Nicholas Erwin CC




NIGHT CHATTER

The moon stays silent, listening
for the muffled sounds of all
kept secret in the universe. Stars
wink as though they also hear,
but won’t tell. And on my block,

an owl asks, who-who, and
is answered mostly by a murmur
of distant, west-bound traffic.
Unseen, stubborn breezes 
besiege the bougainvillea,

twisting those heart-shaped 
leaves with tremors and twitches.
Once in bed, I pray to the gods
to protect and advise those I love, 
above all, the breakable ones--

the mom who stays at the bar late
to toss down her sixth drink
or her son who recoils from family
and retreats to snort or shoot up—  
all the fragile ones with addictions, 

even though they might not want 
to be released nor know how. 
I confide my prayers to the heavens 
in hopes, that somewhere, 
someone hears them.

​

​
LENNY LIANNE is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Sunshine Has Its Limits (Kelsay Books).  She holds an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from George Mason University and has taught various forms of poetry in workshops on both coasts. A world traveler, she lives in Arizona with her husband and their dog.

       Emma K Alexandra CC




ABSOLUTE BROOKLYN

Tracksuit heartbreaker, my hand goes out to you. 
You take the twenty and depart for a show.

I cradle moments of you now like instant regret,
and I lope among king penguins like a misfit egret. 

How oft will my famous self rehearse this scene?
It’s the beginning, the end, and a bright in-between.

Forsooth—or bespoke—the enormous cocktail
I now contemplate breaks planes of light brown ale 

with its facets angled almost Mexicanly, or sheer,
which you could see through were you still here. 

I’d skied pieces of nineties Brooklyn so hard 
they landed one by one in my neighbor’s yard,

My neighbor replied by inviting me in for lamb.
I said, but wait up. Do you know the Great I Am?

We chatted like this over the fence for a bit 
until thicketed banjos thrummed skrrt skrrt

and night settled down into each dead function--
the sky a priest, I imagined, performing unction.

Dim clouds grew dimmer, them ancient shutters,
windows swung closed, and milk became butter

of buttery love, fireside and gross. When you,
my heartbroken tracksuiter, showed up anew 

wielding glowsticks you’d been gifted by swamp
women. And I, in turn, cranked an old amp

and plugged in my Red Wine Gibson Super 400
and slummed the loveliest tunes of wonder

and war, and querulous nannies, fairy tales
of tracksuited girlfriends and odd cocktails

blistering bright facets, a broken disco globe 
of real light just for you, unpredictable strobe

of a daughter I loved—and love—and will
continue to dream alongside of rainbow bills 

plastered to construction plywood willy-nilly.
You know I still love you, my distracted hillbilly. 

​
​


Aaron Belz holds a Masters in Creative Writing (Poetry) from NYU (1995) and a Ph.D. in American Literature from Saint Louis University (2007) where his research was recognized with a Walter J. Ong Award. He’s also an alumnus of the Vermont Studio Center, where he received an NEA Grant to support his creative work. He’s since published four collections of poems: The Bird Hoverer (BlazeVOX, 2007), Lovely, Raspberry (Persea, 2010), Glitter Bomb (Persea, 2014), and Soft Launch (Persea, 2019). He’s also served as poetry columnist for Paste Magazine and Capital Commentary, book reviewer for Books & Culture, The San Francisco Chronicle, and The St. Louis Post-Dispatch, and Poet Laureate of Hillsborough, North Carolina (2014-16). Belz lives in St. Louis, where he is probably best known as founder of Observable Readings, a live poetry series that has been active since 2003 and named “Best of St. Louis” by The Riverfront Times.

      Nicholas Erwin CC



Pyriscence

The sky is dry again. Wood cracks. Sparks fly. 
Sun’s eye in mind. My mom calls and I lie:
We’re doing fine. Sirens. I fill the pill 
case full of lead. Smoke can kill. When you’re ill
you get nostalgic: fall, death of it all,
the licks of leaves on tall trees. Call it false,
man-made, God’s plan. The pinecones understand
that we can’t go back to where we began.
Black soot swirls with cool rain. Our limbs unfurl. 
His burned hands crackle, curl around me, girl-
hood shed. We fall to our ash bed, two wed
by red flame, led to blue water, not dead
but in bloom, true to type. Ripe acorns strewn,
crushed to perfume, seeds sprung not out but through.
​



El is a writer originally from New Jersey. They are currently an MFA candidate at the Northeast Ohio MFA Program through Cleveland State University. Their work can be found in or is forthcoming from *82 Review, HAD, Slant, and others. They live in Cleveland with their husband and five cats.
​

      Paul VanDerWerf CC



​
An Observation on How the Passing of Sixty Years Has Changed the Social Dynamics of the Class of 1964


I’d like to tell you that as we walked 
down the path to the park pavilion, 
where the reunion attendees gathered, 
I was following the musty spoor 
of those ancient bodies.
But that would be a lie. 
My tracking skills died 
by the time I was seventy
so I was just paying attention 
to little signs showing the way.

The class of ’64 has diminished 
by a third. My own diminishment
is harder to measure, and I’d rather not
know where I stand. I do stand reasonably
upright and my walk is not aided
by crutch or cane. When I arrive
at the gathering my classmates huddle,
talk loudly, old cliques break off,
rebuild their alliances. I look for loners,
those of us who often stood aside
observing, criticizing, hoping 
to be noticed. Today I’m surprised

by our numbers. Perhaps being an outsider
is healthy. And today, with strength 
in our numbers, we have become a faction. 
And our watchfulness back then
gives us credibility now. We are the keepers
of our collective memories.

We have the power of the Shamans,
those who hold the magic and mystery
of stories. We wield them willingly
and we are heard with appreciation.

​
​

jim bourey is an old poet who lives on the edge of the Adirondacks. His books include Out There and Back Again and The Distance Between Us, both from Cold River Press. He also co-wrote Season of Harvest with poet Linda Blaskey, published by Pond Road Press. His work has appeared in many journals and anthologies. He can often be found reading aloud in dimly lit rooms. jim lives in Dickinson Center, NY with his wife Linda.
​

       George Bremer CC




The girl finds comfort in the birds.


Three birds gather in the red leaves 
of the evening, loud against their own
smallness, their conversations as rounded
as their own bodies. Fluffed up
against the wind, you and I stand still
to let them pass.

I haven't had a good day in a long time,
but this one is shaping up alright.
The birds are bringing the foliage to life
but we are so still, we hardly breathe 
and I could stay under the trees forever
quietly among the small things.

​



Dogboy.


You’re thick skinned, thick haired.
Still afraid of the moon,
not understanding that
if you turned, I would be gentle.
Enough to make you pliant,
squirming between the sofa
and the fireplace, belly-up.
You start barking at the mirror.
I get it.
Sometimes, all I see in the glass
is another woman –
she makes me bare my teeth. Unrecognisable,
until I see the little hairs
above her upper lip
and then it’s all just disappointment.
Dig holes at the bottom of garden,
and I’d let you bury my bones there.
Dig teeth into the ribbons
of my arms, and I’d unleash you.
You could chase your tail
for a hundred miles and I swear,
it would still be just behind you.

​


Imogen McHugh is a young disabled poet from Norwich, England. She has an MA in poetry and one book of poems currently published: A King’s Bones, which came out in 2022. She loves crochet, poetry, dogs, and did she mention poetry?
​

       George Bremer CC




Dear Sciatica,

You had me up at two in the morning, 
then four eighteen then six oh two clenching 
charley horse run amok, the body is never 
more animal than when in pain, a rabbit 

with its leg cut off by the rototiller
in the making of a garden. Father took him
in a tin cup to Wednesday night meeting 
believing that prayers would grow the limbs back.

Bunnies don’t cry, though their eyes become wide and dark. 
We danced last night, you and I; you with your twisting, 
you with your jumping. I could only keep up 
for an instant `before plunging into the cold 

cramp rebellion. Why do we forget pain 
so easily? In its absence, a sort of wonder— 
gratefulness for the reprieve. But then
there’s depression or a busted tail

light or the old dog who won’t quit licking
his wound so there’s blood on the floor. Thank you,
oh air or force or creator who has granted me 
the ability to kneel down, to clean. Amen. 





Spoken on the Birth of Sylvia Sage Gasaway, Still

The Lord disciplines those He loves. / This never happens to bitches. / Where’s the baby? / She’s in a better place. / We should get together. / Jesus cries with you. / I have to go get snacks. / My daughter would have been forty-two, I still mark her birthday. / This cheesecake is amazing. / Maybe something was wrong. / Let’s watch Team America World Police again. / These things happen move on. / Fuck Sharp Mary Birch. / I could use a drink. / Where’s the baby? / Maybe she was never meant to be. / Let’s go shopping. / Maybe she will come back in a different form. / Dead kids, my sister had them after the war. / Here are some cabbage leaves. / Butterflies are often a sign that she’s close to you. / Did you read the scripture verses I sent you? /  I’m getting pizza want some? / You look fabulous. / You’re still talking about that? / I could whack Dr. O— like Tony from The Sopranos. / You’re young, you can try again. / Are you going to eat all of the chocolate chip cookies? / You’ll see her again. / Here are some flowers. / Here is a Comfort Cub. / Here is a list of resources. / Here is a lock of her hair. / Where’s the baby? / Where’s the baby? /

​



Paralyzed on the Tenth Step

(Cento from Owl at Home)

Tonight, I will make tear-water tea. Think
of things that were sad, never seen again.

Wind pushed Owl against the wall. Winter
made the window shades flap and shiver.

To be upstairs and downstairs at the same
time. Owl sat on the tenth step—a place

right in the middle of the edge of the sea.

​


Anna Abraham Gasaway (She/Her) is an emerging, disabled writer published in Cream City Review, Poetry International, Literary Mama, One Art and others.  She received her MFA in Creative Writing at San Diego State University and serves as an editorial assistant for the Los Angeles Review. She can be found on Twitter/X at @Yawp97 and IG: annagasaway.
​

       Nicholas Erwin CC



​
notebook

You have been in my books,
A reoccurring theme
A beautiful nightmare,
A devastating dream
I’ve erased you from my margins 
But you reappear like magic
Is it fate or is it habit
I can see where it started
But like the ocean,
there’s no telling where it ends

​

​
​Ire Toluhi is a Nigerian poet and singer-songwriter currently pursuing an MA in Comparative and World Literature at East China Normal University.

With a background in Chinese language and literature, she often explores themes of identity, transformation, redemption, healing, dependence on God, and the complexities of human experience.

Ire is particularly interested in using literature as a means to record history, especially in the context of her home country, where history has long been marginalized, and hopes to explore this path in the future.

       Emma K Alexandra CC




Body

i had fallen into a hate/hate relationship 
with my body 
during puberty -
it was just a body 
and i told the boys 
who were interested 
that too
it’s just a body 
in my innocence 
not yet understanding 
what a boy could do 
to a girl who had 
little regard 
for the body that carried her. 



​From the South of England, Kate is a writer/poet and blogger. Their writing is largely based on the themes of belonging, loss, and wonder. They have been recently published by Ink in Thirds, Poetry as Promised, Hot Pot Magazine, Discretionary Love and Partially Shy Magazine. https://katelouisepoetry.wordpress.com/

        yooperann CC
​

​
Self-Portrait as Falling in Love, but I’m the Big Bang
​
It starts with a snap, not a whisper.
Not a “come here” but a here you are.
My whole body is a bruise of heat,
every atom screaming out of itself.
•
You touch my jaw like it’s still molten,
say, this is how worlds are made,
but I’m already cracking open,
already spinning too fast to hear you.
•
You hand me a bottle of wine
and call it cooling.
I laugh so hard the cork pops itself.
•
We’re watching trash TV,
your head in my lap, your voice
saying something about gravity,
how it keeps the universe together,
how it keeps us here.
I say I don’t believe in it.
I say I only believe in explosions.
•
I want to write your name
into the night sky, but all I have
is this stupid pen,
so I write it on my thigh instead,
say it aloud until it loses meaning.
•
You throw popcorn at my face
and call it cosmic debris.
I throw it back and call it
the end of the world.
•
When I look at you,
I see every star at once,
every shadow too.
You tell me that’s how love works.
•
I tell you I’ve been a black hole before.
You tell me you’re not afraid of dark things.
•
We fight over the radio,
your station static, mine all bass.
You let me win.
I don’t say thank you.
•
When I fall apart, I do it loudly.
I let the pieces fly.
You stand there, arms wide,
catching all the sharp edges.
•
You hand me coffee in the morning,
still wearing last night’s bruise of a laugh.
I ask if we’re made of stardust,
and you say yes,
but only the messy kind.
•
You leave my kitchen a mess,
call it entropy.
I say, fine, I’ll clean it up
if you keep the heat alive.
•
I text you: Do you believe in the multiverse?
You text back: Only if every version of me gets to love every version of you.
•
When it’s quiet, you remind me
that we are still expanding.
•
At the end of this, when the universe collapses,
when I’ve finally scattered into dust,
I will carry your name in my atoms.
•
You, my forever noise.
•
When you kiss me, it feels
like a new kind of physics--
laws I can’t name but already trust.
•
You say my name and I remember
how it feels to exist.
•
Do you know how the universe stays alive?
Not with explosions, but with gravity.
Something keeps holding me here.
Something keeps pulling me back.
•
If I am the Big Bang,
you are the light that followed.
•
At the end of all things,
when the stars cool and the sky folds inward,
I will say: I began, and I loved.
And it will be enough.

​

IF YOU WANT ME, YOU BETTER MAKE ME REAL
​
tell me i’m not made of glass, not some fever dream stitched into daylight. if you want me, prove i’m not just a name you hum when the room gets too quiet. hold me with your hands, bare and shaking, the way roots grip the dirt, the way wings beat against the air— a prayer to stay grounded or finally fly. kiss me hard enough to shatter the mirrors i’ve been living in. press your fingerprints into my skin until i am undeniable. if you want me, say it like thunder, say it like a hymn, say it like there’s no such thing as subtext, just the truth standing naked on your tongue. this is just like you— laughing at ghosts, sitting across from me in that diner, your coffee gone cold. your eyes—two goddamn lighthouses— still searching for the wreckage. this is just like me— shoving my heart into your coat pocket when you’re not looking, pretending it’s enough to watch you carry it without knowing it’s there. if you want me, say my name like it’s the answer to every question you’ve ever asked. say it like the door is open, like the light is still on, like this is the place you want to stay. don’t leave me guessing, don’t leave me undone. it is snowing, and i am so tired of making angels in the wrong people’s beds. let me be the warmth you don’t have to keep chasing. let me be real.

​
​

Ziqr is in high school and getting through life— one em dash at a time. They are the designated text drafter of their friend group. Their works have appeared in places like Scholastic, Rattle, Trampset among others. 

       Nicholas Erwin CC



What It Takes to Solve a Crossword Puzzle


I don’t know. Seriously, I don’t let myself
do crosswords because my day disappears
when I can’t come up with the 8-letter-down
for not-the-stone-but-its-pusher-up-the-hill
yet again, but I know I know this I just can’t
access the part of my uphill brain that knows
I know this. Do you ever do something so
much that you see that something so much
in almost everything you do? I’m talking about
overplaying Tetris. I’m talking about seeing
people as fitting into the tight fill-in-the-boxes
of daily crosswords, your finances into
the Sudoku, a certain je ness ais quoi about
the ritual of Wordle, & god I miss newsprint
& what’s a three-letter word for traitor?
What’s a poem about? About the only
three things poems are about are love,
death, & the inevitable passage of time,
or some kind of combination of the three.
And then Americans came along & added
a fourth heretofore-unforeseen-thing:
traumatic childhood experiences, & I’m talking
about more than the house John Berryman
wrote Dream Songs in or the tragedy of entirely
misnamed Native American boarding schools,
as schools suggest some semblance of autonomy,
of free will, of knowing history. And nothing
is more free than when participating in, or
allowing others to participate in imagination,
at least according to one Scotsman. Maybe
Ancestry.com will eventually show us exactly
how we’re all related, at least imaginatively.
No but really, doing crosswords well requires
reading well & watching well, watching as in
observing, risking being a weirdo, & even
knowing the occasional lyric to the latest
pop star’s hit—who doesn’t assume she
invented sequins, which is only one thing
I admire about her. My mother has this thing
where she brags about family members to
other family members, but rarely actually tells
the actual object of her admiration how proud
or amazing or intelligent she is. Which is crazy,
as that object of admiration would absolutely
leave the atmosphere—news that would carry
her for at least a week— if she was told such
a compliment. And yet there’s this withholding. 
A flower doesn’t just appear & solve itself
over a cinnamon roll & latte on a Sunday morning
in a bakery that reminds you of a European café.
A flower, the flower itself, the object of admiration,
the perfumer of morning, is the end-of-life
or almost end of life result of a lot of growing
& I think most people wrongly see it as just
the beginning, but not all trees fruit after flower.
We’re not all raspberries & while dogwoods
can be goddamn beautiful, not too often
do we think of the bud before the flower,
the weak stem, the weak stem pale green
to almost the point of yellow & not ever
turning green, how tenuous it all constantly is,
the white roots in the deep brown soil with
the pre-packed nitrogen pellets, almost
guaranteed to grow. Hey, what’s an eight-letter
word for the most abundant periodic element
in the universe? But I’m not the person
to tell her. I’m talking about avoiding adopting
an identity that attempts to accrue vanity,
the old-school term for a six-letter word
impersonating a five-a-four-a-three-letter
word meaning something else. And two.
And one. Goddamn, if you have the power
to give someone rocket fuel, why wouldn’t
you want to count them down to launch? 


+ Inspired by Dream Songs by John Berryman (1969), Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West by Dee Brown (1970), The Reformatory by Tananavire Due (2023), The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles (2021), & An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding by David Hume (1748).




Bob is an English Professor at Kent State University at Stark. His poetry collection And & And published in August 2024 & And/Or is forthcoming in September 2025. Recent nominations include 3 for Pushcart Prizes & 2 for BoTN. New work appears in LEON Literary Review, The Broken Spine, Allium: A Journal of Poetry & Prose, & La Piccioletta Barca. He lives in Fairview Park, Ohio. X: @KingRobertJ Website: bobking.org