{"id":4315,"date":"2024-02-04T11:27:36","date_gmt":"2024-02-04T16:27:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4315"},"modified":"2026-09-06T10:20:24","modified_gmt":"2026-09-06T14:20:24","slug":"spring-summer-2024-issue","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4315","title":{"rendered":"Spring-Summer 2024 Issue"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>(Cover Art Mill Town Mondrian<\/strong> by Joe Citro<\/a><\/strong>)<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nAnne Anthony<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE UNLOVING
\n 
\nNight descends. He lay naked and near, skintight
\ninside the fragrance of cedar and steam
\ninside his sleeping bag worn threadbare
\nsince days as a scout, as a boy, years before me.
\nThe ground feels damp. It is uneven.
\nI kiss the saltiness of his neck, his black-as-sin hair,
\nhis coarse lips to the hum of cicadas.
\n 
\nHe unzips, spreads the bag into blanket,
\nseizes me, and we, both laughing, roll together.
\nLying on our backs we search night\u2019s sky.
\nClear. Black. Forever.
\nAnd he asks if it is enough.
\nEnough, this forever.
\n 
\nDisquiet rustles through needles of pine,
\nthrough the still air, through to the answer
\nwhich cracks like a twig, delicate, yet clear.
\nOn my back, lying<\/i>, I say yes.
\nThe unloving so soon begins.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCatherine Arra<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSTAR RUBY
\n 
\nThis morning I ate a grapefruit
\nfrom South Africa as big
\nas a rutabaga, pith a half-inch
\nthick, spongy, but the fruit
\nsweet and pink.
\n 
\nPerhaps my breakfast anticipated
\nthe long voyage, exchange of hands,
\na crate, a cradle, rocking in sea water,
\ndanger and dehydration,
\nthe hoist and hammer of arrival
\n 
\nfrom the Limpopo River to
\nupstate New York, me wrapped
\nin a sleepy robe, a waning
\nautumn morning, and knew
\nto cushion its citrus heart.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSharon Berg<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCOCOONED
\n 
\nSnow continues to fall for days, wind
\nblowing it off rooftops in this (what did you call it?)
\n     Lake Huron\/St. Clair effect<\/i>.
\nAll roadways collect deep drifts, the sidewalks lost,
\ndriveways just shovelled needing the same
\nevery few hours for the second day in a row.
\n     It must be beautiful<\/i>, you said, and it is,
\nbut frustration arrives with knowledge
\nI still can\u2019t get to you \u2014 though you are here,
\nsharing conversation as if I talked to spirit.
\nI quake like the planet undergoing shifts
\n     reading your emails.
\nYour invitation to phone resisted, we text,
\nuntil one day you misinterpret my message:
\n     Phone after you\u2019ve read my book<\/i>.
\nYou phone to report you received it
\nand I am lost in the timbre of your voice,
\nthe strength of your persistence,
\nthe depth of connection like the melding
\n     of experience though we\u2019ve yet to meet.
\nI quake with a fear that runs tectonic,
\nshifting ground, the future unpredictable,
\nall assumptions about what will come
\n      \u2014 despite my efforts to control it \u2014
\nover-turned.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCarole Bernstein<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nANTHEM FOR CAPTAIN KIRK
\n 
\nThis is the one where he dies<\/i> said my uncle, lounging and fat, rubbing his socked feet together like a baby, cigar sticking out of his face like something being extruded,
\n 
\nmy cousin cross-legged on the carpet, monkey face with braces, Captain Kirk dies<\/i>, he nodded, grinning, so they could laugh loudly in my face when I believed them.
\n 
\nThere on the color-drenched screen, on the rerun channel\u2014the third episode I ever saw\u2014I saw the Captain in his best friend’s stranglehold,
\n 
\nin a strange hot land on burning sands, far from comfort and safety.
\n 
\nWas this before or during that time\u2014those times my uncle would secretly lick my toes, lift my shirt and suck on my breasts, such as they were? The Amaretto, the creaking kitchen chair, those mornings
\n 
\nI was petrified someone would find us? And how many mornings were there? Why do I need to know? Why do you?
\n 
\nHe had become my friend when there was no one left: mother- and father-less. Then it turned out he wasn\u2019t.
\n 
\nMy aunt was making dinner. She was always making dinner while that show was on, because it was some show for boys.
\n 
\nNone of them meant to give me a gift but they did, the Captain small and solid and perfect on the screen, the stories the flashlight of ideas I carried in my hands, though I was a girl,
\n 
\nthe relief it brought, like waking up from a bad dream,
\n 
\nI carried it even through the shadowy upstairs hallway where my cousin brushed his crotch against me deliberately,
\n 
\nswiftly so I could doubt it actually happened. Was he dressed? Maybe just underwear? Is that bad enough?
\n 
\nBut back to the Captain. By an amazing trick, an incredible subterfuge, he triumphed and his loyal officer\u2019s head cleared. All was put to rights. All was as it was.
\n 
\nThey checked my face periodically\u2014my disbelief, amazement\u2014and laughed and laughed.
\n 
\nIt was the funniest thing ever, the uncle conveyed with his spitty hoarse haw-haw<\/i> and the monkey cousin with his tittering.
\n 
\nWhat I learned is that they were liars. The Captain would never die. And has not left or betrayed me, even to this day.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRose Mary Boehm<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPACIFIC TRAVELOGUE
\n 
\nThe plane hopped along the runway
\nrather than setting down gently,
\nand my body lurched forward
\nagainst the seatbelt.
\n 
\nWe\u2019d hoped to see the whales breach,
\nbut they were long gone
\nsouth where the waters
\nare green and cold.
\nPatagonia probably…
\n 
\nThree sea lions pirouetted
\nin the murky waters by the pier,
\nno match for the pelicans.
\nDon\u2019t get careless, fat friends,
\nwe saw three of your colleagues
\nwashed up on the rocks,
\nbig holes in their sides.
\nSomeone said they ripped
\nthe fishermen\u2019s nets
\nto shreds.
\n 
\nA wet, happy dog came from the sea,
\ndraped itself across my naked feet
\nand made me shiver.
\n 
\n 
\nTHE BIG QUESTION
\n 
\nLast night I heard a famous man
\npronouncing that all ends with death.
\nSo it starts and finishes in one pitiful
\nswoop of perhaps 80 miserly years?
\nAnd all our joys, fears, pain, knowledge, and love
\nare cut, laid to waste, drowned like rats,
\neaten by worms, burned in the furnace
\nof forgetting and who gives a fuck?
\nI am not necessarily into an afterlife\u2014
\neven though a few minutes of death
\nmade me believe there is more to us
\nthan can be touched, smelled, and seen\u2014
\nwhat I want to imagine is a multi-dimensional
\narchive in some place where our overcomings
\nare stored and used to best advantage.
\nNeither is it about being forgotten.
\nI couldn\u2019t care less. It\u2019s about having
\nbeen of use in the totality of the scheme,
\nor why would I have bothered?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAnnika Bratton<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMY DOG EVADES CAPTURE VISITING MY FAMILY\u2019S FARM
\n 
\nShe can smell that there is good earth here
\nand she must be right
\ncan smell all the places I buried the hatchet
\nand dug it back up
\n 
\nMy dog looks like me
\nthe way storms are indistinguishable
\n 
\nShe goes sprinting across this damp valley
\nlike a prophet with the answer
\non their tongue and blood on their hands
\n 
\nMe and my dog
\nour breath is sour
\nwe both fail to listen to my mother
\nwhen it matters most
\n 
\nSweet deserter on the gravel road
\nscent-slick belligerent
\nI forget she didn\u2019t grow up here
\n 
\nHow could I know intimately something
\nshe has never seen?
\n 
\nWe sleep in the same bed
\nwe both know what it\u2019s like to sink our teeth
\ninto something not meant for us
\nI love her for it<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeff Burt<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHEN ALL THE WORLD PRAISED
\n 
\nMy mother liked bones,
\nthe raw view of a shoulder blade
\nand the angled rise to the shoulder,
\na set of hips that might be more mistaken
\nfor a milking cow\u2019s pelvis,
\nswank noticeable, not graceful,
\nforce full of hoof, witness given to sinew
\nand the elastic stretch of tendons, muscle, girth.
\nWhen all the world praised the Graces Kelly
\nand Freds Astaire, she watched Buster Keaton
\ndance plastered to the engine of a train.
\n 
\n 
\nBOOTS
\n 
\nThe lamb struggled for a breath
\ncaught in the trench drain
\nwith an eddy that was pulling it down,
\nrainwater rising from a flood
\nthrough the ditch that could not hold the flow,
\nthe sky a convoluted mess of clouds,
\nand you and those loose-fit rubber boots,
\nnot calf-high galoshes
\nbut full-up-to-the-kneecap black beauties
\ndulled by frequent mud-slop cow-dung sheep-shit
\neverything-digested-and-undigested
\nthat drops from a bung.
\nYou didn\u2019t slip them on,
\njust plunged one foot and then another
\ninto the gaping maws.
\nYou became full of humor, zest,
\nboth more animal and more human,
\nbrawny, bony, even your muscles had wit
\nin the muck-glug-slosh-and-spill of earth,
\nour blessed receptor, re-manufacturer
\nof fallen things, and you,
\nlike a water strider on the scrim of a lake
\nskating across the mire and morass
\nwith a smile wide enough to hold a horse\u2019s teeth.
\n 
\nYou grabbed that lamb by the back
\nof the neck and yanked, and the eddy
\ngave it up to your relentless tug,
\nbirthing the lamb a second time.
\n 
\nThose boots. Wish I had me a pair.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA DIRECTION FOR BLESSING
\n 
\nBless the trees and bless the tree frogs, peepers who are beginning to keep me awake in the moments before they become part of the sounds I sleep through
\n 
\nAnd bless the night resolving to a white glow over the eastern hilltop
\n 
\nAnd bless the hilltop and the dead leaves I was afraid to burn because I am afraid of fire more than anything, being so far away from help.
\n 
\nAnd bless the help that does come when I set the hill ablaze and the Volunteers when I was afraid the neighbor\u2019s pasture fire would catch me.
\n 
\nBless my trepidation and wondering, my wavering faith, my half-belief, resolved into a lingering desire for benediction.
\n 
\nYes. Bless the fact that even though, for me, divinity is no sure thing, I still moan, oh god, oh god, oh\u2026<\/i>
\n 
\n 
\nIN FLORIDA
\n 
\nI never had a monkey, but I had a monkey mind
\nand I grew up where anything can happen
\nwhere white skin tanned to mahogany
\naccessorizes widows and their et ceteras. Ambling
\n 
\nthe tideline of childhood\u2019s obscure peninsula,
\nI flourished, beachside companion of baby alligators,
\nwreathed in clouds of tooth-white smoke disgorged
\nby the mosquito-killing truck as I rode my Schwinn
\n 
\nin its venomous exhaust. I blossomed,
\nsurrounded by freaks who seemed ordinary to me,
\nthe offspring of carnivals, black dirt, Jai Alai
\nand blues radio, while I waited untouched, under
\n 
\na full moon, on a sweep of white sand
\nfor my monkey life to begin.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKate Carsella<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMY PRETTY REDWOOD
\n 
\nThere\u2019s the candle lit
\nbetween your legs I warm,
\nlicking to flame; the flame licking me.
\n 
\nWooden wick, I have your broad sex
\nshoulders pinned to the mattress.
\nBack bowed long like yew.
\n 
\nI love seeing your neck
\n     from here;
\nI kneel before your
\n     column. Trembling before me.
\n 
\nPut your careworn hands
\nBig enough to cradle
\nthe world on my cheeks while
\nI lick your flames. I like them, too,
\ntoo much. And they like me.
\n 
\nI love that I\u2019m never too much for you.
\nOur hunger never stops. Never stop, enough
\nis never enough.
\n 
\nI lick your flames till your breath
\nwhistles a ready kettle\u2019s symphony
\nthrough your teeth a zephyr
\nfeverwhipping the tall trees while
\ntonguespelling my name unto your bark
\ntongue tying a new knot
\nWe\u2019ll remember. I\u2019ll press
\nthe knot, open our magic
\ndoorway again
\n 
\n\u2026 Again,
\nagain,
\nagain<\/i> \u2026<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJackie Chou<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\nTHE CLAY BUDDHA
\n 
\nMy friend, who didn’t have toys
\ngifted me a clay Buddha
\n 
\nI tried to play with him
\nbut he wouldn’t uncross his legs
\nand his head was bald
\nwith no platinum blond tresses
\nto style into a ponytail
\n 
\nBeing a size 22
\nnothing fit him but a shabby robe
\nexposing his protruding belly
\n 
\nLosing interest
\nI put the statue between my Barbies
\nwho knelt down one by one
\nin reverence to the awakened being<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n Joe Citro<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSWAMPED
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWAITING FOR JIM FISK
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nBrooke Clark<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCELEBRITIES
\n 
\nThey\u2019re insecure black holes of need
\nand here they come to clog your feed
\nwith photos and confessionals
\nshaped by PR professionals\u2014
\na pool glows blue in the backyard
\nnext to a pull quote: \u201cIt was hard
\nto fight those demons of self-doubt\u201d\u2014
\nHow brave you are for speaking out!
\n(\u201cDinner? Umm\u2026the rainbow trout?\u201d)
\nSome glossy shots show off the house
\nwhere, on a massive sun-splashed couch
\nthe boyfriend lounges with a grin\u2014
\nfamiliar\u2026what\u2019s that show he\u2019s in?
\n\u201cYes, I\u2019ve found love\u2014I\u2019m over the moon!
\nMy memoir\u2019s coming out in June.\u201d
\n 
\nBut now hushed tones, dropped eyes reveal
\nwe\u2019re ready for the big reveal\u2014
\nspeaking to us as to a friend
\nshe grabs onto the latest trend
\nand tries to humanize herself
\nwith references to mental health:
\n\u201cDepression and anxiety\u2014
\nnone of the meds would work for me
\nbut a friend introduced me to
\nthis yogi, or\u2014more like\u2014guru?
\nHe teaches tantric meditation
\nto reach this cosmic\u2014like\u2014vibration?\u2014
\nwhere all your energies align\u2014
\nOh yeah, hey, my new makeup line
\nis rolling out in every state\u2014
\nI promise the concealer\u2019s great!\u201d
\nHow nice for you. The problem is
\nfor those without advantages
\nlike wealth and fame, the proper cure
\nfor suffering is not so sure,
\nand wasn\u2019t there some news report
\nabout\u2014\u201cThat settled out of court,
\nso let\u2019s move on,\u201d smoothly insists
\nthe always-hovering publicist.
\n 
\nThe only cure for their disease?
\nAwards, red carpets, galaxies
\nof flashbulbs dazzling their eyes,
\nthe swarms of fans, their ardent cries\u2014
\nthe roar of being glorified
\ndrowns out the whispering voice inside,
\nthat tells them that their fame won\u2019t last
\nbut crumble into dust and ash
\nleaving them lost and destitute\u2014
\nquick\u2014schedule a new photo shoot!<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEleanor Colligan<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFOR WILL
\n 
\ndeath preceded
\nyour life
\nfor all of mine.
\n 
\nThe dull glow
\nof the new-dead
\na lake
\ndevoured
\nby the horizon:
\nthe point where
\nblack becomes black.
\n 
\nHow you became
\nreduced
\nto a quick story
\non a slick road.
\na crooked tree
\nwith your initials
\ncarved by a hand
\nnot your own,
\nlifespan neatly below it,
\ntaking up only the space
\nthat lingers
\n before a memory.
\n 
\nyour work boots for the summer
\nstill wait beneath the table
\njust in case —!<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHEN SOME ASSHOLE KEYS YOUR TRUCK
\n 
\na sudden silver streak across the door
\nin the Grand Union parking lot
\nyou may shout Hey!<\/i>
\n 
\nYou may abandon your cart\u2014
\nsprint\u2014catch by the shoulder
\na skinny kid pimply you could crush
\nwho breaks away slippy scared
\nshouting Fuck off!<\/i>
\nas he runs into an alley.
\n 
\nDon\u2019t follow.
\n 
\nThe cart-roundup man, name tag LONNIE,
\nwho may have Down\u2019s Syndrome
\nwill catch your runaway cart
\nbefore it crashes into a Mercedes and say
\nHe\u2019s a cusser. He\u2019s bad<\/i>.
\n 
\nDon\u2019t say the word you\u2019re thinking.
\n 
\nThank Lonnie for stopping your cart.
\nOffer your hand. Lonnie with surprise
\nand pleasure will smile. In handshake
\nsqueezing your fingers while meeting your eye,
\nHave a good day<\/i>, Lonnie will say,
\nand you may affirm
\nYes, I shall<\/i>.
\n 
\n 
\nSUMMER OF LOVE, 1967
\n 
\nHere, this photo,
\nmy cabin of teens in deep Missouri
\nafter fathers beat, mothers abandoned.
\nNo flowers in our hair.
\n 
\nMe in the center a college kid, clueless
\nwith a summer job guiding hoodlums.
\nWe canoed the Cuivre River.
\nI played guitar, sang folky stuff,
\nate 23 prunes on a dare. They thought
\nI was a constipated Beatle.
\n 
\nJayell caught frogs, built a fire,
\nfried the legs, shared them.
\nOscar had an enormous penis, laughed at mine.
\nLittle Roy caught moths, pinned them to an outhouse
\nwall where they fluttered and starved.
\nAll had troubles. I loved all.
\n 
\nWhere\u2019d they go?
\nThree to Vietnam, this I know.
\nJayell, Oscar, Little Roy,
\nnames in a bathroom stall,
\nmoths at a monument,
\npinned on a wall.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nAndrea Damic<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCARRYING FORWARD
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFADING AWAY
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRED BALLOON
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nGinger Dehlinger<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI WANT A MAN WHO DRIVES A TRUCK
\n 
\nnot an eighteen-wheel Mack
\nor Spielberg\u2019s Peterbilt
\nbut a three-quarter ton
\nnamed Ram, Raptor, Raider
\nwith a custom Rockstar grill,
\nwide as a cow catcher,
\nto guard against
\nthings that go bump in the night.
\n 
\nInside the cockpit
\na cushy passenger seat,
\noodles of nooks and pockets,
\nglove box stuffed with
\nTriple A adventures on
\nRoute 66
\nGreat River Road
\nYukon Highway.
\n 
\nThe stern mirrors its driver:
\nUSARMY, Heineken, Jackson Hole
\nfrom the rear window,
\n\u2018The closer you get, the slower I drive\u2019
\nfrom the tail.
\nA tonneau cover says he\u2019s practical,
\nmud flap girls
\nthat he\u2019s rowdy with his howdy.
\n 
\nMy truck-drivin\u2019 man will wear
\na Carhartt shirt, Ozark Trail Men\u2019s boots.
\nHe\u2019s a block away when I hear
\nthe Kodiak growl of a diesel engine,
\npurr of a kitten
\nwhen he\u2019s sittin\u2019 in my driveway.
\nDon\u2019t need no eHarmony profile
\nto know who\u2019s pickin\u2019 me up tonight.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClive Donovan<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE ACCOUNTING OF A LIFE
\n 
\nHe sits hard by where the supermarket trolleys
\nfuck each other linked with chains,
\nreminiscent of that old-time slave trade.
\nHe is cadging for a coin always
\nbut he, this least of grungy men, is free,
\nfree to sleep in a ditch of his own choosing.
\nAnd with one actual coin he is richer
\nthan any of these bondsmen to credit companies,
\ntrotting along to get their sheep’s cheese and guacamole.
\nBut he is not permitted to enter the shop
\nand he has no one at all to fuck.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKathy Duby<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSTRATA
\n 
\nBeneath the surface of what you know
\nis what you think you know.
\n 
\nBeneath my surface is a mask,
\nthen ten more.
\nBeneath these lies a facade,
\na smiley-face.
\n 
\nUnderlying that insincere grin
\nrests a foot-thick layer of concrete,
\nsound barrier and emotional barrier.
\nThis is my rock and upon this rock
\nI have built my life.
\n 
\nUnder the impenetrable rock
\nlies a waterproof membrane.
\nThis is where the crying stops.
\n 
\nUnder the silent crying
\nlie dozens of sedimental strata
\neach one labelled truth.
\nHistorical truth, hysterical truth,
\nSocietal truth, familial truth,
\nFalse truth, real truth, biting truth.
\n 
\nBeneath the teeth of frozen truth
\nseethes a boiling mass of
\nputrid ooze.
\nThe secrets.
\n 
\nThis is where the crying starts.
\nBut no one hears, no one sees.
\nAll is calm, all is bright.
\nUntil, one day,
\nKrakatoa, Pompeii.
\n 
\n 
\nJEALOUSY
\n 
\nHis grandfather
\nspent three days
\nteaching him to yo-yo.
\nMine taught me
\nfellatio. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nAlexis Rhone Fancher<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHREE UNTITLED PHOTOGRAPHS
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nArvilla Fee<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBUTTERFLY
\n 
\nYou said you wanted
\na butterfly;
\nso, I landed on your finger,
\nand you grinned;
\nI had no idea
\nyou needed perfection
\nuntil you pinned me
\nto a cork board
\nfor all the world to see.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJane H. Fitzgerald<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPROUSTIAN MOMENT
\n 
\nThe scent of turpentine
\nReturns me to my father
\nHis smile, paints, brushes
\nResurrection<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Freborg<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTSUNAMI
\n 
\nYou came into my life like a tsunami,
\ninundating me, my life, my plans.
\nYou swept into all the crevices of my life,
\nfilling every zone.
\nI was overwhelmed by the flood of you.
\n 
\nYou changed my pronoun from \u201cI\u201d to \u201cwe,\u201d
\nmy name from Ms to Mrs.,
\nmy life from bland to full.
\n 
\nWe have aged together;
\none of us will be first to die.
\nWhen that day comes,
\nit will be the other side of a tsunami,
\na rapid ebb tide roaring out to sea.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFrank Freeman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMILK AND SNOW
\n 
\nThe milk, white as the sun-bright snow
\non either side of the road I drove
\nhere on with my son in the back
\nof the van, spurts from the big silver tank.
\nPepper, the Australian sheep dog,
\nsniffs my rump as foaming milk
\nfills the glass bottles
\nand my dark mind clears. Away
\nall the tangled thoughts of God
\nand no-God! For now,
\nmilk and snow and getting there
\nand back is enough for any man.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMeg Freer<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCROWS KNOW
\n 
\nPre-dawn, the dog and I step onto unbroken snow,
\na half-moon still in the west, the hundreds
\nof crows, perhaps a thousand, starting to chatter,
\nbut not the racket yesterday at dusk as they flew in
\nfrom all directions, jostled for roosting space
\nin a few trees, while all of us out walking
\nour dogs stopped and looked up, watched
\nsilently, even the dogs mesmerized, then went
\non our ways as the crows settled\u2014so I wondered,
\nbecause crows always know\u2014and sure enough,
\nfour inches of snow arrived overnight. I remark
\nto my son on the way to school that I didn\u2019t see
\nsnow in last evening\u2019s forecast, and he replies,
\n\u201cThe crows are<\/u> the weather forecast.\u201d
\n 
\n 
\nHER STORY
\n 
\nStitched up, a splint on one broken finger,
\npurple-blue-yellow bruising that dominates
\none cheek, she brings her two young kids
\nto the library one winter day,
\n 
\ntries to ignore two women who stare
\nat her face then turn away with pity,
\nthanks another who wants to help
\nand clearly doesn\u2019t believe her story,
\n 
\nthat she let go of the stair railing, floated
\ndown in a faint until she hit the floor,
\nblood pouring from a gash on her forehead,
\nexhausted, dehydrated, four months pregnant.
\n 
\nDuring the weeks while she heals,
\nshe wears sunglasses every time
\nshe goes out, protects her husband
\nby having him stay home.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMac Gay<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nANDY
\n 
\nAndy was a great cat, and now a great
\nfig tree, the little spindly thing we
\nmemorialized him with on his grave,
\nand now look at Andy, all big:
\nan explosion of green and full of
\nbrown fruit. Andy used to be black
\nwith white on the tip of his nose
\nlike he stuck it in snow, which we do
\nnot have in this furnace of deep south,
\nwhich always was hot, I say to myself,
\nremembering football practice in August.
\nBut now it\u2019s the hot we deserve, with science
\nnow fairy tale and Jesus more literal than even
\nourselves. But at least Andy the fig tree thrives
\nin this monster we call summer, with his
\nworld record of figs. I love figs but I liked
\nAndy better as a cat. After 6 years I still
\nmiss him at least once a day, wishing he\u2019d
\nlooked both ways before crossing the street.
\nI talk to that tree each day in the afternoon heat.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMarissa Glover<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nASHES
\n 
\nThere\u2019s a wedding ring
\nin a box in the closet,
\na silver ring on her thumb\u2014
\n 
\nclusters of narrow rings
\nin the stump of the tree out back,
\ncut down when lightning struck.
\n 
\nChildren, hands clasped,
\ncollapse in the grass after
\nsinging Ring Around the Rosie.
\n 
\nWhen the phone rings, she knows
\nit\u2019s bad news\u2014anything else,
\nand people send a text.
\n 
\nThere\u2019s a ringing in her ears
\nno one else hears. Doctors say
\nit may never go away.
\n 
\nShe traces the burn scars,
\nwhere the bolt seared
\nthrough dry bark.
\n 
\nSoon she will climb back
\nin the ring, another barrage
\nof hooks and jabs. Her body
\n 
\nwaits for the bell to ring.
\n 
\n 
\nYOU WILL BE SAVED
\n 
\nAs long as you don\u2019t have sex before marriage
\nas long as you don\u2019t look at porn
\nas long as you don\u2019t masturbate while looking at porn
\nas long as you don\u2019t masturbate while thinking of someone
\n 
\nas long as you don\u2019t masturbate while in the car, driving home from work listening to Dave Matthews Band sing \u201cCrash\u201d
\n 
\nas long as you don\u2019t get out of the car and step on a crack
\nas long as you don\u2019t eat for 24 hours
\nas long as you don\u2019t ever drink
\nas long as you don\u2019t look at a man and think about him naked
\nas long as you don\u2019t touch a naked man
\nas long as you don\u2019t touch yourself, naked, thinking about a man
\nas long as you wash your hands, wash your hands, wash your hands
\n 
\nas long as you count each syllable and make all the lines break even and every stanza is a sestet and you count and you count and you count until all you hear in your head are numbers and all you feel are beatings and all you can do is crash.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nACT TWO, SCENE ONE
\n 
\nAt first, he was the enemy
\nat the gate of her white-fenced
\ndivorcee fortress.
\n 
\nThen he was a trespasser,
\ntramping through
\nher precious kitchen and parlor.
\n 
\nShe changed over time.
\nHis departures, once encouraged,
\nnow brought tears.
\n 
\nThese days, when she hears
\nhis car pull up outside,
\nhe\u2019s like a character
\nmaking an entrance in a play.
\n&nb
\nAt first, she concocted the script.
\nNow, she hands the man her pen,
\nencourages him to write a little.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nVenya Gushchin<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCAKE BY THE OCEAN
\n 
\nI\u2019m sorry but
\nin the electric H&M
\nof our local outlet mall
\nI fall in love with you again
\nwhile trying on some jeans
\ntastefully ripped at the knees
\n 
\nWe still wouldn\u2019t work out.
\nYou are just a sexier repackaging
\nof the lesser Jonas Brother
\nwe don\u2019t talk about Kevin
\nreminding the youth of strip mall plazas
\nand the protestant work ethic
\n 
\nBut when I hear your voice
\nYou pull into the 7-11 parking lot
\nright as I\u2019m about to lose hope
\nyou the football captain senior
\nand I the bespectacled freshman.
\nMother had
\ndenied my natural right
\nto junk food
\nso I take your advice on the order:
\n 
\nA Blue Raspberry and Coke Slurpee
\nexpertly mixed by your hand
\nA Buffalo Chicken Taquito
\nA Monterey Jack and Chicken Taquito
\nalways get two Taquitos.
\n 
\nand the night is perfect save
\nfor that trickster April breeze
\nthat gets me shivering
\nand you have nothing to heroically drape
\nover my shoulders    summon letterman
\njacket
\nbut that\u2019s okay
\nit\u2019s all okay
\nI\u2019m
\nokay w\/everything
\nsmiling up at you
\nblinking softly.
\nAnd then comes the mythical lull-in-conversation
\nI had never
\nthought would come.
\nWe both lean in
\n 
\nAnd you dissolve into sand
\nleaving only the trash from your meal
\nthat is swept up into the whirlwind
\nloudly ripping the fabric of the night
\nas I realize that the jeans
\nno matter how tastefully ripped
\nare cutting off circulation to my legs.
\nThough I keep on hoping
\nwe\u2019ll eat taquitos in the parking lot,
\nthe songs on the radio aren\u2019t about me anymore.
\n 
\n                 April 13, 2017<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLois Marie Harrod<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIT NOW SEEMS TO ME THAT I AM THE BOOK
\nI WAS TALKING ABOUT . . .<\/I>
\n\t\u2014Marcel Proust
\n 
\nYou those last moments
\nwrapped in that silly hospital gown
\nwith porpoises flipping this way and that,
\ntiny little porpoises
\njumping all over your body.
\nthe pummeling
\nour children Jon and Kate
\ngave you
\nwhen they crawled
\ninto bed with us
\nand then our grandchildren,
\nSophie and Sam
\nflap-flopping all night
\nbetween us,
\nthe fish in our line,
\nand Will and James sneaking
\nup the stairs
\nto crawl on top of you
\npretend you were their steed
\nto everywhere
\nand you were
\nas we each
\ncarry each other
\nfrom the beginning
\nto the end,
\nthat mystery . . .
\n 
\n 
\nTHE BRILLIANCE THAT MADE ALL LIFE POSSIBLE
\nBECOMES THE COLD STARS
\n\t\u2014October, 6<\/i>, Louise Gl\u00fcck
\n 
\nThey<\/i> say you are still here\u2014
\nyou know the they<\/i> I mean,
\nthe they<\/i> who want to raise you
\nfrom the dead so, I guess, you can
\nraise your eyebrows
\nand roll your blue eyes
\nat their belief.
\n 
\nThey<\/i> say you reached down
\nand saved our grandson,
\nyou know the they<\/i> I mean,
\nthe they<\/i> you always gave that sweet
\nenigmatic smile\u2014
\nthat\u2019s as far as that cold Thou<\/i>
\ncould take you to scoop them
\nfrom the cold unknown.
\n 
\nHis fall\u2014two days after you died.
\n 
\nAnd here I am,
\nyour darling, your disbeliever,
\ntalking as if you are here,
\nchattering in my blizzard of stars.
\n 
\nThere was no resurrection,
\nno one rises from the dead,
\nbut it is strange,
\nthat alone, mountain-climbing
\nthe weekend you died,
\nour grandson lost his way
\nin a sudden snow squall,
\nslipped off the mountain path,
\nfell 78 feet without losing
\nhis tarp or his phone,
\nlay there all night, he told me afterwards,
\nthinking of those he loved\u2014
\n 
\nas I keep thinking of you
\nmy not-here thou<\/i>,
\nmy cold cold star.
\nThe verb in the present tense is always alone.
\n 
\nI live . . . I die . . . solitary as a star so far
\nbeyond the telescope I can\u2019t find my beginning
\nexcept as I am continuing, the I am living <\/i>. . .
\nthe I am dying<\/i>. . . but solitary in the past too . . .
\nyou lived, you died<\/i> . . .but sometimes in the tense
\npast and perfect, we ceased to be solitary:
\nI have not always been alone,
\nyou were here sitting in your chair,
\nthough when you were, I was often alone, each of us alone
\nyou alone in your book wending your way
\nthrough its wilderness of words, though sometimes
\nsuddenly, looking up, as if you could suddenly see me,
\nalone in my words and tell me something
\nyou were reading. Sir Tristram, violer d\u2019amores, fr\u2019over
\nthe short sea, had passencore rearrived from
\nNorth Armorica on this side the scraggy isthmus<\/i>
\nand for a while I would listen and be less alone.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDeborah Harvey<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIT\u2019S A GIRL
\n <\/p>\n

And as if that wasn\u2019t enough, your grandmother gets on the bus at the top of Pigsty Hill, which is odd since she\u2019s dead, but here she is all the same, sidling down the aisle to take her seat next to me and unclasping her purse, as if she still expects the conductor to issue her with a ticket printed on that thick yellow paper that fluffs up when you rub it and rub it between your finger and thumb. Though not as odd as what she says, which might have been sorry for the disappointment that coloured everything after the midwife glanced between my legs and gave her the dreadful news, it wasn\u2019t fair to blame me, she sees that now, in fact, in her newly translated state of being, or rather, un-being, she sees all her missteps and errors so clearly but no, it\u2019s this: \u2018Tell her\u2019 (yes, she does still use this pronoun for you) \u2018tell that daughter of yours she\u2019s no different from either of us\u2019<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nErin Hay<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMORNINGNESS
\n 
\nIn the news today, scientists say
\nMorningness originates with the ancients.
\nA.I. sorted genetic spaghetti, points to
\nthe Neanderthal; a matutinal artifact.
\n 
\nEarly risers guarded the cave\u2019s mouth,
\ntasked way back, as vital watchers.
\nKept the torches bright, fires lit,
\nbasked in low light, in the kinship of owls.
\n 
\nHawaiians say, “waking with the Mongooses.\u201d
\nShadow-like, low to the ground, electric
\nrat feet, neatly suited for the illusive.
\nBut mostly, its birds-the first cheep, cheep.
\nThe cockadoodle dooers. The worm getters.
\n 
\nA hereditary routine in my genes,
\nmore than just a need for sleep.
\nTo watch, awake to worry, glean.
\nAnd seeds of story, pushed by dawn
\nchased by light. I write.
\n 
\nDaybreak old friend, crepuscular delight,
\nwake me like you do, in time for hope.
\n 
\n 
\nWEARY
\n 
\nWhen you pull the sheets back
\nand wonder,
\nis that a shadow
\nor a spider
\nin my bed?
\nOne bites, one
\nbends light.
\nFriends too,
\nand enemies alike.
\nI can\u2019t care, either way.
\nI\u2019m tired, and going to bed
\nwith shadow spiders.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHINK THERE\u2019S A GOD?
\n 
\n\u201cThink there\u2019s a God?\u201d I asked; \u201cif so–\u201d
\n\u201cI do not think,<\/i>\u201d he said, \u201cI know<\/i>.\u201d
\n\u201cI never know,\u201d I said. \u201cI think;
\n\u201cand that is why I rise, you sink.\u201d
\n 
\n 
\nPITHY
\n 
\nHis words are witty,
\nwith a twist.
\nHe says they\u2019re \u201cpithy\u201d;
\nnote the lisp.
\n 
\n 
\nGOD–PFFT
\n 
\nAll the things God could<\/i> do,
\nall the things he doesn\u2019t:
\nstop earthquakes and disease,
\nworld war between first cousins\u2026
\nComplaints at God may seem
\nrashly impertinent–
\nBut so what? Life shows God
\nclearly omnimpotent.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDavid Henson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFALLING BARK
\n 
\nI watch a fragment of bark
\nplunge to the ground.
\nA large piece.
\n 
\nEven from here, I see
\nits texture is rough
\nas old skin.
\n 
\nThere seems no rhyme or reason
\nfor its plunge, no gust or squirrel.
\n 
\nI imagine the bark hadn\u2019t a clue
\nit would become a feast
\nfor termites and worms.
\n 
\nIt must be different for leaves,
\nwhich surely realize their time
\nhas come when death begins
\nfalling all around them.
\n 
\nBetter to live in ignorance
\n\u2018til the end or be aware
\nand go in a blaze of color?
\nI wonder
\n 
\nas Lizzie, her face now more gray
\nthan black, drops her favorite ball
\nat my feet.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMary Beth Hines<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHEN THE BEST IS YET TO COME
\n 
\nLounging on the seawall
\nboulders warm with sun,
\n 
\nthrilling at an almost-
\nstranger\u2019s hum, I divined
\n 
\nhands stealthing through air
\nthen the charged, magnetic
\n 
\npalms raised the barely-there
\nhairs on the small of my barely
\n 
\nbikinied back and the blue
\nbreeze held, horizon line
\n 
\nthrummed, purpling, poised
\nbefore the stun\u2014thighs, ankles,
\n 
\ntoes\u2014of those singular fingers
\ngrazing my almost-ready throat.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAngi Holden<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSPRING CLEANING WITH WOODY GUTHRIE
\n 
\nAll day I have been moving furniture,
\nturning back carpets,
\nwiping down skirting boards,
\ndust bowl blues on repeat.
\nFilthy, exhausted, I cradle my cup of tea,
\nwander into the lounge
\nand reach for the remote.
\nWhat\u2019s going on beyond these four walls?
\n 
\nThe tv screen judders into life,
\nimages of collapsed buildings
\ntumble brightly into my softly-lit room
\nwhere shadows of trees waft across
\nmy carpet, my table, my comfortable chair.
\n 
\nTwo thousand years of walls split and fall,
\nflats seven stories high lay their floors down
\nlike a cardsharp dealing a hand of poker.
\nThere is a randomness in the collapse,
\none house standing in acres of destruction.
\n 
\nThe sand spills through fissures
\nin the screen covering my carpet
\nin dunes, in red-brown tides.
\nI brush the dust from my cheeks,
\npull the neck of my t-shirt
\nacross my mouth as I struggle to breathe.
\n 
\nWorkers draw a small child from the rubble,
\npassing her arm to arm to arm
\nto the waiting ambulances,
\nwhile in the near distance a lone voice
\nsings ballads of the common man\u2019s lot,
\nthe hard travelling, the going down the road.
\nThis land is your land, he sings as I scan
\nthe images of the young girl and her rescuer,
\nthe crumpled buildings and the dust.
\n 
\nThe dust. Always the dust.
\n 
\n 
\nTALISMAN
\n 
\nCut from her whalebone corset,
\nshe has embroidered the ribbon with silk,
\npassed it to the boy she meets on the cliff.
\n 
\nHe will take it to sea, weave it
\ninto the harpoon\u2019s line, dispatch it
\ninto the ocean with his prayers and hers.
\n 
\nWith luck and a fair wind the talisman
\nwill protect him, will guide the barb
\ndeep into the creature\u2019s flesh,
\nbring honour to his father\u2019s crew.
\n 
\nHis mother will ask the name of the lass,
\nwill wonder who might be sweet on her boy,
\nher brow creasing as she sees
\nthe quality of ribbon and thread,
\nknowing \u2013 as he doesn\u2019t \u2013 that nothing
\ngood can come of this.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFD Jackson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSPEAR
\n 
\nMy goddaughter loves blue herons.
\nDeep swoosh, slow and steady wingbeats,
\nlike a metronome keeping time with
\nher heart.
\n 
\nShe loves the way he stands on spindly legs
\nin the marsh, blue-gray feathers, still as a statue,
\nneon yellow eyes searching the water for fish,
\nfrogs, and snakes. Two swaths of blue-black on
\neach side of his head leading to an upturned
\nplume that shimmers in the breeze.
\n.  
\nShe thinks the heron is admiring his own
\nreflection, so I tell her the story of Narcissus.
\nShe worries that he will stare too long and
\nturn into a flower that she\u2019s never heard of,
\nwhen he suddenly stabs a small fish with
\nhis yellow-orange bill. She watches in horror
\nas he devours it whole, down his powerful,
\nsinewy neck.
\n 
\nI try to explain that the heron is only trying
\nto survive like the rest of us, that soon enough,
\nshe too will learn how to spear the world, turn it
\nin her lovely bill, and swallow it headfirst,
\nbefore its spiny fins can wound her.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNate Jacob<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLITTORAL
\n     * of or relating to the shore of a lake, sea, or ocean<\/i>.
\n 
\nLow-tide rain rising up from the fish-scale sand
\nand me again, reminding my wading young daughter
\nthat hearts are most easy when drawn top down,
\nand true love requires an arrow to pierce it.
\n 
\nThis is the reach of the sea where we first sensed
\nthe rise and fall, the back and forth, the scroll
\nof our lives cutting clean through driftwood rings
\nthat marked time\u2019s escape, marked us as its own.
\n 
\nWe would have stayed suspended there forever,
\nlike kites from her sand-caked hands, curled too tight
\nuntil wet, gritty strings nocked deep her tender palms,
\n 
\nwhile the rush of the surf pushed us further up shore,
\nthe hidden sun pressing down and pushing back and back,
\ntime ticking too soon through our own wounded hands.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrian Jerrold Koester<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n[I CAN’T HELP IMAGINING]
\n 
\nI can’t help imagining
\nhe lay down so the earth
\nwouldn’t crash into him
\n 
\nbut it was so his toe
\ncould pull the trigger
\n 
\nHe needed to get it right this time
\n 
\nI can’t help imagining
\nsomeone was caring for him at the end
\neven if it was only him
\n 
\nbut he hated himself
\nand more than himself
\n 
\nHis death wish extended to me
\n 
\nimpossible togetherness
\nall terms undefined
\nI can’t help imagining
\n 
\nNow the ground under my feet
\nis the unknown nonzero number
\n 
\nof times he tried to kill me
\n 
\nJust because I live
\nwithout him doesn’t mean
\nI know how
\n 
\nI still make jokes
\nonly he would get<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLinda Laderman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI CRAVED
\n 
\nthe unfathomable, the furtive, the forbidden, the briny taste
\nof savory ham on my Jewish tongue, bacon sweet and smoky,
\nflattened between toast, tomatoes, lettuce, a slather of mayo.
\na Cadbury Cr\u00e8me egg during Passover, our shelves cleared
\nof grains, sweets made with cornstarch. I bit hard
\nthrough the egg\u2019s chocolate casing, aroused by my own
\npower. lobster dipped in hot butter, its empty shell set
\non my good dishes, a reminder I didn\u2019t need permission.
\nthick pork meatballs, mixed with jalapeno, simmered
\nin marinara on someone else\u2019s stove. I craved youth,
\nmy nascent nipples like tiny buttons, under my cotton
\nt-shirt, forcing grown men to look. the taste of a stranger
\nin my bed, his pungent scent, heavy, like an animal\u2019s skin,
\nthe relief I felt when he ran off. the July sun on my bare face,
\nyour hand atop my pregnant belly, the wet sand cool against
\nour bodies. time I could touch, like coffee brewed each morning,
\nor the ping at the end of a cycle of clothes drying, the nuzzle
\nof a warm blanket against my cheek. my grandmother\u2019s papery
\nhands loosening my braids \u2014 how she slowly separated each section
\nwith her knobbed fingers, aware the tiniest knots caused the most pain.
\n 
\n 
\nWE RAN WILD
\n           After Leslie Harrison<\/i>
\n 
\n& punched holes in metal lids
\n& the jars were translucent
\n& we taped the covers shut
\n& the streetlamps shone like moon glass
\n& we began our hunt
\n& we captured their winged light
\n& we watched them flicker
\n& the glass slipped from our grasp
\n& we bled when one shattered
\n& we were proud of our scabs
\n& we wore them like badges
\n& we ate lime Jell-O from the box
\n& food didn\u2019t cause cancer
\n& the priest down the street read smut.
\n& a boy shoved his fingers up a girl\u2019s down there<\/i>
\n& how could she let this happen?<\/i>
\n& no one reported the boy
\n& the kids laughed when her sister told
\n& she was 13
\n& she never came back to school
\n& the Cuban Missile Crisis was all the talk
\n& we listened to the president
\n& we thought he was forever
\n& we saw her face veiled in black
\n& we abandoned Bandstand
\n& my teacher called Jews communists
\n& did he know I was a Jew
\n& these were our best years
\n& even now, I think about that girl.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Lauchlan<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHROWER
\n  
\nCall me mad
\nas others do. Say what
\nyou will about the heels
\nand my black dress\u2013they
\ndo add to the effect.
\n  
\nThe half-lit spectators shift
\nso slowly in their seats.
\nWho knows what they find,
\ngaping at the spectacle.
\n  
\nI see the rose petal
\nwhere it turns a darker red
\nabove its little curl
\nbeside my assistant\u2019s cheek.
\n  
\nStanding at a dark backdrop,
\nAlan wears a baggy suit,
\ncoat open, white shirt
\nheaving in a terror that seems
\nalmost real, though we joke
\n 
\neach night over dinner
\nas he passes me the wine
\nand I warn him that his hair
\nneeds a trim, that it forms
\na tempting target, bridging the chasm
\nbetween his scalp and his ear.
\n  
\nUnder the lights I see
\nAl\u2019s shirt buttons gleam
\nand I think of clipping off
\nthe one that strains its threads
\njust above his belt.
\n 
\nBut that would be cheap.
\nI stick with the rose in his teeth
\nand weigh the blade in my hands,
\nmeeting the eyes of a graying man
\nin the fourth row, then
\n 
\nturning as Al turns to face me
\nand begins to blink when
\nmy hand does a hand\u2019s work.
\n 
\nThe applause softens as I step
\nout of my shoes and glide
\ncloser one pace, two. Al
\nputs a cigarette between his lips
\n 
\nand lifts a match while
\nI plant my bare feet,
\nslipping the knife between
\nmy teeth. The watchers
\n  
\ncan\u2019t imagine the taste of steel,
\nthe way my tongue follows
\nthe taper almost to the edge
\nbefore my head flicks
\nand the flame is lit.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Leavesley<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFIRES OF LIFE
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEVIDENCE OF GULLS (HUNGER)
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nALMOST TO THE MOON AND BACK
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nLynette Ledoux<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPALAK PANEER
\n 
\nThe recipe warned against
\nadding too much liquid. \u201cIt
\nshould not flow like the river.\u201d
\nSo the rest of the night
\nwe joked about flowing
\nlike the river, the impossibility
\nof stepping in the same waters
\ntwice, as true today as when
\nHeraclitus caught cold.
\nThat was the night before
\nyour mother arrived, God\u2019s
\nemissary come to save you
\nfrom yourself, and from me:
\nthe last thing you needed
\nwas north Indian cooking
\nin your fridge. She wasn\u2019t ready
\nfor an introduction, but you
\npushed the issue\u2014God bless you
\nfor that!\u2014suggesting I join y\u2019all
\nat Sunday service. And it worked!
\nShe caved like Plato, the shadows
\nof Methodists smiling rapturously.
\nThe pastor didn\u2019t know
\nHebrew or Greek or Latin,
\nbut analyzed the we\u2019re-all-made-
\nin-God\u2019s-image passage, saying
\nthe Genesis writers had God
\nuse the first person plural
\nto demonstrate the complexity
\nand diversity already within
\nand around God in Heaven.
\n\u201cIf you don\u2019t embrace
\ndifference,\u201d he said,
\n\u201cyou\u2019re not being Christian.\u201d
\nGod bless the pastor
\nand John Wesley too!
\nWhat a lucky break!
\nImagine your mother and us
\nfloating down a river of palak,
\nbuoyed by cubes of paneer.
\nIf she could embrace eating
\nnorth Indian, accepting
\nthe gay thing might be just
\naround the bend. Afterwards,
\nchatting with the pastor,
\nyour mother explained,
\nWe\u2019re from India.\u201d
\nThen, looking at you,
\nshe corrected herself.
\n\u201cWell,\u201d she said, \u201cI am.
\nShe\u2019s from . . . here.\u201d<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRichard LeDue<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA PHOTOGRAPH OF MY GRANDFATHER AT WAR
\n 
\nStanding in the snow with artillery
\nin the background and another soldier
\nnext to him, probably a friend
\nI’ll never know,
\nyet that small photo distorts his face,
\nmaking familial features fuzzy,
\nlike trying to recall a nose
\none believes can’t be their own.
\n 
\nOf course, it’s in black and white,
\ngiving ghostly presence to the past,
\nand allowing two comrades a rest
\nfrom crimson tracks.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFay L. Loomis<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTAX DAY
\n 
\nIdes of March slips by
\ntax day is here
\n 
\nrender unto Caesar
\nlisten to Tom Paine<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAda Lowenthal<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBEARS
\n 
\nWhat lumbers like a bear? \u201cUngainly\u201d means without grace.
\nBears shuffle their way past my window on four legs with their asses up.
\nAn accosted tree leads to lumber but not the verb.
\nLumberjacks transform the un-uniform living to the ranks of dead boards.
\n 
\nBears \u201clumber\u201d but they\u2019re not wooden or stiff. Dead people swiftly stiffen.
\nWhen my mother lay dying, I stepped away, and when I returned, she had gasped her last,
\nmouth wide open. I asked the nurse to close it, but her face was locked. Maybe
\nthe undertaker pried her mouth shut, but when I saw her last, she was aghast.
\n 
\nBears amble, like flaneurs, casual, unhurried, observing.
\n\u201cFlaneur\u201d is French for city stroller, eyes and eavesdropping on the rented and rentiers,
\nlike the gargoyle child hunched on the stairs, big-eared as parents vent.
\nLumberjacks wear plaid flannel shirts, but they are not flaneurs.
\n 
\nNeighbors complain the bears clamber up their decks, steal sweet nectar from
\nthe hummingbird feeder, trash the trash cans, lick out the tuna fish cans.
\nMy mother\u2019s bird feeder was swarmed by squirrels, who are more nimble than bears.
\nSometimes it helps to be small and common, like a child, so ignored.
\n 
\nBears are bigger than every other living thing here. Big as pick-up trucks, with the wheels.
\nSailors and cowboys have rolling gaits. My father was both and he drove a truck.
\nTrunks roll to the sawmill on the back of a truck or are driven down the river.
\nLumberjacks ignore nesting birds with fledglings when they mark the trees.
\n 
\nBears don\u2019t hang out with other bears unless they\u2019re related. Blood relations.
\nWe relate, you tell a tale. You can choose your friends but not your relations.
\nI froze out my mother as I aged up, then I pitied the person who maintained
\na chirpy mien when my father was manic, so mean, unrestrained.
\n 
\nWe bear children. We come bearing gifts. Our pain is more than we can bear.
\nLumberjacks cut down the trees for the sake of creation.
\nMy father cut my mother down to size.
\nWe children, muffled and awkward, lumbered along.
\n 
\n 
\nFROGMAN
\n 
\nIn the Japanese monster movies of Godzilla, his enemies, and progeny,
\nyou will not find the frogman, though he swam in the island shoals of wartime Japan.
\nFrogmen, Americans, defused shore-lined mines so marines could breach the Japanese beaches.
\nJust sailors in water ballooning trunks, kitted with masks and fins, combat knives,
\nand dog tags (though so young not one believed Death would ID him).
\n 
\nAfter the war, my frogman father went a-wooing. No time to waste,
\non their first date, he asked \u201cwill you marry me?\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d my mother answered,
\n\u201cyes.\u201d So impressed. First impressions are the most prized engravings,
\nas images etched in metal plates slowly deteriorate: the finest lines disappear,
\nblacks slacken into grays, cross hatching no longer nests, it merely surfaces.
\n 
\nThat night, my mother, fashionably, wore a bolero jacket, not meaning to meme
\nwords like dance, love, Ravel. Yet in the looping string of beings and causality,
\nthe surname of my sister\u2019s first husband and father of her daughter is Ravel.
\nAnd for decades, like my sister and now dead father, I reveled in flattery, and then,
\nin the dry grief of ashtray debris – banded stubs on bended knees – unraveled.
\n 
\nHere, the pond weeds ravel in the shallows, gracing light with drawling shadows.
\nOn the mud-suck bank, a green frog plucks his string, the rubber band twang reverberates.
\n\u201cCome now, while your eyes bulge with ecstatic first impressions, while
\nthe one note song on the tip of my tongue unravels, impossibly long,
\nto adhere to your delicate ear. \u201cCome,\u201d says the frog, \u201ckiss me like a man.\u201d
\n 
\nIt\u2019s a steady bleat but you can\u2019t dance to it.
\nBoredom is the exorbitant price of constancy.
\n\u201cI yam what I yam and that\u2019s all that I yam,\u201d chants Popeye the sailor frogman.
\nMy mother squandered years of kisses on her frogman\u2019s moist, squamous skin
\nbut never magically set free the monogamous prince within.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBob Lucky<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPRE-EMPTIVE REVENGE
\n 
\nThere\u2019s no place to park in Porto
\nso people park everywhere
\nand hope the police don\u2019t
\nticket them as they dash
\nto drop their kids at daycare
\nbefore popping into a caf\u00e9
\nfor coffee and buttered bread,
\nor double park to unload their shopping
\nand maybe a grandparent or two,
\nor pick up dry cleaning and have a haircut.
\nSidewalks become outlaw parking lots
\nand streets are filled with wheelchairs
\nand old people with walkers, turning
\nthe streets into de facto sidewalks.
\nI make sure my knapsack whacks
\nevery side-view mirror in my path.
\nSomeday I\u2019ll be old too.
\nI\u2019ve already forgotten
\nwhere I parked the car.
\n 
\n 
\nIN THE KITCHEN, SCENE FROM ONE PARTICULAR MARRIAGE
\n 
\nMy wife and I agree
\none pan cooks better
\nthan the other but
\nit depends on what
\nyou\u2019re cooking and that
\nis where we disagree
\nand dinner falls apart
\nbecause she says latke
\nand I say potato pancake
\nbut in the end
\nit\u2019s just hash browns.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMandy Macdonald<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLUNCH DATE WITH HARPSICHORD
\n 
\nIt\u2019s a delicate project.
\nShe gets upset so easily:
\nthe slightest change in the atmosphere
\nand she\u2019s a quarter-tone flat, or sharp,
\nor the lute stop won\u2019t work,
\nor, if she\u2019s really pissed off,
\na string breaks.
\n 
\nSo when you take her out,
\nto a posh wedding breakfast, for instance,
\nand you\u2019re playing a programme
\nof elegant but easily digestible baroque classics \u2013
\na few prancing gavottes and minuets,
\nsome of those witty French amuse-bouches<\/i>
\nin imitation of cuckoos, hens, nightingales,
\nsome spicy Scarlatti for mains \u2013
\nyou\u2019ve got to treat her like the queen she is.
\n 
\nFeed her with your fingers the notes she loves,
\nthe music she was made for.
\nChoose your morsels carefully
\nand in the best possible taste,
\neven though she and you may be
\nthe only ones in the place
\nwho truly appreciate the meaning
\n 
\nof Les d\u00e9lices. <\/i>For two hours at least
\nyou\u2019ll perform while they eat; you\u2019ll get no rest,
\nnot for a minute. Turn your back for a second
\nand some idiot has ambled up to make a request \u2013
\n\u2018D\u2019you know The Four Seasons<\/i>?\u2019 \u2013 lurched against the side,
\nand disaster! a fluteful of frizzante<\/i> over the soundboard!
\n(Yes, ch\u00e9rie,<\/i> I know, not even proper champagne.
\nBut at least you<\/i> got something to drink.)<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nVictoria Melekian<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBABY BIRDS
\n 
\nA few weeks after the funeral, my sons
\nwill stand in my living room and wonder
\nwhere to start: books, collection of glass
\n 
\ndoorknobs, rocks, shells, piano music.
\nThey will laugh and joke while lugging
\nappliances out the door, box up the kitchen
\n 
\nand cart it off to Goodwill, come back
\nwith burritos for lunch. They will sort through
\nthe shelves and find the three bird nests
\n 
\nI\u2019ve had since they were little. \u201cRemember?\u201d
\n\u201cMom always said we were hatched.\u201d
\n\u201cYeah. And she saved our nests.\u201d
\n 
\nThey\u2019ll smile and shake their heads, but each
\nwill take one for their pile of keepsakes,
\nthen look around for some heavy furniture to lift.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMike Mesterton-Gibbons<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n  
\nLONELY AS A CLOUD
\n 
\nL<\/strong>ife’s trials left me lonely as a cloud
\nO<\/strong>n high until I found some daffodils,
\nN<\/strong>ot in an adventitious golden crowd
\nE<\/strong>xtending by a lakeside near some hills
\nL<\/strong>ike Wordsworth in his poem, but below
\nY<\/strong>ork’s city walls on sloping grassy banks,
\nA<\/strong>rrayed in row upon enticing row.
\nS<\/strong>o I plucked half a dozen from the ranks
\nA<\/strong>nd clasped them and, like Wordsworth, felt a rapt
\nC<\/strong>ompanionship that filled me with renewed
\nL<\/strong><\/strong>ight-heartedness … until a copper tapped
\nO<\/strong>n my left shoulder and rebuked me\u2014”Dude,
\nU<\/strong>nlicensed flower picking’s stealing”\u2014then
\nD<\/strong>etained my blooms \u2026 to leave me lone, again.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMark J. Mitchell<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nREFUTING PHILOSOPHY
\nFor herself<\/i>
\n 
\nHow many times
\nhe brushed back the hair
\noff the back of her neck
\nthe better to kiss it?
\n 
\nAll the years
\nof dancing lengths,
\nthe subtle key changes
\nin the song of her colors
\n 
\nleading all the way
\nto now.
\n 
\nPoor Plato, stuck
\nwith his perfect forms
\nthat never change.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMish Murphy<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSCHR\u00d6DINGER\u2019S DOG
\n 
\nNow is the cusp:
\nwe learn if there\u2019s
\na tumor or not.
\nImpossible to tell
\nuntil the vet cuts my dog open
\nand sees what\u2019s in the box.
\n 
\nThe receptionist turns up the Classic
\nRock station while I wait
\nin a plastic chair with splayed back
\nunder a violent ceiling fan.
\nThe assistant with long hair says,
\n\u201cShe\u2019s going to be starting.\u201d
\n 
\nThere is no tumor until the vet finds it there,
\nuntil it is measured and tested,
\nor until it has killed my dog.
\nYet the tumor will have existed all along
\nif the vet finds it.
\n 
\nThe door to the back rooms opens,
\nand the vet
\ncomes out,
\nwearing a surgical net over her hair,
\nand announces, \u201cNo tumor.\u201d
\n 
\nAt the same time, in another cruel universe, the vet
\ncomes out
\nand tells me\u2013
\n 
\nbut, no, I don\u2019t believe
\nthat part of the theory.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJames B. Nicola<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHAT SPELLING AND COUNTING CAN REVEAL
\n 
\nthree fifths of
\ncrass<\/i>
\nthree fourths of
\nsass<\/i>
\nif you can count
\namount to
\nass<\/i>
\n 
\njust as
\nfrump<\/i> and
\ngrump<\/i> and
\ntrump<\/i>
\nare four
\nfifths
\nrump<\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeffrey Ogochukwu<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI LIVE IN MY HEAD
\n 
\nmost of the time, and I\u2019m in love. Miserable me.
\nI know what I\u2019ll say when she answers the phone:
\nI love how you smile in my dream.<\/i>
\n 
\nDoes she like rainy season
\nor dry season?
\nI like the season with harmattan because
\nit makes my shirt orange. I don\u2019t like rainy season
\nthe cold makes my pillow take the form of her.
\n 
\nI think about stars and moons
\nand the flavour of her laughter
\nin the vastness of space. Does she like purple?
\nBlue is my favourite.
\nGrandma Ogochukwu sewed lots of love
\nand blue in the sweater she made for my birthday.
\nDoes she like sweaters? She can have mine. I don\u2019t mind.
\nDoes she like me? <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAbigail Ottley<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSHE DREAMS OF BECOMING A GAMEKEEPER\u2019S MATE
\n 
\nOnce upon a time it was a gamekeeper\u2019s habit to string up their catches as a warning. A host of dead vermin, like bloodstained ghouls, would hang from the branches of trees until afternoon-sun-flies buzzed in busy circles singing hymns to the sticky, stiff-eyed dead. She knows she\u2019s old and you might think it\u2019s too late but, if she could only reinvent<\/i> herself, she would choose to launch a new career and re-train as a gamekeeper\u2019s mate. She\u2019d be a strangler of stoats, a catcher of rats, a wringer of the slender necks of weasels. Be they light on their paws and ever so fierce, her secret traps would close with a snap. By first grey glimmer on the moon-damp grass, she would untangle from her snares their stiffening corpses, freeing their limbs, furred and frozen, and their claws, like so many tiny scalpels, from her abominations of razor wire, sturdy, green twine, and delicate snares. Perhaps she might admire the wildness in them, praise their agility, their unerring, brutal purposes. Even fall in love with their crewel-bright incisors, their appetites kept sharp as you like. Tooth and claw is nature\u2019s way. Let the killer be quick, clean and busy. She\u2019d leave them hang a while before she tried her blade, skinned them, and strung them in a garland, these small-bodied vermin badged with blood, the scarlet fruits of her secret alder tree.
\n 
\n 
\nI SEE YOU IN THE LIBRARY
\nWHERE I USED TO LOVE TO BE
\n 
\nYou must be dead by now. Or dying. I won\u2019t say I wish it. When I think of you, which is more often now, most likely because I am ageing, I try to see you as a nothingness, an empty, hollow thing. Not a shell exactly. Sea-shells are pretty. A tin can, perhaps, its jagged edges rusting, a thing that never was beautiful. A tin can, though, might once have had a purpose. It\u2019s hard to imagine that of you. I see you as a ruinous thing, a thing uncared for and crumbling, tumbledown like a ramshackle building. Or maybe something monstrous, a creature at odds with its being, unsteady on its mismatched feet. I see you as a wreck of the self<\/i> you lied about. You never did look healthy. Your sallow skin, oily and pitted, the shine on your ill-fitting jacket, its cheap black fabric, already ancient, showing threadbare and green in the sun. Dandruff flecking your shoulders like a scurfy constellation, grime collecting under your fingernails, the skin of your hands, so soft and pudgy. Soft. Soft like a girl\u2019s. Your hands weren\u2019t big like my father\u2019s hands. Not calloused from long hours of labouring. not scrubbed at the sink in Mum\u2019s tiny kitchen before we all sat down to tea. Your hair was always an inch or two too long, and your shoes were all scuffed and down at heel. Your dull eyes regarded me sadly like an old dog in search of a home. I see you in the library where I used to love to be, your back turned to the blue of the window. The window is always summer-time blue. There is sunlight streaming in. You are slumped like a scarecrow in a low armchair, seeming to read but most likely pretending. You are not young in this picture. You told me thirty-two but probably you lied. A lazy shark, not especially hungry, you may be still in your chair but you are cruising Circling, circling, one sad, flat eye watching the minutes tick away. You are waiting for me, not yet twelve years old. Me, in my gymslip and beret. Your shark\u2019s jaw opens, precise as clockwork. Your teeth, seen up close, are not white.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSteve Passey<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTRIPPING TOWARDS NIRVANA
\nWITH MY FRIENDS JACK AND COLE
\n 
\nHere\u2019s the thing about addiction:
\nUsing is the purest happiness you will ever know,
\nand when you give it up for the safer life,
\nthe life-half lived,
\nyou will forever miss its glow.
\n 
\nShuffle on in the comfort of half-lit days,
\nwalk where you used to run,
\nbreathe deeply where once your heart had stopped
\nand live long,
\nand less,
\nand labor where once you dared
\nto fly too close
\nto the sun. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Perchan<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nANGEL POCKETS
\n 
\nI do not know there is an anatomical term for it \u2013 that triangular recessed span of tender flesh at the top of a slender woman\u2019s inner thigh, said to be the locus of a network of exquisitely sensitive nerves. But if you can visualize it, that\u2019s enough. In architecture, I believe it\u2019s called a spandrel, perhaps from the Old French espandre<\/i>, \u201cto spread.\u201d In the interior of the Basilica di San Marco in Venice, I am told, such spaces between the arches are the site of striking mosaics of Biblical iconography, no doubt saints or angels or anchorites or suchlike. The mosaicists up there on the scaffolding delicately arranging the tiles. A willowy chanteuse in a waterfront tattoo parlor, patient knees fallen slackly apart, awaits the stinging kiss of the needle. Putti<\/i>, I believe they call them. Cupids.
\n 
\n <\/p>\n

ANALOG OF THE JAR
\n 
\nI took a dump in Tennessee
\nand coiled it was like that snake
\nof clay you set upon your potter\u2019s wheel
\nand spun around and guided into that shape
\nof the jar The Poet placed upon that hill
\nin Tennessee like nothing else in all
\nthose fine anthologies<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDarrell Petska<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHROUGH THE WARS
\n 
\nIn this old shoebox of mind reside
\ncardboard figures she\u2019d dress, personify,
\narrange tete-a-tete or en masse for tea.
\nHostess of her gracious salon, she peopled
\nour playroom with paper doll doctors, nurses,
\nkids and parents, TV and movie stars\u2014while
\nnearby I clashed toy soldiers.
\n 
\nBeneath these paper memories I hear
\nher voice bestowing upon her dolls
\nelaborate lives: families quarreling,
\ndoctors working heroically, lovers meeting.
\nLife proved far simpler for my soldiers.
\nEither they survived, or lay fallen\u2014
\nas she long lies.
\n 
\nHere\u2019s a paper doll just like new: I name it
\nSis. Any worn figure can serve as me.
\nReuniting at last, we\u2019ll sip tea from
\nher tiny white cups. Curling her little finger,
\nshe\u2019ll ask \u201cHow\u2019ve you been?\u201d to which I\u2019ll reply
\n\u201cThrough the wars. And you?\u201d She\u2019ll smile:
\n\u201cLike always. But look at you\u2014so wrinkled!\u201d
\n 
\n 
\nTEACHERS
\n 
\nOnce I thought his grief had eased,
\nI asked, for \u201cposterity\u201d, about their love\u2014
\nits textures, geometries, evolutions,
\nquestions reflecting my artistic pretensions:
\nhe\u2019d been a farmer all his life.
\n 
\nHad love at first been a vortex?
\nOr sent them tumbling, Jack-and-Jillesque,
\ndown some giddy slope? Did their love
\nhave edges: smooth, sharp, hidden?
\nHe could speak only what he knew:
\n 
\na cow they\u2019d saved from their cistern\u2019s maw,
\nthe breadloaf barn they\u2019d raised,
\nrotund troughs chipped clear of ice,
\nboxy hay bales fed their cattle, the many
\nsteepled Sundays of piety and kinship\u2014
\n 
\nBut his weathered face had masked his feelings,
\nfor he wept once more, and upon his tears
\nand the papered walls, mantled portraits,
\nshelved heirlooms, and windows divulging
\ncorrals, sturdy barn and expansive fields,
\n 
\nshined her face, and I wondered, so naive then,
\nhow such all-encompassing love might occur.
\nHe didn\u2019t say life itself is an act of faith, or
\nlove stems from faith and grows it. He spoke
\nof cows and crops, leaving me to learn for myself.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMarc Pietrzykowski<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSOCIAL LIFE IS NO JOKE
\n 
\nWe\u2019ve so few places to be prayerful anymore,
\nor drunk, which is awfully the same thing.
\nOne must be caught, on their knees
\nworshiping or vomiting or looking
\nfor an earring, and be correctly
\nshameful the next day when, surveilled,
\nthe churning world discusses your crime,
\nhow you chose to seek God\u2019s eye
\nrather than the panopticon, given
\nthe rest of us would gut our first born on a rock
\nif it meant the slightest blessing
\nfrom the trustees.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKenneth Pobo<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBOBOLINKO\u2019S CLOUD
\n 
\nI look at a cloud
\nthrough the window
\nand wonder if it
\n 
\ncould breathe life
\ninto a raindrop as it
\nfalls and runs amuck
\nuntil it slides down
\ngrass roots. The cloud,
\n 
\ndark and menacing,
\na grumpy old man
\nwith a torn gray hat.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBethany W. Pope<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBREAKDOWN
\n 
\nWhen you visited Texas, before we were married,
\nI fetched you from the airport in the 1997 Volkswagen Golf
\nI inherited from my cousin, who got it from his cousin, who got it
\nfrom his uncle, who bought it, used, from an elderly
\nlady at his church, who’d had it for the better part
\nof a decade \u2014 it barely ran, there was no air conditioning,
\nthe brick paint was bubbling off in blisters that revealed
\nrusty bodywork beneath when they popped in the sun,
\nand it’s probably better not to think about the upholstery,
\nbut anyway, I was trying to enter the highway (like plunging
\nmy hands into a pile of cold pasta, trying to untangle
\na single, clean strand) and you had your tongue
\nin my ear and your wide, stubby hand down the front
\nof my jeans and I was trying hard not to swerve
\nand flatten us both between the loud, stinking lorries
\nfilled with cages packed tight with living, abused,
\nfeatherless chickens, so I pulled over between
\nthe white lines and the retaining wall and put my car
\ninto park and you reclined my seat and fucked me
\nwith your pale-haired ass in the air and the gritty wind
\nblowing in and the cars and trucks honking in the sunlight
\nas they passed and we fucked and fucked and fucked
\nuntil all the sound was gone and I was numb and raw
\nwhere I like most to feel and you were panting on top of me
\nand slick with grey sweat and, yeah, it’s true
\nthat on that day I made a series of terrible decisions,
\nand yeah, it’s true that I have a tendency to hold on,
\ntoo long, to piles of old junk, and yeah, it’s true that I let
\nmy sentences run on for miles after they should have stopped.
\n 
\n 
\n\u201cIT HURTS TOO MUCH\u201d
\n 
\nYou said, when I suggested that you stop
\nin and see him on your way to class.
\nYou were early, and we live
\nten minutes away from your dojo,
\nfrom the McDonald’s where you grab
\ndinner before jumping in a sweaty pile
\nof other, writhing men. Your son
\nwas standing by the window,
\nwith his nose pressed against the glass,
\ncrying for you. It’s been two weeks,
\nand you come so close, and he
\nwill only be a toddler for a moment.
\nAnd, yes. It hurts too much. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKen Poyner<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCOMBUSTIBLE
\n 
\nHe decides, at last, that the woman whose uncaged breasts hang way too low inside her brief sweater, would make a worthy conquest beside a brutal campfire leaving a necessary lack of clothing entirely bearable, the night\u2019s chill thrown back three meters and embers rising to mimic puddles of stars. She passed an hour ago, walking her unexceptional dog. And years ago, Quibble once had such a fire. Hours of labor, capped with a sustaining geometry, in an empty clearing, the night taking him in like a visitor come to overturn the end table, breaking the urn of someone\u2019s ashes. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRebecca M. Ross<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHOUSE GUEST
\n 
\nShe arranged tampons on my sink
\nlike a platoon
\nof short stiff cotton soldiers
\nfrom the OB army
\nready to march into bloody battle
\ntaking the bathroom, inch by inch,
\nuntil soon I worried the soap dish
\nwould become a boat necessary
\nto claim the tub
\n 
\nI read the maps
\nbut not closely enough to realize
\nthat I held no natural boundaries,
\nor if I did
\nI missed when they were breached
\nby these twisted wads of cotton,
\ntheir teal strings
\nreadying to overtake
\nthis sacred space
\n 
\nSoon followed a row of facial scrubs,
\nmoisturizers, serums, body wash\u2013
\nearth-friendly, all natural,
\nKiss My Face\u2013
\nkiss my ass.
\nMy toothpaste,
\nprecariously hanging over the sink’s edge,
\nthreatened to drop dangerously to its death
\non the pink-tiled floor
\n 
\nA wooden toothbrush
\nwith black charcoal-infused bristles
\nsqueezed itself into my repurposed bud vase,
\nrelegating my dentist-issued Oral-B
\nto a found space
\non a questionable medicine cabinet shelf
\n 
\nUpon my arrival home
\nI expected to find her
\nlounging on my queen-sized,
\nher stringy hair spread across my flannel pillowcase
\nresting from her bathroom maneuvers
\nwhile planning the next room to conquer
\nAlas,
\nmy apartment was empty
\nher clothing strewn about
\nas if she had been there seconds before,
\nwhile my dog,
\nfood untouched yet belly full
\nslept soundly on the couch,
\namidst a pile
\nof newly gnawed bones,
\na teal string
\nhanging from his mouth.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlissa Sammarco<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMOST PEOPLE STAY THE MISERABLE BASTARDS
\nTHEY ARE THEIR ENTIRE LIVES
\n 
\nWatching tv as the clock strikes 12
\nIt\u2019s just another day and just another late night.
\nDid you cheat on the test,
\nthe answers written on the soles of your shoes?
\nDid you cheat on me when
\nyou gave your number to the Russian?
\nShe seemed so exquisitely confident
\nwhen she said hello at the art exhibit.
\nAnd when you told me how you chatted her up,
\nI should have kicked you out.
\nBut the wind blew over the bed.
\nThe chimes tolled outside the window.
\nThe earth shook the way it does when stars explode.
\nAnd I laughed and kissed you
\nand stuffed my heart,
\nlike an unwanted kitten,
\ninto a drawstring bag.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMark Scheel<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE
\n 
\nYesterday afternoon when walking home
\nfrom a trip to the grocery store,
\nI passed an apartment building
\nwith the basement window shades open.
\nLying on her bed was a young girl
\nfrantically masturbating.
\n 
\nIn the blink of an eye, I assessed
\nshe was almost there; however,
\nI didn\u2019t tarry for the finale.
\n 
\nI mean, what\u2019s the point?
\nOne needs to be blissfully young
\nor achingly desperate
\nto fully savor such an endeavor.
\n 
\nFrom either side of the window.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPenelope Scambly Schott<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMY LAST BABY
\n 
\n 
\nAlthough my card and photo ID are fully in order, I am always
\nafraid when the uniformed guard motions me into the museum
\nof my life where I tiptoe cautiously across the cold marble floor
\nonly to discover I have stumbled through a leaded glass pane
\ninto some paneled Vermeer parlor where one woman lifts up
\na pitcher while another is busy weighing my life on a jeweler\u2019s
\ntrembling balance scale, twin trays swinging from twin chains,
\ntrays bouncing up and down, hesitating at today<\/i> or back then<\/i>,
\nuntil they steady themselves with a version of me in each tray,
\nthe me of today causally shoving my fingers through white hair
\nin the little hidden public restroom behind the museum gift shop
\nand the young blond me back in the fourth floor Ladies\u2019 Lounge
\njust behind the ladies\u2019 lingerie department of Saks Firth Avenue,
\nthe branch really on Fifth Avenue, where I shiver in the last stall,
\nmy whole body clenched up with cramping, where I sit clutching
\nmy own bare knees as a small living thing inside me tears itself
\nloose from my flesh, as it drips and bleeds into the toilet bowl
\nwhile my eleven-year-old daughter, who\u2019s already done peeing
\nand has maybe or not washed her hands, now waits, shuffling
\nher feet in front of the locked door of the stall, audibly impatient
\nfor me to hurry up and flush and come out to take her shopping
\nfor new party shoes, the shoes I said she could pick out herself,
\nand meanwhile I sit digging my nails into my knees as I shudder
\nin fresh waves of pain, trying to envision that one perfect room
\nwhere the first Vermeer woman is emptying her pewter pitcher
\njust like my contracting womb is working to empty itself until all
\nthat remains is me here on today\u2019s side of the hanging balance,
\nmy cropped hair gone white and fluffy so I look like somebody\u2019s
\nold grandmother, which is what I am \u2014 somebody\u2019s grandmother
\nthese thirty years later, still suspended, still here rocking ever so
\nslightly in one of the two brass balance trays hung in the interior
\nof that most exquisite and costly museum of vanished artifacts.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClaire Scott<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMY HIGHER POWER
\n 
\nI take my Higher Power with a twist
\nor sometimes with an olive or a pickled pearl onion
\nactually a slice of banana or avocado would be just fine
\nas long as the vodka or gin is straight, with the vermouth
\njust briefly waved over the glass
\nokay, okay, I admit my life has become unmanageable
\npiles of bills and threats to turn off my phone, my heat,
\nmy gas, my water, my TV, my toaster, my socks
\npiles of loneliness and laundry
\nwearing shirts inside out, no clean ones left
\ncruising dating websites, putting up profiles on Tinder,
\nZoosk, eharmony, Match.com
\nchecking to be sure Mr. OkCupid likes
\nseveral bottles of Cabernet with dinner
\n 
\nWait just a moment dear reader while I refill my glass
\nare your really dear to me? I have no idea
\nbut I believe in a flower<\/i> I mean a power<\/i> or perhaps
\na flower power<\/i> higher than myself
\ncan restore me to sanity, whatever that is,
\nmaybe the ability to get my license back from the stupid
\nstate of California that discriminates against single women
\nout for a good time, give me a fucking break
\nor to be able to fix the right front fender, although
\nI know I never hit anyone, my irrelevant neighbor
\nmust have crashed into my car when he was trying
\nto leer through my bathroom window, like the leacher
\nhe is, my neighbor who won\u2019t even come over
\nto dance with single malt scotch, wearing our
\nunderpants on our heads
\n 
\nSo I pray, yes I do, loud and clear, can you hear?
\nto my Higher Power every day starting at six
\nwith a Bloody Mary and a bowl of Lucky Charms
\ncontinuing till the clock gets blurry, sipping another
\nsnifter of brandy, down on my knees yes praying yes
\nthat there will be plenty left for tomorrow
\nand praying I can get up off this damn floor
\nplease do come by, we can dance, you are so dear\u2026<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNolo Segundo<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSYLVIA PLATH DIED IN A BELL JAR
\n 
\nSylvia, Sylvia, I read your poems,
\nI read your book, I even read your life,
\nbut Sylvia, lover I never had, it remains
\nyou gassed yourself like Nazi and Jew
\nin one
\nand I do not reproach you for this, but
\nonly ask, did the death balance the life?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJunaid Shabir<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGHAZAL
\n 
\nEyes might glimpse the silhouettes in some distant crowd, who knows!
\nWe might meet again when mankind is assembled somewhere<\/i>, who knows!
\n 
\nThough my love was brushed off like catchweed is flicked from clothing in autumn,
\nThe bristles of this sticky plant might follow you everywhere<\/i>, who knows!
\n 
\nWatch out for a trap next time you plan to venture into my heart\u2019s pasture,
\nThe spring buds \u2013 you like to trample \u2013 might form a snare<\/i>, who knows!
\n 
\n\u201cIf I die, you must live to tell my story,\u201d Refat warned before an airstrike hit him,
\nOn doomsday, the martyrs of Palestine might face me with a questionnaire<\/i>, who knows!
\n 
\nGazans lost everything but hope\u2014 Some Moses would be born to drown Pharaoh
\nin the Mediterranean Sea. So shall be answered some prayer<\/i>, who knows!
\n 
\nChildren will throng the city again and women will flock around the bakeries,
\nThe world might finally stand up for justice and against this warfare<\/i>, who knows!
\n 
\nWhen the trumpet is blown, and everyone loses their mind in the commotion,
\nMy mouth will be locked, yet my eyes, at you, still might stare<\/i>, who knows!
\n 
\nThe birds do not crave the cage, the sea does not flow into the river,
\nWake up, Junaid; this could only be a nightmare<\/i>, who knows!<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Shepard<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI KNOW I SHOULDN\u2019T THINK
\nOF JACQUELINE DU PR\u00c9 THIS WAY
\n 
\nChicks who play cellos are hot,
\ntheir thighs tingle with vibrations
\nin the lower register
\nas their fingers slide up and down
\nthe long fretboard, pausing in vibrato
\nthat sharpened note, sustaining it
\nuntil the natural release, then
\nworking the minor scale slowly
\ntoward the F holes, the neck resting softly
\non their shoulders, like the intimate
\nembrace of lovers, the sound of
\ntheir lovemaking a quivering wood.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHeidi Slettedahl<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE TRUE STORY OF OUR JOURNEY
\nHOME TO SEE MY FATHER
\n 
\nWe spent the night in an empty hotel.
\nThe next day a tumbleweed crossed our path.
\nI don\u2019t know what genre I\u2019m in, I said to my husband.
\nHe smiled.
\nThat\u2019s easy baby. It\u2019s a love story.
\nWe laughed.
\nWe both laughed.
\nWhat else could we do.
\n 
\nWe walked into the home where my father lives
\n(where he exists)
\n 
\ncarrying flowers he didn\u2019t want.
\nThanksgiving decorations hung on the walls, made by the residents.
\nColored in by the residents.
\n 
\nThe aides had planned an event.
\nHunting
\nThey dressed as deer and let the residents shoot them.
\nWith Nerf guns, but still. But still.
\nAll aims were poor but there was intent.
\n 
\nMy father asked me to wheel him away.
\nHe was a good shot, back in the day.
\nHe never shot at people.
\nHe didn\u2019t want to start now.
\n 
\nWhat genre am I in?
\nNot one I want to be in.
\nSavior daughter, who wheels her father away.
\nBut not far enough, not out of here.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLaurie Smith<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWAITING FOR PINK INGA
\n 
\n(Syringa hyacinthiflora<\/i>)
\n 
\nneighbours chatter at the roadside
\nno doubt they’ll still be there when she arrives,
\ncheck out the goods
\napproaching my front porch,
\nwhisper opinions.
\n 
\nthere are so many trees already,
\nfew sunny locations.
\nbut i’ve planned for her arrival,
\nprepared a space where she should be
\ncomfortable, bloom.
\n 
\nshe’s come a long way from richmond bc.
\nit’s like a costly blind date, as when
\nbritish kings summoned auspicious mates,
\nreliant on a subjective image, hoped for the best.
\n 
\nsuch a beautiful
\nday; scent of lilacs wafting.
\ni hope to bed this one by sundown.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMelissa Sorgi<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nYESTERDAY\u2019S SUNSET
\n 
\nI walked along a fog-bound beach last night,
\nWatched the sun drown in the shadowy dusk,
\nHeard the siren-song of a thousand mourning gulls,
\nBreathed deep the wet, green pine-woods air,
\nAnd thought about beginnings, endings, islands, and you.
\n 
\nSummer is almost over,
\nYoung maples, impatient for sleep, already have flamed and dropped;
\nThe passed over blueberries are growing black and hard in the bushes.
\nIn a few days I\u2019ll board two planes
\nAnd land eleven states away where instead of forests
\nThey have swamps and a long, empty highway stretching west.
\n 
\nPlease be there when I come home
\nOr yesterday\u2019s sunset which I spent remembering your hands
\nWill be a summer hour wasted
\nAnd fall will last a year.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDavid Stephenson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHOLD MY BEER
\n 
\nOne day a great idea just comes you,
\nlike using some old stuff stored in your shed
\nfor some pyrotechnic derring-do,
\nand you can\u2019t get the thought out of your head,
\nand you\u2019re excited but a little scared,
\nsince carrying the stunt out would require
\nsome tricky timing. You feel unprepared
\nand think of all the ways it could backfire\u2026
\n 
\nAnd yet key elements are on the scene\u2014
\nthe tires and lumber, and most critically
\na full two-gallon can of gasoline\u2014
\nas if assembled there by destiny.
\nYou know you won\u2019t rest till this thing gets done.
\nCarpe diem. Light the fuse and run.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDylan Stover<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSERIOUS
\n 
\n\u201cMan must know his condition so that he may react,
\n ask himself what he truly wants, what is at stake.
\nHe is to become serious.<\/i>
\n\u2014Karl Jaspers
\n 
\nWe have to puff out our chests now
\nto tell the arbiters how
\nwe\u2019re getting serious.
\n 
\nI hear the voice in the wilderness again
\nis starting to pout:
\n\u201cI have nothing left to cry about:
\nThere\u2019s a load of work to do
\nbut I\u2019ve already been done;
\nand nobody\u2019s asking for more truths to prove
\n\u2018cause the girls just want to have fun.\u201d<\/i>
\n 
\nMy reply: Have you ever invested in losing
\nyour necktie?
\n 
\nI hear Arthur cry every night,
\nhis shoe size, 41:
\nin the end, just an itty skeleton.
\n(No one reads<\/i> a poem these days, you guys, unless it gives good tongue.)
\n 
\nA language is born
\nthe moment two people agree to see the same thing.
\nAt the closing of his tome of Wrath<\/i>,
\nJohn finally saw what every infant cries out to see:
\nYou have to put a nipple in your mouth
\nbefore you can understand the meaning of Amazing
\nGrace\u2014and excuse the adolescent declaiming of anthems
\nyou prided yourself to rehearse, mistaking so many well-versed
\ndeaths for freedom:
\n 
\nAll work and no breasts
\nmakes Jake no more than a man.
\nSo listen:
\nLife sucks<\/i>.
\nBut love comes
\nto those who\u2019ll understand
\nthat every one of your serious commands
\nis to kill men.
\n 
\n 
\nFUCK, THE POEM
\n 
\nWith a full load\u2014
\nall fresh chrome and decals, glistening\u2014
\nlaid up behind me, I command
\na gasoline\u2019s ragtag of signs: I man
\nmy equipment to sow all trueness\u2014
\nand So! what a crop of lies<\/i>\u2026
\n 
\nWith the full conception
\nof purity, I won\u2019t preach against sex\u2019s binge,
\nor paste upon our bodies
\na pair of stubby angel-wings;
\nI won\u2019t make the halo a fashion
\nor fashion a halo
\nfrom the pasted-together pages of nudie magazines\u2014
\nit doesn\u2019t matter what\u2019s true nowadays
\nwhen you can\u2019t get off on belief:
\nsome will wear a condom,
\nwhere others rightly abstain;
\nsome will find the apices of beauty
\nwhere others find a cum-stain:
\n 
\nIt\u2019s whiter
\nthan June-time cumulus and so amply unfilled\u2014
\nyet how much more able to receive!\u2014:
\na Chinese vase sits wide-open in front of me
\nbehind the glass at our museum\u2019s exhibitioning:
\nbeneath the fixed lights
\nand comfortable air conditioning
\nthe porcelain thing throws a triplet
\nring of concentric shadows:
\n 
\nYou chide me, saying
\n\u201cYou aren\u2019t really seeing the object
\nbut only admiring its effects.\u201d
\n 
\nI say that\u2019s<\/i> the poem, you idiot.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRichard Weaver<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nARCHIMEDES (DIED 212 BCE)
\n 
\nThe circles overlap in interesting ways,
\nrevealing what they prove . . . You and I,
\nlegionary, are destined to die. Not together.
\nSeparately. And soon. Who first I can only
\nspeculate. By the look in your eyes I see
\nyou\u2019ve made a choice. So be it. My death
\nwill be yours then. What matters most is
\nmy theorem. The one before you. Drawn in
\nsand. Allow it to survive and you might as well.
\n\u201cKill me if you must, but don\u2019t disturb my circles.
\nDon\u2019t disturb my equations.\u201d<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDamaris West<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLITANY
\n 
\nI should like to walk
\none more time
\ndown the orchard path
\non an autumn day
\nof wood smoke
\nwith a robin singing somewhere
\nand yellow leaves swinging
\non the tall old apple trees,
\nreciting to myself the names:
\nLaxton\u2019s Superb,
\nWorcester Pearmain,
\nNorfolk Royal Russet,
\nGreensleeves,
\nDiscovery.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGail White<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA WOMAN OF 77
\n  
\nAlso known as a crone,
\na bag, a withering witch.
\nBut old enough now to walk through Venice
\nwithout being pinched by Italian men.
\n  
\nHer skin is unironed taffeta,
\nher veins a railway map of Europe.
\nShe\u2019s a sack of animated bones,
\na brain that glitters while slowly fading.
\n  
\nOld enough now to walk through town
\nwith only the purse-snatchers to fear.
\nThe rapist waits for a younger victim,
\nthe gigolo fancies the middle-aged.
\n 
\nShe pauses to offer an apple to a child \u2013
\nwho, having read Snow White, is appalled.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKelly Wilson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\nTHE EFFORT
\n 
\n\u201can act like this is prepared within the silence of the heart\u201d
\n\tAlbert Camus
\n 
\nhe knew at ten
\na small soft boy
\nstanding alone
\nin his grandparents\u2019 barn
\nteetering on a bale of hay
\nrope strung over rafters
\nand around his neck
\n 
\nmaking a half step
\ninto thin baling twine
\nfeeling it tighten
\nleaning out into    what if
\n 
\nand then as quickly
\nstepping down
\ntossing the evidence
\nthrough a shaft of sunlight
\ninto a dusty corner
\n 
\nhe never told anyone
\nabout that day
\nbecause it was not
\na matter of logic
\nmore a felt sense
\nof attraction
\n 
\nthe telling
\nwould have required a reason
\nbut explanations
\ncan\u2019t resist
\nthe dark gravity of ceasing
\n 
\nsince that day
\nthere is a room
\nwhere he has counted
\nuncountable times
\nthe cost and effort
\nstaying requires
\n 
\nthat thin bit of rope
\nso long ago
\nlikely not strong enough
\nto have carried his weight
\nbut enough to crack the door
\nto that room of blessed black<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTREAD MARKS
\n 
\nSome days truck tires of a semi,
\none then another then all of them,
\nfull throttle weight flattens
\nmy back to black and blue
\nface unfamiliar after skin torn,
\neyes red and swollen, nose bleeding.
\n 
\nSome days a Radio Flyer wagon,
\nrust creeping into the bed,
\ntires small but firm,
\nable to press slight marks
\nonto my back, bruises light,
\nface barely scratched,
\nbreasts and hips tender
\nfrom the pressure.
\n 
\nSome days a toy car
\nruns over my hand
\nthen a laugh and Grandma<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael T. Young<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHAT LEADS US
\n 
\nHeavy boots crunch the fresh snow
\ntracking a tune like icy scarves through pines,
\na song you might not know once lead you
\ninto childhood\u2019s packed white dunes.
\n 
\nIn the kitchen, there\u2019s a song in the steam
\nrising off hot tea and cocoa. It threads the rooms
\nlike a blanket of dreams you might not know
\nonce yanked you from sleep into the day.
\n 
\nEven a favorite shirt might softly crease,
\nor a floorboard in a bedroom might creak
\nmaking a melody you dance to, a song you follow
\nalthough not in any language you speak.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRonald Zack<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCEREUS BUSINESS: A HAIBUN
\n 
\nThe cool air of the desert night tastes cleaner, sweeter. I am sitting on a rock surrounded by near silence and covered in darkness. The moon is dressed in clouds and winks from time to time. Alone with my thoughts cascading gently over my body with the occasional soft breeze, I am far from the oppressive daytime heat, far from the unrelenting daytime sun, and I am far from the suffering of those who inhabit my daytime medical world, those who struggle, survive, slowly die \u2013 they wage their battles with the knowledge they will eventually surrender.
\n 
\nIn the nighttime desert I occasionally hear indecipherable sounds \u2013 a blend of rustling sand, gentle brush, soft whistles and hoots. I can hear wings flap as curiosity tempts all creatures to take risks. Far distant sounds of traffic rise and fall as life and death continue through the night.
\n 
\nMoon blooming flower
\nBursting from the cactus
\nEnjoy your short life.
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n  \/<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\nPoets and Artists Bios:<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAnne Anthony<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s poetry has been published in Longleaf Review, West Trestle, Glass Mountain, Poetry South<\/i>, and other literary journals. Her poem, She Wants<\/i>, published by Blue Heron Review<\/i> was nominated for a Pushcart Award in 2018; she was selected as the Gold Writer by ArtAscent<\/i> for her poem, High Horse<\/i>. Her microfiction, It\u2019s a Mother Thing<\/i>, was nominated by Cleaver Magazine for the Best Microfiction 2024 anthology. Read more of Anne\u2019s writing: linktr.ee\/anchalastudio\/<\/a><\/a>
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\nCatherine Arra<\/a><\/strong> is the author of four full-length poetry collections and four chapbooks. Her newest work is Solitude, Tarot & the Corona Blues<\/i> (Kelsay Books, 2022). Arra is a native of the Hudson Valley in upstate New York, where she lives with wildlife and changing seasons until winter when she migrates to the Space Coast of Florida. Arra teaches part-time and facilitates local writing groups. Find her at www.catheriinearra.com\/<\/a><\/a>
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\nSharon Berg<\/a><\/strong> is published in Canada, USA, Mexico, England, Wales, The Netherlands, Germany, India, Singapore, and Australia. Poetry books include: To A Young Horse (Borealis 1979), The Body Labyrinth (Coach House 1984), and Stars in the Junkyard (Cyberwit 2020) which was an International Book Award Finalist. Her fiction is published by Porcupine\u2019s Quill (2019). Her nonfiction (2019) won a 2020 IPPY Award for regional nonfiction. She runs Oceanview Writers Retreat in Newfoundland.<\/a>
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\nCarole Bernstein<\/a><\/strong> is the author of poetry collections Buried Alive: A To-Do List<\/i> and Familiar<\/i> (both Hanging Loose Press) and And Stepped Away From the Circle<\/i> (Sow\u2019s Ear Press). Her poems have appeared in Antioch Review, Apiary, Bridges, Chelsea, Hanging Loose, Paterson Literary Review, Poetica, Poetry, Shenandoah<\/i>, and Yale Review<\/i>, and in anthologies such as American Poetry: The Next Generation<\/i>. Work is forthcoming in : Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania<\/i> (Penn State University Press).<\/a>
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\nRose Mary Boehm<\/a><\/strong> is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a \u2018Pushcart\u2019 and once for \u2018Best of Net\u2019. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has just been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). rose-mary-boehm-poet.com\/<\/a><\/a>
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\nAnnika Bratton<\/a><\/strong> is a poet living on the southern Oregon coast. She likes big feelings, eating dinner with friends, and bodies of water.<\/a>
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\nJeff Burt<\/a><\/strong> lives in Santa Cruz County, California. He has contributed work previously to Rat’s Ass Review, Williwaw Journal, Willows Wept Review, and Heartwood. He has chapbooks available from Red Bird Chapbooks, A Filament Drawn so Thin, and Red Wolf Editions, Little Popple River and Other Poems.<\/a>
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\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/a><\/strong> lives and writes in the Arkansas Ozarks. She is the 2020 winner of the Phillip H. McMath Post-Publication Award for The Mercy of Traffic<\/i>. (Unlikely Books, 2020); Doubleback Books reprinted her, Discount Fireworks<\/i> (Jacaranda Press, 2008,) as a free download and in 2019 Belle Point Press published a new edition of Reading Berryman to the Dog<\/i> (Jacaranda Press, 2000). Her website is www.wendytaylorcarlisle.com<\/a><\/a>
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\nKate Carsella<\/a><\/strong> is a storyteller and poet. Her writing has appeared in manywor(l)ds, Reverie Magazine, (the) Squawk Back, Catch, Cellar Door<\/i>, and elsewhere. She was a finalist in the Driftwood Press<\/i> Adrift Chapbook Contest (2022) and the Glimmer Train<\/i> Fiction Open (2016). You are welcome to the bardic bullion<\/i> poetry project at katecarsella.com\/<\/a>.<\/a>
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\nJackie Chou<\/a><\/strong> writes free verses, rhyming poems, and Japanese short form poetry, some of which saw the light of day in journals like Alien Buddha Zine, Spillwords<\/i>, and Fevers of the Mind Press<\/i>. She is also a Jeopardy fan.<\/a>
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\nJoe Citro<\/a><\/strong> writes and snaps pictures at his 18th century home in Windsor, Birthplace of Vermont. He has published twenty books.<\/a>
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\nBrooke Clark<\/a><\/strong> is the author of the poetry collection Urbanities and the editor of the epigrams website The Asses of Parnassus. Twitter: @thatbrookeclark<\/a><\/a>
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\nEleanor Colligan<\/a><\/strong> is a 22-year-old poet. More of Asa can be found at https:\/\/theestateofasaisaac.hotglue.me\/<\/a>.<\/a>
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\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong> repairs homes and writes poems in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog<\/i> and Random Saints<\/i>.<\/a>
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\nAndrea Damic<\/a><\/strong>, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina, resides in Sydney, Australia. She\u2019s an amateur photographer and author of poetry and prose. She’s a big fan of abstract and experimental photography. Her art can be found in Fusion Art and Light, Space & Time Online Art Exhibitions. Andrea is especially proud of having her photographs published on the covers of Rat’s Ass Review, Door Is A Jar Magazine and Molecule: A Tiny Lit Mag. Her website: https:\/\/damicaandrea.wordpress.com<\/a><\/a>.
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\nGinger Dehlinger<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s poetry has appeared in over two dozen anthologies and journals. She was awarded Best Nature Essay in the Nature of Words writing competition and her short story \u201cFrancine” was first runner-up in the 2022 Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest. Ginger has also published two novels (Brute Heart, Never Done<\/i>) and a middle-grade children\u2019s book (The Goose Girl\u2019s New Ribbon<\/i>). You can find her in Bend, Oregon or gdehlinger.blogspot.com\/<\/a><\/a>.
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\nClive Donovan<\/a><\/strong> is the author of two poetry collections, The Taste of Glass<\/i> [Cinnamon Press 2021] and Wound Up With Love<\/i> [Lapwing 2022] and is published in a wide variety of magazines including Acumen, Agenda, Crannog, Popshot, Prole, Rats Ass Review<\/i> and Stand<\/i>. He lives in Totnes, Devon, UK. He was a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee for 2022\u2019s best individual poems.<\/a>
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\n Kathy Duby<\/a><\/strong> is 79 years old and has been writing poetry for 65 years. This is her first publication. She writes for herself because stuff keeps bubbling up and spilling over and a poem is often the only suitable container. Her work appears on her Facebook page and nowhere else. She had the astounding opportunity to read her erotica, onstage, to a cheering audience for Red Light Lit.<\/a>
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\nAlexis Rhone Fancher<\/a><\/strong> is published in Best American Poetry, Rattle, Hobart, Verse Daily, Plume, Tinderbox, Cleaver, Diode, The American Journal of Poetry, Spillway, Nashville Review, PoetryEast, Gargoyle, and elsewhere. She\u2019s authored ten poetry collections, most recently, TRIGGERED, 2023 (MacQueen\u2019s Publishing); BRAZEN, 2023 (NYQ Books); and DUETS, (2022) an illustrated, ekphrastic chapbook collaboration with poet Cynthia Atkins, published by Harbor Editions. Alexis\u2019s photographs are featured worldwide including the covers of The Pedestal Magazine, Witness, Heyday, and The Mas Tequila Review. A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, you can find her at: alexisrhonefancher.com<\/a><\/a>.
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\nArvilla Fee<\/a><\/strong> teaches English Composition for Clark State College and is the poetry editor for the San Antonio Review<\/i>. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, and her poetry books, The Human Side<\/i> and This is Life<\/i>, are available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other.<\/a>
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\nJane H Fitzgerald<\/a><\/strong> is the author of four books of poetry including, Notes From the Undaunted<\/i>. Her poems have appeared in: Your Daily Poem, Isele Quarterly, Little Old Lady Comedy, Green Ink Poetry, and more. Jane is a former history teacher and developer of curricula. She holds a MA degree from Columbia University in New York City. Jane lives in the sunny, diverse state of Florida.<\/a>
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\nWendy Freborg<\/a><\/strong> is a retired social worker whose first nationally published poem appeared in the teen magazine Ingenue<\/i> in 1964. More recently, her work has been featured in Blue Unicorn, Boats Against the Current, Rat\u2019s Ass Review<\/I>, and WestWard Quarterly<\/i>. The pleasures in her life are her family, crossword puzzles, learning new things, and remembering old times.<\/a>
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\nFrank Freeman<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s poetry has most recently been published in LitBop, MORIA, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, San Pedro River Review, Sequoia Speaks, Shot Glass Journal<\/i>, and is forthcoming in Main Street Rag, The MacGuffin<\/i>, and Triggerfish Critical Review<\/i>. He is an NBCC member and Pushcart nominee. Grew up mostly in Texas, married a Maine woman who wanted Maine back. Writes in the mornings to stay sane, keeps books of family business in afternoons to stay alive.<\/a>
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\nMeg Freer<\/a><\/strong> grew up in Montana and lives in Ontario, Canada where she writes and teaches piano. Her award-winning work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, and she has published two poetry chapbooks. She is a member of the Ontario Poetry Society and the League of Canadian Poets and holds a Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing with Distinction from Toronto\u2019s Humber School of Writers.<\/a>
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\nMac Gay<\/a><\/strong>‘s 7th. collection of poems Ghost Hunt was released by Eyewear Publishing this past June. His poems have been featured in numerous magazines including Atlanta Review, The American Journal of Poetry, and Main Street Rag. He teaches at Perimeter College of Georgia State University and lives with his wife Jana in Covington, GA.<\/a>
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\nMarissa Glover<\/a><\/strong> lives in Florida, where she\u2019s busy dodging storms and swatting bugs. Recent work can be found in One Art, Eunoia Review, Minyan Magazine<\/i>, and Literary Mama<\/i>. Marissa\u2019s debut poetry collection, Let Go of the Hands You Hold<\/i>, was released by Mercer University Press in 2021. Box Office Gospel<\/i> was published by Mercer in April 2023. You can follow Marissa on Twitter at _MarissaGlover_<\/a> and order her books from Amazon.<\/a>
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\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong> is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, \u201dBetween Two Fires\u201d, \u201cCovert\u201d and \u201cMemory Outside The Head\u201d are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Isotrope Literary Journal, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.<\/a>
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\nVenya Gushchin<\/a><\/strong> is a PhD Candidate at Columbia University, writing a dissertation on the late styles of Russian Modernist poets. His translations of Vladimir Mayakovsky and Elizaveta Mnatasakanova have received the Columbia University Slavic Department Pushkin Prize. Blockade Swallow, selected poems by Olga Berggolts translated by Gushchin, appeared from Smokestack Books in 2022. Most recently, his translation of Yevsey Tseytlin\u2019s Rereading Silence was published by Bagriy & Company. His writing has appeared in Full Stop, Jacket2, Cardinal Points, and elsewhere.<\/a>
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\nLois Marie Harrod<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s most recent book Spat was published in June 2021. Her collection Woman won the 2020 Blue Lyra Prize. Nightmares of the Minor Poet appeared in June 2016 (Five Oaks); her chapbook And She Took the Heart, in January 2016; Fragments from the Biography of Nemesis and How Marlene Mae Longs for Truth (Dancing Girl Press) appeared in 2013. A Dodge poet and lifelong teacher, she has been published in literary journals and online ezines from American Poetry Review to Zone 3. Online link: www.loismarieharrod.org<\/a>
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\nDeborah Harvey<\/a><\/strong> lives in Bristol, UK. She has an MA in Creative Writing and is co-director of The Leaping Word, which provides creative and counselling support for writers exploring the personal in their work. Her sixth poetry collection, Love the Albatross, will be published by Indigo Dreams in 2024.<\/a>
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\nErin Hay<\/a><\/strong> is an eager morning writer, a reluctant worker by day. Prioritizes love, art and nature, over \u201cthe man\u201d. Calls Santa Cruz home, and prefers tropical sojourns. She is published in the Rat’s Ass Review, Winter 21, Winter 23.<\/a>
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\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong> has been published in the Rat\u2019s Ass Review previously. He is Series Editor for Sampson Low\u2019s \u2018Potcake Chapbooks \u2013 Form in Formless Times\u2019, and blogs at formalverse.com<\/a> from his hometown of Governor’s Harbour in the Bahamas. <\/a>
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\nDavid Henson<\/a><\/strong> and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and two Best Small Fictions and has appeared in numerous journals including Rat\u2019s Ass Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Front Porch Review, The Lake, South Florida Poetry Review, Moonpark Review, and Gone Lawn. His website is http:\/\/writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.<\/a>
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\nMary Beth Hines<\/a><\/strong> writes poetry, short fiction, and non-fiction from her home in Massachusetts. In addition to previous appearances in Rat\u2019s Ass Review, her work appears or will soon appear in Valparaiso, SWWIM, Lily Poetry Review, and Nixes Mate Review. Kelsay Books published her debut poetry collection, Winter at a Summer House<\/i> in 2021. Connect with her at www.marybethhines.com.<\/a><\/strong><\/a>
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\nAngi Holden<\/a><\/strong> is a retired teacher of creative writing. Environmental and family landscapes are key to her work, and her doctorate explored the impact of memory and family history on her writing practice. Her poetry and fiction have been published in a range of online and print anthologies for both children and adults. Her debut pamphlet Spools of Thread<\/i> won the inaugural Mother’s Milk Pamphlet Prize.<\/a>
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\nFD Jackson<\/a><\/strong> lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in FERAL, Cosmic Daffodil, Wild Roof Journal, The Metaworker, San Antonio Review<\/i> and others.<\/a>
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\nNate Jacob<\/a><\/strong> is a stay-at-home father of six children, which means he writes almost exclusively in school pickup lines and in between carpool stops. He loves tacos and hamburgers equally, but never writes about them, because his children demand that they remain the center of his universe. They are. Nate has seen his work published at verse-vitual.com, previously at Rat’sAssReview.net, and forthcoming in Rattle Magazine.<\/a>
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\nBrian Jerrold Koester<\/a><\/strong> is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net Anthology nominee. His poetry collection is titled What Keeps Me Awake (Silver Bow Publishing) and his chapbook is called Bossa Nova (River Glass Books). His work has appeared most recently in Poetry Pacific, Poetic Sun, SurVision, Versification Zine, Triggerfish Critical Review, and Revolver. Koester is an aficionado of single malt whiskey and a proud Cub Scout dropout.<\/a>
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\nLinda Laderman<\/a><\/strong> is a Michigan poet. Her poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, Gyroscope, SWWIM, ONE ART, Thimble Literary Magazine, Rust &Moth, Minyan Magazine, Third Wednesday, and Mom Egg Review. She is the 2023 recipient of Harbor Review\u2019s Jewish Women\u2019s Prize, and was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her mini-chapbook, What I Didn\u2019t Know I Didn\u2019t Know, can be found online at https:\/\/www.harbor-review.com\/what-i-didnt-know-i-didnt-know<\/a>. Find her at lindaladerman.com\/” <\/a>
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\nMichael Lauchlan<\/a><\/strong> has contributed to many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore<\/i>, and Lake Effect.<\/i> His most recent collection is Trumbull Ave.<\/i>, from WSU Press.<\/a>
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\nSarah Leavesley<\/a><\/strong> is a prize-winning poet, fiction writer, journalist and photographer, whose visual art has featured in a wide range of publications. As well as designing covers for V. Press poetry and flash fiction books, she was The High Window<\/i> Resident Artist 2019. Her website can be found at: sarah-james.co.uk.<\/a><\/a>
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\nLynette Ledoux<\/a><\/strong> loves playing with words, cooking in her kitchen that deserves to be called a Kitchen, and hanging with her many housemates, mostly mammals. She lives in New Orleans.<\/a>
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\nRichard LeDeu<\/a><\/strong> (he\/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print. He is the author of ten books of poetry. His latest book, \u201cSometimes, It Isn’t Much,\u201d was released from Alien Buddha Press in February 2024.<\/a>
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\nFay L. Loomis<\/a><\/strong> was a nemophilist (haunter of the woods) until her hikes in upstate New York were abruptly ended by a stroke. A member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers and Rats Ass Review Workshop, her writing is published in a variety of venues, including five poetry anthologies.<\/a>
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\nAda Lowenthal<\/a><\/strong> has written poetry for many years while working as an architect and college professor. She has a B.A. in art history and an M.Arch so, unsurprisingly, many of her poems are about art and architecture.<\/a>
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\nBob Lucky<\/a><\/strong> lives in Portugal. He is the author of Ethiopian Time<\/i> (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014), Conversation Starters in a Language No One Speaks<\/i> (SurVision Books, 2018), and My Thology: Not Always True But Always Truth<\/i>(Cyberwit, 2019).<\/a>
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\nAustralian writer, editor and musician Mandy Macdonald<\/a><\/strong> lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, trying not to be too spooked by the 21st century. Her poems appear in print and online, in anthologies such as Vo(i)ces<\/i> (Victorina Press, 2023) and Two Ravens<\/i> (Grey Hen Press, forthcoming) and in many magazines, most recently Causeway\/Cabhsair, Firth<\/i>, and Black Nore Review<\/i>. Her 2020 pamphlet The temperature of blue<\/i> is available at http:\/\/bluesalt.co.uk\/the-temperature-of-blue\/index.aspx).<\/a><\/a>
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\nVictoria Melekian<\/a><\/strong> lives in Carlsbad, California. Her fiction and poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. For more, visit her website: victoriamelekian.com<\/a>.<\/a>
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\nMike Mesterton-Gibbons<\/a><\/strong> is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University who has now returned to live in his native England. His acrostic sonnets have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, MONO, the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly.<\/a>
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\nMark J. Mitchell<\/a><\/strong> Ottleyhas been a working poet for 50 years. He\u2019s the author of five full-length collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski\u2019s Porch Publishing. A novel, A Book of Lost Songs<\/u> is due out in 2025. He\u2019s fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Dante, and his wife, activist Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco. facebook.com\/MarkJMitchellwriter\/<\/a> Twitter: @Mark J Mitchell.Writer<\/a> A primitive web site now exists: www.mark-j-mitchell.square.site<\/a><\/a>
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\nMish (Eileen) Murphy<\/a><\/strong> is Assistant Poetry Editor for Cultural Daily<\/i> She teaches English online at Polk State College, Lakeland, Florida. A Pushcart nominee, she has published two poetry collections\u2014Fortune Written on Wet Grass <\/i>(2019) and Sex & Ketchup<\/i> (2021)\u2014and a poetry chapbook, Evil Me<\/i> (2020). Mish graduated from New College, Sarasota, and Columbia College of Chicago. She is also an award-winning digital artist, photographer, and book designer.<\/a>
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\nJames B. Nicola<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s latest of eight full-length poetry collections are Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, Turns & Twists<\/i>, and Natural Tendencies<\/i>. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience<\/i> won a Choice<\/i> magazine award. A Yale graduate and returning contributor, he has received a Dana Literary Award, two Willow Review<\/i> awards, Storyteller<\/i>‘s People’s Choice magazine award, one Best of Net, one Rhysling, and eleven Pushcart nominations\u2014for which he feels both stunned and grateful.<\/a>
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\nJeffrey Ogochukwu<\/a><\/strong> is a poet and writer who lives in Nigeria. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous places, including: Fabula Argentea, 2022 Kepressing Anthology Prize, The Kalahari Review, Thirteen Podcast, D\u2019Lit Review, Spillwords<\/i>, and The Red Mud Review<\/i>. You can visit him at jeffreyogochukwu.website3.me<\/a><\/a>.
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\nAbigail Ottley<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s poetry and short fiction have been widely published, most recently in Atrium, The Selkie<\/i> and The Phare<\/i>. A regular contributor to anthologies, including Borders: New Women\u2019s Writing From Cornwall, Morvoren: the poetry of sea-swimming<\/i>, and Unbridled<\/i>, In May this year she was twice Highly Commended in the Frosted Fire Pamphlet Award. In June and October respectively, she won the Wildfire Flash Fiction Competition and was long-listed for the Ink of Ages<\/i> award.<\/a>
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\nSteve Passey<\/a><\/strong> is from Southern Alberta. He is the author of the collections Forty-Five Minutes of Unstoppable Rock<\/i> (Tortoise Books) Alone on the Couch With a Gun in My Mouth<\/i> (Anxiety Press) and (forthcoming in 2024) In Line at Wal-Mart With All the Other Damned<\/i> (Cowboy Jamboree) along with the horror novella Starseed<\/i> (Seventh Terrace) under the name Stephen Guy.<\/a>
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\nRobert Perchan<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s latest books are the comic futuristic novella Tropic of Scorpio<\/i> (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2022) and the short story collection \u201cShocks, Meester?\u201d<\/i> (also from Spuyten Duyvil). Bob continues to eat and drink and write in Busan, South Korea, under the bemused gaze of his translator wife, Mi-kyung Lee.<\/a>
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\nDarrell Petska<\/a><\/strong> is a retired university engineering editor and two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. His poetry appears in Verse-Virtual, 3rd Wednesday Magazine, Front Porch Review, Amethyst Review<\/i>, and widely elsewhere (conservancies.wordpress.com). Father of five and grandfather of seven, he lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife of more than 50 years.<\/a>
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\nMarc Pietrzykowski<\/a><\/strong> lives in and writes in Niagara County, NY, USA, famous for its Falls, its wine, and 1950s-style political corruption. The details of his own biography are pretty dull, nor does he take many photos of himself, or adapt well to familiar situations. He has published many poems, stories, and books. He shares things he finds interesting at www.marcpski.com<\/a>.<\/a>
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\nKenneth Pobo<\/a><\/strong> (he\/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet<\/i> (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City<\/i> (Circling Rivers), Lilac And Sawdust<\/i> (Meadowlark Press) and Gold Bracelet in a Cave: Aunt Stokesia<\/i> (Ethel Press). His work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Asheville Literary Review, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.<\/a>
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\nBethany W Pope<\/a><\/strong> has won many literary awards and published several novels and collections of poetry. Nicholas Lezard, writing for The Guardian, described Bethany\u2019s latest book as ‘poetry as salvation’…..’This harrowing collection drawn from a youth spent in an orphanage delights in language as a place of private escape.’ Bethany currently lives and works in China.<\/a>
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\nAfter years of impersonating a Systems Engineer,Ken Poyner<\/a><\/strong> has retired to watch his wife continue to break national and world raw powerlifting records. They travel extensively between sites of powerlifting or literary interest. Ken\u2019s four current poetry, one mixed forms collection, and four short fiction collections are available from Amazon and just about everywhere else. www.kpoyner.com. <\/a>
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\nRebecca M. Ross<\/a><\/strong> is a displaced Brooklynite living and teaching in New York\u2019s Hudson Valley, where she regularly experiences things like trees, mountains, and easy parking. Rebecca\u2019s poetry was recently published in the Dissent Anthology and Medical Literary Messenger. She also has work in Writing in a Woman\u2019s Voice, The Voices Project, and others, with two pieces forthcoming in M58. Rebecca has a BFA in creative writing and an MA in English from Brooklyn College.<\/a>
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\nAlissa Sammarco<\/a><\/strong>, writer and attorney, lived in the West and South before coming home to the Ohio River Valley. Her work has appeared various online and print journals including Sheila-Na-Gig, Black Moon, Change Seven, Quiet Diamonds, Main Street Rag, Stone Canoe, VIA:Voices in Italian Americana, Ohio Bards and elsewhere.<\/a>
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\nMark Scheel<\/a><\/strong> has served overseas with the American Red Cross in Southeast Asia and Europe, taught at Emporia State University, was a public library information specialist and helped edit Kansas City Voices<\/i> magazine. He co-authored the book Of Youth and the River<\/i> and his collection of stories and poems, A Backward View<\/i>, was awarded the 1998 J. Donald Coffin Memorial Book Award from the Kansas Authors Club. He is represented by the Metamorphosis Literary Agency.<\/a>
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\nPenelope Scambly Schott<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s most recent book is WAVING FLY SWATTERS AT ANGELS. She is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry.<\/a>
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\nClaire Scott<\/a><\/strong> is an award winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called<\/i> and Until I Couldn\u2019t<\/i>. She is the co-author of <\/i>Unfolding in Light: A Sisters\u2019 Journey in Photography and Poetry<\/i>.<\/a>
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\nNolo Segundo<\/a><\/strong>, pen name of L.j. Carber, 77, became a late blooming published poet in his 8th decade in nearly 190 online\/in print literary journals\/anthologies in 14 countries. A retired teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, Cambodia] he has been nominated for the Pushcart and thrice for Best of the Net. A trade publisher has released 3 collections in paperback on Amazon: The Enormity of Existence [2020]; Of Ether and Earth [2021]; and Soul Songs [2022]. The titles reflect the awareness he gained over 50 years ago when he had an NDE whilst almost drowning in a Vermont river: That he has–IS– a consciousness that predates birth and survives death, what poets since Plato have called the soul.<\/a>
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\nJunaid Shah Shabir<\/a><\/strong>, is a PhD literature scholar at the University of Texas at Dallas, USA. He is a fiction writer as well and enjoys writing traditional ghazals<\/i> in English. So far, his works have appeared in Life Writing<\/i> Taylor & Francis Online, Asiatic: IIUM Journal of English Language and Literature, Jaggery: A DesiLit Arts and Literature Journal, CLRI, Criterion, IJOES, Red Fern Review, etc.<\/i><\/a>
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\nRobin Shepard<\/a><\/strong> is living the high life in the lowlands of central California. His work has recently appeared in MacQueen’s Quinterly, Bombfire, Beatnik Cowboy, Compass Rose Literary Journal, Naugatuck River Review, Ghost City Review, and Quibble.<\/a>
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\nHeidi Slettedahl<\/a><\/strong> is a poet who would like to live up to her potential now that she is over 50. In real life she is an academic who goes by a slightly different name. She has been published in a variety of small literary journals. Her collection of poetry, Mo(u)rning Rituals, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. <\/a>
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\nLaurie Smith<\/a><\/strong> earned her M.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Windsor. (Ontario, Canada) Former co-publisher\/editor of Cranberry Tree Press, her own work has appeared in many publications across Canada and in the U.S. Collections include menagerie<\/i> (LAWLLP, 2004) The Truth about Roller Skating<\/i> (CTP, 2011); smack in the middle of spotlit obvious<\/i> (Urban Farmhouse Press, 2016); said the cannibal<\/i> (UFP, 2017) and Suck & Spit<\/i> (Black Moss Press, April 2020).<\/a>
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\nMelissa Sorgi<\/a><\/strong> has only recently begun to submit poetry for submission. She lives in central Pennsylvania and works as a library cataloger for the National Sexual Violence Resource center where she has been exposed to great ugliness since 2007. But she continues to believe in the power and beauty of words.<\/a>
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\nDavid Stephenson<\/a><\/strong> is a retired engineer from Detroit. His poems have most recently appeared in Tar River Poetry, Shot Glass Journal, The Lyric<\/i>, and The Orchards Poetry Journal<\/i>. His second collection, Wall of Sound<\/i>, was published by Kelsay Books in 2022. He is also the editor of Pulsebeat Poetry Journal<\/i>.<\/a>
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\nDylan Stover<\/a><\/strong> has worked variously as a landscaper, donut maker, field botanist, factory assembler, museum collection manager, and cheesemonger. Poetry, he is assured, isn\u2019t a real job, just a way of appeasing the language deities. He currently resides in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, where he works for money. He doesn\u2019t own any pets.<\/a>
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\nRichard Weaver<\/a><\/strong> volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, and is once again the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. He remains the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press), and provided the libretto for the symphony, Of Sea and Stars, performed 4 times to date. He was one of the founders of The Black Warrior Review and its PE for the first 3 years. His 200th prose poem was recently accepted.<\/a>
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\nDamaris West<\/a><\/strong>‘s poetry has appeared widely in publications such as Writers’ Magazine, Snakeskin, Shot Glass, Eye Flash, inScribe, The Lake, Dreich, Blue Unicorn, Last Stanza Poetry Journal<\/i> and Spank the Carp<\/i> (featured poet). She was commended in Poetry Kit<\/i>‘s 9th international poetry competition 2022, and highly commended in the Scottish Association of Writers summer competition 2023. Originally from England, she lived in Italy before moving close to the sea in Scotland. Visit her at https:\/\/damariswest.site123.me<\/a><\/a>
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\nGail White<\/a><\/strong>, a contributing editor to Light Poetry Magazine, is currently urging everyone to buy her new chapbook, Paper Cuts<\/i>, because it’s funny. This & her previous books can be found on Amazon. In the intervals of trying to get her poetry into print, she feeds stray cats in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana.<\/a>
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\nKelly Wilson<\/a><\/strong> retired from teaching psychology in 2019 but continues itinerant lecturing. He\u2019s always woven poetry into his work. Although he has published eleven books in psychology, he hasn\u2019t published outside psychology. After working with a serious weekly writers\u2019 co-op, he hopes to join the literary community by publishing his own poems. He lives in the Sonoran Desert and divides his time between reading, writing poetry, and slow running trails in the Santa Catalina Mountains.<\/a>
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\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong> lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in As it Ought to Be, Bombfire, Loch Raven Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, Spank the Carp, The New Verse News, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, One Art, Young Raven Literary Review<\/i>, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not<\/i>, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.<\/a>
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\nMichael T. Young<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s third full-length collection, The Infinite Doctrine of Water<\/i> was longlisted for the Julie Suk Award. He received a Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts and the Jean Pedrick Chapbook Award. His poetry has been featured on Verse Daily<\/i> and <\/i>The Writer\u2019s Almanac<\/i>. It has also appeared in numerous journals including Pinyon, Talking River Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review<\/i> and Vox Populi<\/i>.<\/a>
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\nRonald Zack<\/a><\/strong> is an attorney, nurse practitioner and poet in Tucson, Arizona. He was born and raised in Detroit, and later lived in New Mexico and California. He is currently studying poetry in the MFA in Creative Writing program at the Mississippi University for Women.
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\nEdited by Roderick Bates
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\nRAT\u2019S ASS REVIEW SPRING-SUMMER ISSUE 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<\/div>\n

 
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        (Cover Art Mill Town Mondrian by Joe Citro)             Anne Anthony     THE UNLOVING   Night descends. He lay naked and near, skintight inside the fragrance of cedar and steam inside his sleeping bag worn threadbare since days as a scout, as a boy, years […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":62,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-4315","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/4315","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4315"}],"version-history":[{"count":29,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/4315\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4610,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/4315\/revisions\/4610"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4315"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}