, Kentucky.
by Brandel France de Bravo
Do you know the show’s premise? A real
estate agent, interior designer, and a couple
with a checklist of needs who must choose
between a new house and their old remodeled.
Pull up stakes? Or reframe the past and forego
a never-inhabited future? I’ve been trying
to let go of habits that linger like garage-sale
remains: the need to patch your roof, fix
your flashing. As though we could fool the rain.
Some rooms are unlovable. I could redecorate
(call this hunger “fasting”) or move somewhere
with an open floor plan, no wall between
how I’m feeling and what you’re seeing. Every
criticism, judgment, diagnosis, expression
of anger is the tragic expression of an unmet
need. Every time your face says “stop talking,”
and I want to leave—how do I decide if I don’t
even have a list of boxes to tick? One partner
on Love It or List It always asks for a giant
laundry room, where the systole and diastole
whoosh of the washer-dryer masks any sound,
a gentle sac for the release of secretions, where
I can float among the folded piles, warm and
soothing as a mother’s voice muffled by viscera.
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Brandel France de Bravo is the author of two poetry collections, co-author of a parenting book, and the editor of a bilingual anthology of Mexican poetry. Her poems and essays have appeared in various publications, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Cincinnati Review, The Georgia Review, Green Mountains Review, and Gulf Coast. She is a certified teacher of Compassion Cultivation Training,© a program developed at Stanford University.
by Nicole Cooley
by B. Fulton Jennes
reseeded in your garden each year, growing
wider and wilder, enlarging their realm.
If I did not dig out their spiny seedling in spring,
they would have become a field of uncontained fury.
Others mistook their effusion for beauty, but I knew
the poppy’s poison all too well, just as I knew yours:
black eyes of contempt, heavy head nodding
in silence, affirming grave disappointment.
How often I tried to please you with a bouquet
of brilliant spleen cut fresh from your garden,
set upon your dinner table to brighten
the dismal spell of our grim gatherings there.
But the petals always dropped like fiery angels
tossed from heaven before the meal ended.
Years later, I learned to singe the poppies’ cut stems
with a flame, to cauterize their wounds, to seal
in their dour blood, to keep their judgmental heads
nodding through an entire eternal meal.
But by then I was done with what seemed a good,
right thing to do. By then, I set the flowers aflame.
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The Poet Laureate of Ridgefield, Connecticut, B. Fulton Jennes serves as an educator and poet-in-residence for the Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum, where she develops poetry programming and special events. Her poems have or will appear in The Comstock Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Stone Canoe, Connecticut River Journal, Night Heron Barks, and other publications. Her chapbook, Blinded Birds, was published in the fall of 2021.
by Chloe Hanson
First
there was a woman. There is always a woman,
a sum of parts: hair, hand, breast.
Then there was a river,
the water over stones immaculate
despite the mud banks. Shore-reeds whispered
to one another of the woman,
nude, wet, and dark as the earth
the water caressed.
If she lived
today, she’d sing “Unchained Melody,”
mouth the perfect o
of a skipping stone. If she lived
today, she’d hide the planes and ridges
of her form in soft green grasses,
because her mother always told her
to be modest.
Tonight, my husband forms an o
lips pursed over pan pipes. He plays
earth and wind and water old as creation
in each breath, and I remember
a story old as creation, a story my mother read me:
Syrinx’s arms frothed with sweat,
and legs hot as worked horses
pushed her to the water’s edge, where the reeds
kept the memory of her songs. Pan, pursuing
threw back his head and howled.
Her sisters made her delicate limbs hollow and green,
easy for the wind to carry, a grounded bird
and buried her by the river, where she roots
even now.
This is how I first heard of a man
taking a woman, cutting her
and fashioning her into an instrument
to be called upon for music, to sing
I’ve hungered for your touch a long lonely time
when touched, whether she means it
or not.
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Chloe Hanson holds a Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee, where she teaches English. Her work has most recently been featured in Cimarron Review, Third Coast, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and The Rumpus.
by Eileen Pettycrew
A life should leave
room for pain.
Like the daughter
who was angry and wrote
a note to her mother:
I am never talking to you again.
The mother wrote back:
I am sorry to hear that.
What about the bedtime story?
The daughter wrote back:
Okay, that is the one thing.
In the kitchen, a life could leave
a loaf of freshly baked bread
to cool. The fragrance
could waft upstairs,
where the daughter
has picked out a book.
The mother could think
that bread is love
as she sits next to the daughter
on the daughter’s bed.
But the mother is
thinking of the pencil
on the daughter’s desk,
how one pencil can
draw a line 35 miles long.
How she could trace
the line to its end
and still not know
where the daughter
came from or where
the daughter is going
or how long
the daughter will lean
ever so lightly
on her shoulder.
The first line of the poem is from “Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard” by Kay Ryan.
______________________________________________________________________
Eileen Pettycrew lives and writes in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in The Normal School, Slipstream, CALYX, The Scream Online Dreams Anthology, South 85 Journal, Watershed Review, Gold Man Review, and others.
by Kathleen Hellen
who doesn’t love the monarchs briefly
halloweening? the cloudless sulphurs licking at the tips?
the chrysalis in silk? the instar self devouring?
in the garden where she used to sit,
the ants like indras
soft paraded toward the lizards’ sacrifice of tails
the crotons clowned like pagliaccis
the squirrels trapezed, death defying. The four-o-clocks
at three applauded wanton breezes
who doesn’t love the snake, the lost umbilical,
rising to the flute
of garden birds, even as she
slipped from consciousness?
______________________________________________________________________
Kathleen Hellen’s collection Umberto’s Night won the Washington Writers’ Publishing House prize for poetry in 2012. Hellen’s poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Cimarron Review, Colorado Review, jubilat, The Massachusetts Review, New Letters, North American Review, Poetry East, and West Branch, among others. Her credits include two chapbooks, The Girl Who Loved Mothra and Pentimento. Her latest poetry collection is The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin.
by Josslyn Turner
After the poetry reading,
I join a friend at the bar
on 12th St. We haven’t seen each other
in a few months. I missed the quiver
in her lower lip
as if on the verge of tears.
Her fingers flirt
down my arm,
but she speaks non-sexual things
into my ear
over the music
& cacophony of chatter.
On the dance floor,
I try to mimic
her undulating body
to ’90s music.
In the ladies' room,
I help unzip her
black & red jumpsuit.
Glimpse of white skin
like new porcelain,
shoulder
hip
thigh.
As she sits,
I look away
into the mirror,
brush away a curl.
My cock would be hard now
if it had enough testosterone.
Instead, it remains quiet
in black cotton panties.
My friend slips
back into the jumpsuit.
Full breasts I wish to have
ripple like Jell-O in maroon bra.
I zip her back up.
Two girlfriends wait for us
in the hall,
one of them is also trans.
The bar is now crowded.
With caution, we shuffle
through mountains of men
with stoic faces.
After taking my friend home,
we say goodnight
with an embrace
almost like lovers.
Later, when I lay in bed,
I feel a drop of wetness,
cold between my thighs.
______________________________________________________________________
Josslyn Turner is a trans poet and abstract artist. She is currently an English Major at CSU, Stanislaus. Her poems have appeared in The Vitni Review, The Lily Poetry Review, Journal Nine, Oyster River Pages, and elsewhere. She lives in Waterford, California where she co-parents two awesome boys.
by Lindsay Rutherford