{"id":4369,"date":"2024-10-20T14:56:55","date_gmt":"2024-10-20T18:56:55","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4369"},"modified":"2026-02-10T09:19:32","modified_gmt":"2026-02-10T14:19:32","slug":"fall-winter-2024-issue","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4369","title":{"rendered":"Fall-Winter 2024 Issue"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\n <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>Cover Art “Abstract 50” by Binad Dawadi<\/a><\/strong>
\n  <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nAlan Abrams<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\nIF I FORGET THEE
\n\u201cRase it, rase it, even to the foundation thereof\u2026
\n\u2026Happy is the one who seizes your infants
\n and dashes them against the rocks.\u201d<\/i>
\n~Psalm 137
\n 
\nwe dropped pennies in the slot
\nthe can read trees for Israel
\nthey made the desert bloom
\nsent us photos from the kibbutz
\nof lean bronze legs and sinewed arms
\nwhere they raised their children jointly
\ngrew oranges that rivaled the sun
\n 
\nthe nation grew in wealth and power
\nwith gleaming cities by the sea
\nassailed from all sides
\nthey defeated hosts of Goliaths but
\ntheir hearts hardened like the Pharaoh\u2019s
\n 
\nwhat happened to that noble project
\nthat was always under siege
\ntheir milk and honey only for the chosen ones
\n 
\nnow my right hand trembles
\nmy tongue is frozen in my mouth
\nas their neighbor\u2019s little ones
\nare crushed beneath the stones<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Ayres<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nJASMINE
\n 
\nMama heard me
\nsay, He has a cute butt.<\/i>
\nWashed out my mouth.
\n 
\nAnna mocks,
\nGeneral Villa will never
\nlook at you, Manuela.<\/i>
\n 
\nThe men smoke
\non the terrace. Anna
\nand I swing in the garden.
\n 
\nGeneral Villa walks
\ntowards us, jasmine
\nblooming, my heart pounding.
\n 
\nHe says, Girl, your eyes
\nare like caramel.<\/i>
\nMeeting him,
\nI taste fire in his mouth.
\n 
\n 
\nSPIKENARD
\n 
\nTaped to my wall\u2014
\nthe Virgin of Guadalupe, Pancho Villa,
\nnews about Pancho Villa.
\n 
\nMama tears down
\nPancho Villa. I cut and
\ntape up another:
\nPancho on his horse,
\nCentaur of the North.
\n 
\nMama says, Give yourself
\nto lust, you smell like
\npennyroyal. Save yourself
\nfor desire, you smell
\nlike orange blossoms.<\/i>
\n 
\nToo late. I\u2019ve given
\nmyself to Pancho.
\nThree nights we spent
\ntogether in the
\ngarden guesthouse.
\nCaramel eyes,
\nChula, Sweet pigeon,<\/i>
\nhe sang.
\n 
\nTo protect my virginity, Mama
\nsprinkles spikenard holy water
\non my bed, my panties, just
\nas the priest instructed.
\n 
\n 
\nRED ROSE
\n 
\nJust as I imagined.
\nMarried, but not living
\nwith the bickering Betita
\nand Chole
\nat Hacienda Canutillo.
\n 
\nPancho escapes
\nto Parral every Saturday.
\nWe stay in the penthouse
\nat Hotel Hidalgo,
\nyour hotel<\/i>, he says. My
\nFrench antiques, silk
\nsheets, chandeliers, red
\nroses.
\n 
\nMy horse in the stable.
\nPancho hollers and whistles
\nwhen I compete
\nwith the other charras
\nwearing ruffled red
\ndresses, roping and racing.
\n 
\nHe sings corridos of his battles,
\nshows me how to shoot
\na pistol. Next week he says
\nhe\u2019ll teach me to drive
\na roadster.
\n 
\nProt\u00e9g\u00e9, Pigeon, La Charra,
\nSmile<\/i> he says, as he films me
\ncranking his movie camera.
\n 
\n 
\nRUE
\nAugust 1923
\n 
\nMy darling,
\nthe bitch Betita
\ntook my hotel,
\nmy luxurious
\npalace, my penthouse,
\neveryone knows
\nit was my wedding
\ngift from you,
\nmy security
\n 
\nin old age,
\nwhen 30 years after
\nour wedding, your
\nheart might explode
\nmaking love to me,
\nyou laughed,
\npulling me
\nto bed, \u00f3rale!<\/i>
\n 
\nyour favorite,
\nI keep you young.
\nKept.
\n 
\nWhen I wake
\nto Trini\u2019s crying,
\nI reach for you
\nhalf dreaming.
\nThe sudden slap:
\nno you, only
\n 
\nthis crying baby
\nI hate. I only
\never wanted you.
\n 
\n 
\n OBIT (WIFE #14)
\n 
\nMrs. Pancho Villa died (date unknown). Manuela Casas Morales, mother of Jos\u00e9 Trinidad, met Pancho at a dance, where she swept him off his feet with her tangos, waltzes, and corridos<\/i>. Each week they saw a movie and drank champagne in a bubble bath at Hotel Hidalgo in Parral, which Pancho promised to deed her. He was assassinated the year they married, 1923. He was forty-five, she fifteen. Their son, Jos\u00e9 Trinidad, was born in the spring before Pancho\u2019s death, and would later act as John Wayne\u2019s double in movies filmed in Durango.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJocko Benoit<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMORTAL COIL VS. SPRING
\n 
\nMy cat and I are having a bad day.
\nShe lies on the couch in full melting
\nposition. Her face is an unpublished
\nphilosopher whose life work, I Hiss,
\nTherefore I Am <\/i>is all in her head.
\nAnd I have gone from the lightness
\nof Nothing really matters<\/i> to its massively
\nheavy doppelganger, Nothing really matters<\/i>.
\nA failed Platonist, I stare at shadows
\nand think the cave could use
\nanother splash of black.
\n 
\nBut when I plunk onto the couch,
\nI dislodge her favorite bouncy toy
\ngone M.I.A. for days and she sproings
\nwith the force of a thousand springs
\nafter it, batting it soccer-style
\nacross the floor. She is a ludic
\nepicurean, caroming from attack
\nto attack. I perk up when my wife
\nreturns with a surprise parfait
\nwhich has, apparently, more layers
\nthan I do. Today, my cat and I
\nare hedonists and who cares
\nwhat we are tomorrow?
\n 
\n 
\nA TEACHING MOMENT
\n 
\nThe playground at noon in ninety degrees
\nis a torture zone \u2013 implements of play
\nso close but scorching arms and legs
\nuntil we all gravitate to the spackled
\nshadows beneath the trees with only
\ngrass and dirt to entertain us.
\nBut my son has discovered that his slight
\nkicks send shimmering dust clouds
\nin and out of light and I think this
\ncould be a teaching moment
\nabout the possibilities of beauty
\nin the lowest inorganic things,
\nabout how what we can\u2019t see \u2013
\nin this case, the fickle breeze \u2013 changes
\nthe course of things by the moment.
\n 
\nBut when he kicks dirt at me
\nI instinctively return it in a kick
\nand we circle each other, our shoes
\nand bare legs browned by our pettiness
\nand we can\u2019t stop laughing even when
\nI see the mothers and nannies and
\ngrandmothers staring with
\nbemused concern. How can I explain
\nthat at this moment son has become
\nsensei, this dust become magic
\nsettling over me. There is a little boy
\nhe needed and I have come out
\nfrom under the dead pile of years.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nF. J. Bergmann<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCATCH AS CATCH CAN
\n 
\nTwo boys, four or five years old,
\nstanding about six feet apart,
\nare playing catch on a sunny lawn
\nwith a large black-and-white cat.
\n 
\nThey are tossing the cat carefully
\nback and forth, staggering under
\nits weight, but they catch it
\nevery time. Its heavy body dangles
\nlimp, relaxed and purring.
\n 
\nAny kind of love, no matter how
\nstrange, has got to be better
\nthan no love at all.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Beveridge<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA PASSING THOUGHT
\n 
\nIn the last moments before sleep,
\nhuddled together beneath the quilt, the taste
\nof our mingled sweat against our skin,
\n 
\nI most feel the way your fingers
\non my chest leave prints in the slickness,
\n 
\nthe way your lips on my cheek
\ncause my fingers to clench at your hip,
\n 
\nhow our legs entwined fall together
\nas those from one beast.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrook Bhagat<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n LIZ CHENEY WINS
\n 
\nShe knew the price, knew she would lose
\nher seat. She\u2019s soft in her square glasses
\nand blue gingham button-down, out of date.
\nShe doesn\u2019t pound the podium or look
\nto the heavens. She is small and female,
\nher speech unhurried, standing calm
\nagainst the don.
\n 
\nWhat kind of politician chooses truth
\nover power? What kind of woman
\nchooses death threats from goons?
\nShe knew they would come after her.
\n 
\nWhat she doesn\u2019t know is what she has given me
\nthe next morning, something worth saying
\nin the car on the first day of 11th grade: just see
\nhow light her shoulders are, boy. Just think
\nhow proud her parents must be.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLoukia Borrell<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOPENING NIGHT WITHOUT A BROTHER
\n 
\nWhen your body heaved that final time,
\njust for a thimbleful of air, then silence,
\nI watched our parents collapse on either
\nside of you, crying and gulping in all the
\nair your lungs could no longer hold.
\n 
\nI walked to your kitchen counter, to begin
\na list of mandatory calls. First, the police.
\nThen, the oncologist. I will say, \u201cMy brother
\njust died, and I need a DNR form. I\u2019ll be there
\nsoon. I won\u2019t be able to stay long. Please have
\nit ready for me.\u201d I will give it to the EMTs,
\nso they don\u2019t try to revive you. Then, I will
\ncall the undertaker and he will come in a
\nblack van. We will watch him load you
\nonto a gurney and you will go out the front
\ndoor, lifeless, and we will know it is forever.
\n 
\nI look up from my notes and think I see you at the
\ntable, eating your quiche, the slice you were too
\nsick to finish the night before. You are well again,
\nand lift your water glass to me as a tribute for
\nbeing a good sister, and maybe a half-apology
\nfor leaving me here with the ensuing chaos.
\n 
\nBut, you are elated the whole thing is over.
\nCertainly, there are fun days ahead,
\nwith absolutely no scheduled body scans,
\ninjections, pills, sleepless nights or soiled sheets.
\nCalendars filled with days of buttoning your own shirts,
\nswimming and casting your fishing line at the shore.
\n 
\nTonight, because it is my debut as a
\nbrotherless sister, opening night
\nas a soloist, sleep will not come.
\nYou tell me to pretend my bed is a coffin,
\nand you are lying next to me. We will leave
\nopen the lid, keep on the lights, and you
\nwill assure me that the bruises we see all
\nover my body will eventually heal.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrian Builta<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSEMI-SPLENDID
\n 
\nI\u2019d rather be a Pot-of-Gold porta-potty
\nquietly organizing people\u2019s shit\u2026
\n 
\nI\u2019d rather be a porno-metal song about gay cowboys
\ndisrupting the anti-vax trucker convoy\u2026
\n 
\nI\u2019d rather be corn in a cup with mayo, parmesan, and chili con limon,
\na circle of citizens in a perambulatory pattern\u2026
\n 
\nI\u2019d rather be a spigot pouring days on days,
\nnothing on nothing clinging to nothing\u2026
\n 
\nI\u2019d rather be the next sip, the next stupid statement,
\npotpourri and flatulence\u2026
\n 
\nI\u2019d rather be writing a burp to joy
\nwalking my turtle around the block\u2026
\n 
\nI\u2019d rather be frisking the hours for fun and folly,
\nlush flesh of eleven benevolent elephants galloping\u2026
\n 
\nRather this than to go through life
\nunloved, uninterrupted, with cancer of the tarantella.
\n 
\n 
\nJim Burns<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE MOUSE
\n 
\nI killed a mouse,
\nlet me tell you
\nabout it.
\nVacationing in a tiny
\ncentury-old farmhouse
\nin Louisiana,
\nmy wife\u2019s ancestral home,
\nwe saw the occasional mouse,
\nof small concern
\namong the venomous spiders
\nlurking behind baseboards
\nand staging midnight forays
\ninto the space inhabited
\nby our bare feet.
\n(NOTE TO SELF: Wear slippers
\nwhen up in the dark of night.)
\nUntil, that is,
\na particularly audacious rodent
\nscuttled across the kitchen floor
\nin full view,
\ninterrupting our pre-meal conversation.
\nToo much, we agreed, too ballsy,
\nand bought traps,
\ncarefully avoiding the
\nconventional snap traps
\nguaranteed to transform
\nyour every mouse
\ninto Marie Antoinette
\nfor the sticky ones
\nthat ensnare any prey
\nthat sets foot on them
\nwithout doing harm.
\nThe following morning
\nthere was the trap,
\nthere was a mouse,
\nthere was a problem
\nnot previously considered\u2014
\nwhat to do with the entrapped one?
\nScraping off the cringing
\npiece of gray fur
\ndid not work.
\nHe was firmly stuck,
\nto be left to starve.
\nThe makers of humane mousetraps
\nhadn\u2019t addressed this issue
\nin the packaging
\ncontaining the traps.
\nSo out behind the house
\nwe went, victor and victim,
\nand I spied a brick,
\na formidable weapon
\nwhich should end this all.
\nAs I raised it to strike,
\nhe looked up at me,
\neyes fearful, imploring,
\nunsettlingly beseechingly human,
\nJudean at Auschwitz.
\nI hesitated,
\nthen struck
\nagain and again
\nbefore it was over.
\nI killed a mouse,
\nand I will never forget<\/a>
\nhis eyes.
\n 
\n 
\nJeff Burt<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nODE ON A MUSTANG
\n 
\nShe was anything but a wild horse
\nfleet and independent,
\nthe Mustang in which I supposed,
\nentreated, proposed and inferred.
\nAs I waded through relatives
\nto escape with my bride
\nit battled traffic
\nwith the plucky resilience
\nof an inflated Joe Palooka doll
\nweighted with sand
\nto pop back at the puncher.
\nTires paunchy and bulging,
\nwobbling like an old prize fighter,
\nfenders and doors scarred
\nfrom a life on the ropes,
\nyet it braved pothole and shoulder,
\nas we yelled, whispered, held,
\nand talked, scuttled, cajoled,
\ncuddled, scolded, and kissed.
\nDuffel bag of tools, towels, and
\ntoys, my tatterdemalion,
\nhow I loved my Mustang.
\nThe radiator cooled like chickens
\ncackling in a coop.
\nThe pistons pinged like adolescents
\ncracking gum, rattle-happy,
\ncarburetor clicking
\nlike a telegraph in war,
\nalternator alternating days
\non and off its belt,
\nlike a purr-slurring one-eyed
\nthree-legged tomcat
\nkept for its perfection.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNOODLE WEEK
\n 
\nI\u2019m welcoming \u201cnoodle week\u201d with mafaldine,
\nBlang Blang, haluski, Bucatini. Textured, floppy,
\nslick, ruffled, I\u2019m cooking with gas. So many sauces
\nSo many pastas. Tell me a simple story. I\u2019m past
\ntired of eating trees and roadside grasses,
\ntired of one scallop on my plate with a nouveau<\/i> squirt
\nof wasabi. Give me a steaming, plate of manicotti
\nor cheesy lasagna, even if ricotta will clog my arteries.
\nMy mouth waters for Pad Thai. I anticipate seven days
\nof Udon, of tortellini and a sweet dessert kugel,
\nso easy to swallow, effortless to chew.
\n 
\n 
\nARS POETICA
\n 
\nWhen I read poems I think\u2014whoa\u2014because there the poets are, often with their mothers or fathers, with the eucalyptus and herons and the edges of whichever ocean, and I\u2019m trying vainly to keep up, to remember what the melaleuca blossoms from my Florida childhood smelled like, and I can\u2019t, except it was something nose-wrinkling. In Florida, melaleuca is an invasive species. In Florida, I was an invasive child\u2014no\u2014I was an invaded child. Anyway, the poems I read have someone in them, maybe not \u201cthe\u201d poet but someone, and I see this as the way a poem should go, and that the most delicious of them expose the poet\u2019s guts. Not my guts\u2014thank you\u2014although it\u2019s historical. To draw and quarter\u2014hang, and disembowel, assign impossible pain with the end, eventual death, was first used on the last independent ruler of Wales, and later on Hugh the Dispenser, and Guy Fawkes and others. Political enemies and battle captives, were unpacked for a side-eye or being in the wrong place, or whispering, or killing the King or actual sedition like the Monmouth Rebellion, the same sort of sedition popular now. The I, me, my, mine, are enough torture for me, torment of the sort that comes to us from the Thirteenth Century. I push back. I write about cow ponds and rain, the armadillo and the burr oak. If I\u2019m fair, not everybody has the requisite skillset for exposure, or the desire for extenteration\u2014the lust to release their stomach, liver, lungs, to be excised for bliss. For better or worse, I resist, despite the fact that I am here, in this poem, and allude to a childhood trauma I don\u2019t speak about often, or ever. This is the new me, trying to go clear, struggling to understand, maybe even love, myself and what this new century has unmade of me.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHANDYMAN
\n 
\nHere, love, if this faucet were your body
\nwith a toothpick I\u2019d clean
\nyears of gray toxic crap
\nembedded in the tiny center
\nof the set screw
\nso I can insert the hex wrench
\nallowing me to pull off
\nthe nickel-plated faucet handle <\/p>\n

thus exposing the locknut
\nalgae-slippy outside but rust-frozen within
\nresisting the grip of my pliers
\nuntil it jerks slightly
\nand unscrews counterclockwise
\n 
\nexposing the shiny ball mechanism
\nthat I wiggle cautiously until it gives way
\nwith a small burst of stored water
\nso at last I can nudge out the worn-down
\nlittle bitty black barnacle
\nneoprene washers
\n 
\nwhich I replace
\nthen rebuild in reverse order
\nwrenching firmly but not killer-tight
\nand then with a rag I wipe away smeared goo
\nuntil the porcelain shines and\u2014
\n    Voila!<\/i>
\nNo drip. This I would do
\nfor you.
\n 
\n 
\nEXPOSURE
\n 
\nShe tells me
\nthe young man flashed her
\nWalmart parking lot
\nin the shadow of a Humvee
\npants half down his skinny thighs
\nbare down there like a newborn bunny
\nand he looked so pitiful
\nhis eyes focusing backward into his brain
\nlike he didn\u2019t even see her
\nbut of course the show was for her
\nShe said nothing to him
\nwalked on
\n 
\nWasn\u2019t scary, she says,
\nit was more like surrender
\nand a cry for help
\n 
\nBut now here\u2019s his photo
\nin the faculty list teaching English
\nteaching poetry for fuck\u2019s sake
\nand if she enrolled
\nshe bets he wouldn\u2019t even recognize her
\n 
\nHe\u2019s not a danger, she tells me,
\nexcept to himself so no
\nshe won\u2019t expose him<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLori D’Angelo<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBECOMING WONDER WOMAN
\n 
\nIt wasn\u2019t that I wanted
\nthe bullet-deflecting
\nbracelets, the invisible
\nplane or the Lasso of
\nTruth. No, as a child,
\nI wanted the confidence
\nto strut around in a
\nglorified bathing suit
\nwithout being slut
\nshamed. Now, I
\nstill wish that I
\ncould spin in a
\ncircle transform,
\nshedding my gender-
\nmasking work clothes
\nand my big, thick
\nDiana Price glasses.
\nTrust me, I\u2019ve tried.
\nBut I\u2019m here, still
\nfemale and ordinary
\nwishing for that
\nBang pow boom
\nmiracle moment.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nScott Davidson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHOW LONG A SECOND FEELS
\n 
\nTime is like jazz, is like water, finding cracks
\nbetween lines you\u2019ve only just drawn. It\u2019s not
\nwhat I pictured reading comics as a kid about
\nextra dimensions. The coolest guy at the time
\nsaid grab hold of a hot pan and see how long
\na second feels. There are Wednesdays that will
\nnever end in the middle of weeks that go by
\nlike that. How could eternity, if it\u2019s anything
\non its own, be more than a subset of now?
\nWhen this song comes on, I am all the ages
\nI\u2019ll ever be. Eternity is jazz because how you
\napproach it is what it becomes. People say the
\nbackend of our software\u2019s too busy. How can so
\nmany if\/thens be necessary? Where is the body
\nwithout bones? Where is the simple memorable
\nmessage, Things come and go, I remain?<\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDani De Luca<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFIREBIRD
\n 
\nAfter learning to make fire
\nwe must learn to keep it.
\nThey are not the same.
\nOne takes a spark, the other
\ntending. The same could be said
\nof love.
\n 
\nSteal the stars from broken skies,
\nwhy not? That\u2019s a spark. But pour
\nthose stars in a lover\u2019s shampoo
\nor sift them in red velvet
\nand you\u2019ve tended.
\n 
\nAt the edge of wonder,
\nthe pulse quickens, firebird.
\nHear its music. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHannah Dilday<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nACCIDENTALLY
\n 
\nWhen the clock struck nine you slipped away
\nunder the cloak of darkness, as if by accident.
\n 
\nI could feel the caterpillars growing restless in me,
\nready to hatch into butterflies I had to set free.
\n 
\nLike clockwork, I quietly slipped away from
\nthe others\u2014their eyes, ears, and opinions.
\n 
\nYou waited for me under the stairs and grabbed
\nmy hand as I searched for you, pulling me closer\u2014
\n 
\npulling me into the darkness. You kissed me
\nalmost by accident. I wasn\u2019t that kind of girl, and
\n 
\nyou weren\u2019t that kind of guy, but tonight maybe we were.
\nNow that I\u2019d already crossed that line, it was easy
\n 
\nto take another step. So, we kissed again, again, and again
\nuntil I could no longer see the line in my rearview
\n 
\nI\u2019d so recklessly crossed just a moment ago. I was
\nscared our story would end just as it started, accidentally.
\n 
\nYou said only time will tell, and we haven\u2019t got much time.
\nSo, I followed you farther into the darkness\u2014
\n 
\ndarkness littered with the light of stars. The stars
\nwere far too close for any of this to be real, so close
\n 
\nI could reach up and pluck one from the sky.
\nAs I reached for a star, you reached for me\u2014
\n 
\nI wasn\u2019t that kind of girl, and you weren\u2019t that
\nkind of guy, but tonight maybe we were.
\n 
\nSo, we kissed again, again, and again
\nafraid this might all end just how it began,
\n 
\naccidentally.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSara Eddy<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGOOD SEX
\n 
\nWe weren\u2019t right for each other
\nwe fought about stupid things
\nthought we knew each other
\nmade assumptions, but O
\nour bodies sang harmonies
\nand built new worlds.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s hard to know what to do
\nwith that memory of perfect
\nwild touch, now that we\u2019re
\nstrangers\u2013but there\u2019s a photo
\nof me, strong-legged, dusty
\nand happy, standing in a ruin
\non Delos. Behind me
\nis the spot where Apollo
\nand Artemis were born.
\n 
\nThe sun hits my face,
\nand I\u2019m squinting but smiling,
\nknowing I\u2019ve been to a place
\nwhere gods lived.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJames Evans<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFLOATERS
\n 
\nMy brother fingerprints floaters, degloves dishpan fingers,
\nwrites prints with his fingertips inserted into the skin of cadavers.
\n 
\n\u201cWe see down to the bone sometimes,\u201d he says. \u201cOccasionally, meat
\nslips right off, just like fried frog legs.\u201d Instinctively I feel phantom
\n 
\npains permeating my hands, remember when as kids he warmed them
\nunder his shirt and coat on those cold winter days packing firewood;
\n 
\nhis hands leading, pulling mine to his torso, my ungloved fists
\nunfurling, splayed fingers tingling, the heat from his body
\n 
\nas he held my rigored hands tight against his skin. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nArvilla Fee<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE LAST DRIVE-IN MOVIE THEATER
\n 
\nthose summer nights, ripe with humidity
\nhumming with mosquitos
\nthrumming with hormones
\nthe truck parked backwards
\ntailgate facing the king-sized screen,
\nmusic playing through tinny speakers
\nthe smell of popcorn, pretzels and fake cheese
\nwafting over the grassy lot stacked twenty deep
\nwith convertibles, old beaters, even a tractor
\nor two\u2014tanned arms and legs hanging out
\nof doors and windows, cigarette smoke
\ndrifting around heads like Caesar\u2019s laurel,
\nthose were the nights slick with sweat,
\nflush with freedom<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nVern Fein<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRABBIT
\nInspired by Merle Haggard and his prison partner\u2014Jimmy \u201cRabbit\u201d Kendrick<\/i>
\n 
\nFor thirteen years, no one
\nescaped from San Quentin.
\nRabbit and Haggard
\nhatched a plan.
\nHide in a huge desk
\nto be shipped to San Fran.
\nNot courageous like Henry Brown,
\nshipped out of slavery in a box.
\n 
\nCriminals who earned
\nthe place they landed.
\nMerle croaked out songs
\non the guitar the warden gifted.
\nRabbit just a robber,
\none of too many.
\n 
\nRabbit: No; don\u2019t do it Merle.
\nYou got a life.
\nEscape the only life I got.<\/i>
\n 
\nMerle listened, stayed.
\nRabbit escaped.
\nBut Rabbit killed a cop,
\ndied while Merle watched.
\nIf you love Merle,
\nthank Rabbit.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDevon Fulford<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOUR STUPID CRAYOLAS
\n 
\nred santa fe,
\ngreenbelt of austin,
\ngreen bananas,
\na grey mushroom-sob
\nat the top of the stairs
\nthat we couldn\u2019t un-carpet
\nuntil our dog died
\nsince he couldn\u2019t
\nstand without help
\non wooden floors.
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE YOUNGEST OF THE HERD
\n 
\nThe male antelope stretches his neck high,
\npivots like a four-legged ballerina,
\nlooks ahead, to the side, and behind,
\nalert for threats from any direction.
\n 
\nHis females nibble on the grasses,
\nbabies sucking at their teats.
\nThey are as calm as he is apprehensive.
\n 
\nIt reminds me of that old photo of the family.
\nMy father, in Airforce uniform stands,
\nmy mother, in a plain blue dress, sits,
\nin front of him, a child at either side,
\na baby in her lap.
\n 
\nThe male antelope is well aware
\nof what could be out there stalking,
\ncamouflaged by savannah brush.
\nShould a big cat attack,
\nhis warning cry will not save everyone.
\n 
\nNot lions, not leopards,
\nbut something equally incessant,
\nshadowing, deadly,
\nhas taken everyone in that photograph.
\nI was protected by not being born yet.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJ. Kramer Hare<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHAT IS POETRY?
\n 
\nNo bit of kitsch with which to ornament a parlor;
\nno figurine of frosted glass, nor bourgeois bric-a-brac;
\nno doily, chandelier, nor candelabra on piano;
\nno cookie, cuckoo-clock, nor crab-leg gilded gold.
\n 
\nIt is an altar,
\na psalm,
\na screaming
\nnuclear bomb.
\n 
\nIt is sacramental coitus!
\nIt is hideous, glorious death\u2026
\n 
\nWell, either that
\nor just a way to catch your breath.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Harlow<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLANDSCAPE: WOMAN IN THE SNOW WITHOUT DOGS
\n 
\nShe used to have them.
\nThey used to be nearby.
\nNow all she can do is stand
\nwhere they used to be
\nand bless the snow
\nsurrounding her,
\nthreatening to take her away.
\n 
\nSlowly. Intentionally.
\nMaybe that\u2019s what happened
\nto the dogs.
\nShe is not just any woman.
\nShe is not a widow
\nno matter who says she is.
\nShe doesn\u2019t know why,
\n 
\nat this moment, she thinks about
\nthe dentist who showed interest in her
\nby showing her his tattoos.
\nHe pulled up his sleeve.
\nOn his arm, a parade of teeth.
\nNot everyone understands,
\nhe tells her. She wonders why
\n 
\nhe doesn\u2019t understand why they should.
\nWhen she goes home,
\nif that\u2019s even possible without the dogs,
\nshe will change dentists.
\nYes, she\u2019ll be disloyal to him.
\nRanger!<\/i> she calls out. Rusty! Time to go home!<\/i>
\nShe is a woman standing in the snow
\n 
\nrepeating names she knows have consequences,
\nobligations, agendas, places to be.
\nIf she would just look behind her,
\nthe dogs think, as they look at each other,
\nshe could see us sitting here,
\nteeth as white as the snow,
\nhappy to know we are wanted.
\n 
\n <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nStephanie L. Harper<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOF THESE ONE AND ALL
\n     \u201cAnd of these one and all I weave the song of myself\u201d
\n~ Walt Whitman, Song of Myself 15<\/i>
\n  
\nThe left flesh-melon harbors a pool of sweat;
\nthe right flesh-melon harbors a pool of sweat.
\nThe perimenopausal woman hot-flashes in the kitchen,
\nwhile the young-adult son dons wool slippers in the kitchen.
\nThe second husband purchases electric socks for his perimenopausal wife.
\nThe ex-husband, meanwhile, dissociates further from his ex-wife\u2026
\nAnd these stoke my hankering for donuts, and I don\u2019t appreciate
\nhow lucky I am to be forced to make do with home-baked banana-nut muffins.
\nAnd such as it is to amass five decades of knowledge\u2014
\nminus where I last left my phone, that is\u2014
\nI am, more or less, pressing it to my left ear and speaking on it,
\nas I hot-flash in the kitchen. And of these spates of steaminess,
\ncantankerous joints, and suddenly uncloseable pants, one and all,
\nI orchestrate the opus of my middle-age\u2026<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHayley Mitchell Haugen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCUSP
\n 
\nUnselfconscious in bikinis, we skated for hours
\nalong the strand, fat yellow wheels propelling
\nus through our day. We rode Schwinn Cruisers
\nto the snack shack, one-handed it back, bomb-pops
\nmelting sticky blue splotches onto baby-oiled skin.
\nWe ate sandwiches inevitably laced with sand,
\nand the surf became our soundtrack, children squealing
\nin the rush and whoosh, Richard Blade endlessly spinning
\n80s New Wave on K-ROQ. So many rounds of volleyball
\nand frisbee, gymnastics in the hard-packed sand,
\nwe must have been a sight for the older boys,
\nall that eye-candy flipping and twisting,
\nour tanned legs getting stronger, more defined.
\nThey waited until we were juniors to introduce
\nbeer bongs and drinking games in their mothers\u2019 garages,
\nthe intoxicating bounce and clink of quarters
\nlanding in daisy-print glasses. Before sunset,
\nwe\u2019d slip unsteadily back down the ice plant banks,
\nperform sloppy handsprings, say yes<\/i> too easily
\nto skinny-dipping when the sun went down.
\nThe pounding Pacific, amplified by the silence,
\nturned exotic and dangerous, and there were no
\nbuff lifeguards in their tight red shorts to save us.
\n 
\n 
\nSIX FEET UNDER<\/I>: SPOILER ALERT
\n 
\nI\u2019ve been thinking of dying\u2014a lot\u2014
\nobsessively, even. Therapy Steve
\nsays this is normal, but I don\u2019t know.
\n 
\nBingeing 63 episodes of Funeral Home
\ndrama in three weeks probably wasn\u2019t
\na great idea under the circumstances.
\nEach hour, a new death, a reminder
\nthat we expire in any number of ways:
\nchoke on a grape and die alone
\nat the breakfast table; meet your maker
\nwhen a hapless roughneck drops his lunchbox
\nfrom on high; people get impaled
\nby space junk, fried by lightning, fall
\ninto vats at industrial workspaces;
\nheart attack, car wreck, cliff-slip\u2014
\nunless you choose to go (and some
\nalways do) you don\u2019t get to choose<\/i>
\nhow you go. Everybody dies.
\n 
\nEven our favorite characters.
\nNate dies\u2014twice. Anyone could
\ndie at any time: it keeps us in our seats,
\ncringing at David\u2019s risky, condomless
\nsexcapades; we are certain Claire will OD,
\nand when Lisa disappears, we just know<\/i>
\nBrenda has a miscarriage, and Keith
\ngets shot, but not till 2029. And damn\u2014
\nthey told us all along: the embalmer
\ndoes not discriminate.
\n 
\nEveryone\u2019s<\/i> final episode is foreshadowed
\nin the final episode. Claire drives
\ntoward her New York future, and the future
\nflashes by: Ruth dies, David dies,
\nBrenda, Rico, and Claire all die;
\nand I am sobbing over the best,
\nso-smart TV montage I\u2019ve ever seen,
\nbut also over my aging parents
\nand eight-year-old puggles
\nwith muzzle-gray and arthritis,
\nmy friends with recurring cancers
\nand other incurable diseases,
\nmy trans child with a 32-50%
\ngreater chance of dying by
\nself-harm: I am weeping for all
\nof us because\u2014spoiler alert:
\neverybody dies. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNEANDERTHALS
\n 
\nWatch how the status of the poor
\nNeanderthals will rise
\nwhen we admit we thank them for
\nred hair, white skin, blue eyes.
\n 
\n 
\nTEASE
\n 
\nI feel good that you want it;
\nyou know it\u2019s under there;
\nit makes me feel important
\nbut I don\u2019t like your stare.
\n 
\nI wear enough to hide it
\nthough all around is bare;
\nit\u2019s treasure, \u2019cos you want it;
\nwho you<\/i> are, I don\u2019t care.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJennifer Randall Hotz<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAT THE CONCERT, I AM SORELY TEMPTED
\nFor P., now and always<\/i>
\n 
\nFirst things first:
\nI don\u2019t blame him.
\n 
\nItzhak Perlman has no idea,
\nas he crosses that stage,
\n 
\nthat as a kid,
\nI awoke at five every morning
\n 
\nto throw the paper route
\nthat funded my violin lessons,
\n 
\npracticed three hours a day,
\nspent nights allured awake,
\n 
\nsongs tumbling over and
\nover in my head.
\n 
\nHe wouldn\u2019t know
\nthat I\u2019ve never understood
\n 
\nthose screaming girls at rock concerts\u2014
\nthe ones who throw their bras on stage\u2014
\n 
\nor that now here, listening
\nto these first glorious notes
\n 
\n(the ones that harmonize
\nall the beauty in the world),
\n 
\nI imagine my hand reaching back
\nto rip off my bra, send it sailing toward him,
\n 
\nuntil I turn, see my husband beside me\u2014
\nhis eyes glistening
\n 
\nbecause he has made a dream
\nof mine come true (the first of many),
\n 
\nand how can I do anything else
\nbut reach for his hand?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDoug Jacquier<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBUS STOP DREAMING
\n 
\nSitting at the bus stop,
\nthe bleak midwinter arrived in
\nthe middle of winter
\nand it was bleak.
\nNot moor bleak;
\nmore bleak than that.
\nThe wind was keen,
\nnot in that American neat way
\nnor like mustard,
\nbut sharp
\nand bleak
\nbecause it was midwinter.
\nI watched it being bleak midwinter
\nuntil I nodded off.
\nIn my dream I saw her
\nthrough the glass darkly
\nof the doors of
\nthe bus to nowhere
\nand I knew I had to
\nmake her mine, make her mine, make her mine.
\nI leapt aboard and raced up the aisle
\ndodging the mardi grass dancers,
\nknocking over old men that looked like Keith Richards
\nand trampling on the children of the revolution
\nuntil I could see her
\ngazing out the window at Itchycoo Park.
\nI dreamed that I jumped off at the next stop
\nand ran through fields of wildflowers
\nas if in slow motion
\nuntil she fell into my arms,
\nheels in the air,
\nand we kissed in the heat of the night.
\nLater, we would perform Shakespeare in the park.
\nShe would wear a yellow cotton dress
\nfoaming like a wave on the ground around her knees.
\nI would sport a strip-ed pair of pants
\nand follow her in the dance
\nas the park began melting in the dark,
\nwith pea-green rain pouring down and
\nour passion would flow like pea soup in the sky.
\nWe would take a magic carpet ride
\nand travel with birds
\nlike tender babies in our hands and
\nlook down on old men
\nplaying chess by the trees.
\nUntil I awoke
\nand it was still mid-winter
\non the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
\n 
\n 
\nIN EXCELSIS
\n 
\nPatti, the Horses-faced harbinger of rock,
\nwho was a girl named Johnny
\nwho said let’s dream it, we’ll dream it for free, Free Money
\nwho kept Mapplethorpe and Shepard a-muse-d
\nwho birthed children and watched men die too young.
\nwho wrote with Springsteen \u2018Because the Night\u2019 said so,
\nwho lost the plot to \u2018Hard Rain\u2019 singing Bob at the Nobels.
\nJesus died for somebody’s sins but not hers
\nPeople say “beware!” but I don’t care
\nthe words are just rules and regulations to me
\nand her name is, and her name is, and her name is
\nG-L-O-R-I-I-I-I-A
\nin excelsis day-o.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCarey Jobe<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSTELLAR MATTER
\n 
\nTraces of all we dreamily seek
\nwe catch in burning bits from the stars.
\nThey roll in our palms, dark stones too weak
\nto reascend if thrown.
\n         Beyond Mars
\ndrift pitted, hurtling, gun-black ores
\nthat flare like matchheads struck and seen
\nas they cross night air.
\n         Sometimes they shatter
\nabove our roofs like pods and scatter
\nunnoticed dust on our fading green
\nand restore worn fields with stellar matter. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGina Kotinek<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRUNNER ON A HILL
\n 
\nI saw a man atop a lonely hill panting
\nup a storm, his hands in his lap, head
\nlow, and back hunched. Bottled water
\nin hand, I thought to offer him some
\nand approached, but up close, I saw
\nhim in broad daylight\u2014wanking. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPeggy Landsman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHOOKED
\n 
\nElizabeth Bishop
\nheld that stoic old fish up
\nhalfway out of the water.
\nShe studied him and then let him go, delighted that he had caught her.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTyler Lemley<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI DON\u2019T CALL MY DAD ENOUGH
\n  
\nThe drive home is easy:
\na five-hour cringe of grey.
\nIt\u2019s a haunting taunt from my hometown.
\nI\u2019m only one road from home.
\nOne road from the rust that raised me.
\nOne road from my dad, who I don\u2019t call enough.
\n 
\nGoing back is a pain you don\u2019t feel at first,
\nuntil it\u2019s cut you long enough,
\nuntil the scarlet streams run long enough.
\nSometimes I stay home long enough
\nI forget there\u2019s life without blood.
\n 
\nBut tell me why I\u2019ve never wanted anything
\nas bad as a camper in Bumfuck, Tx.
\nNever wanted anything but a cig
\nin a lawn chair under a muslin awning.
\nGive me a hillbilly husband, two and a half kids,
\ngive me a home in that sinkhole town.
\nI\u2019d hate it, but it would heal something in me
\nto fit.
\n 
\nMy dad calls, just to hear my voice.
\nI tell him I\u2019ll be home soon, if I can manage.
\nIn the background I hear thunder.
\nMy blue sky choked by grey storm clouds. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDawn Levitt<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMISTLEHEART
\n 
\nI asked him to slice open
\nmy chest with a small chainsaw,
\nand pry apart my ribs. Then
\nhe could reach in and pull out
\nmy abused and aching heart.
\n 
\nWith the silver hook from a
\ntiny Christmas ornament,
\nhe hung it in the doorway,
\nfitting emblem of our love.
\nIt spread a slow stain beneath.
\n 
\nLit by the flickering tree,
\nhe dragged my body to it
\nlike the perfect mistletoe.
\nI thought he should have closed my
\neyes with pennies for this kiss.
\n 
\nStill, I could not really care.
\nSix weeks already since he
\ntore my heart out with his words.
\nI felt it was about time
\nhe got on with the real thing.
\n 
\n 
\nWETLAND
\n 
\nLiving near a wetland is like
\nhaving God as your next-door neighbor.
\nDizzying duck, winged wine bottle,
\nass-heavy and awkward,
\npaddles through a lake of air.
\nWild geese follow a flocked V,
\nthe typeset of their DNA,
\nhonking wildly in the traffic of clouds.
\nMated pair of sandhill cranes hoot and rattle
\noverhead, one leg stretched behind, a kite\u2019s tail,
\navian Ian Anderson,
\none-legged stork fluting to rock n\u2019roll.
\nTall reeds on marshy land,
\nconceal nests of future generations
\nwhile snapping turtles cross the road with
\ncars in idling witness to inching migration.
\nThe sky ablaze in auburn and aubergine,
\nslowing the heartbeat of the land,
\nwhisper the coming of dusk,
\nsoftly, the swan tucks her head. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHeather Lewis-Barchue<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBLUE
\n 
\nThe backdrop for endless magical white clouds the summer of my mental breakdown \u2013 we laid side by side on an old, tattered blanket while we whispered of one-eyed pirates, huge floating fishies and playful, puffy puppies that morphed from one thing to the next right before our eyes.
\n 
\nThe deep shine of the satin of my heels I wore on my wedding day \u2013 I walked down the aisle with innocent tears of happiness and joy streaming down my flushed cheeks to stand beside my steadfast, beaming husband as we both dreamt of the unknown days ahead.
\n 
\nThe still, sparkling pool staring back at me when I was 12 – I stood on the swimmer\u2019s block with beads of sweat dripping from my brow \u2013 frozen, terrified, sick to my stomach with anxiety rising as I waited for the blast of the gun that followed the \u201cswimmers take your mark, get set…\u201d.
\n 
\nThe velvety smooth hue of the ring of sapphires presented to me over a lobster meal in my old apartment – they encircle the large, brilliant diamond in the center of the ring which is a historical piece dating back over a century that reminds me I am as great of a treasure as it is each time I glimpse it throughout the day.
\n 
\nThe blazing eyes of my 15-year-old daughter as she sees straight into my soul during our deep, emotional chats \u2013 the same eyes of her father as he stared back at me through countless screaming matches that now seem so insignificant but ones that ultimately brought us to the painful decision to divorce.
\n 
\nThe silky, delicate swaddling cloth I chose to wrap my second born son in, the one who died at birth \u2013 they placed his tightly swaddled body into the incinerator so we could then neatly collect and pack his ashes into a beautiful wooden box we had personalized on Etsy because what else would we do with a human who only lived within my body but never breathed in this world?
\n 
\nThe blur of the crystal-clear water engulfing the small island of St Lucia at the end of our honeymoon \u2013 we were headed back to our reality, back to our home, back to our day in and day out that felt so opposite of the time we spent together on that once in a lifetime trip.
\n 
\nBlue. My favorite color. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFay L. Loomis<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI CHING, BOOK OF CHANGES
\n 
\nbrown leaves clutch
\ncrystalline branches
\ndulcet fall collides
\nwith adamantine winter
\n 
\na leaf turns
\nsurrender<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nChristian Lozada<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nEVERY TRIP SINCE 1993 HAS BEEN THE LAST TRIP
\n 
\nbefore White Grandma dies
\nas we sightsee and eat
\nshe shares stories and taps
\nher thumb onto her fingertips
\nsearching for a feeling other than
\npain \/\/ the pads \/ blunt \/ depressed
\nsay she\u2019s held on to things more
\nthan her strength lasted as she
\nspits regrets about following work
\nand learning how to shit indoors
\n 
\nshe has resigned herself \u2018membering
\nthe pain of cotton bolls cutting cuticles
\nrather than the sharecropper\u2019s need
\nto leave the land for regular pay
\nand plumbing \/\/ in portland, she held
\non to the rail and the sight of multnomah
\nfalls so long her knees buckled and her skin
\nburned in the pacific northwest sun
\nnot because of any personal connection
\nbut because she liked it and knew
\nnothing she likes lasts. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJamie Manias<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCT SCAN EKPHRASIS
\n 
\nIf you put the cross sections in order you have a little animation that plumes and plumes
\nlike an explosion. We could watch in marathons with popcorn and talk about
\nthe shapes we see in the curves. What was your favorite part?
\n 
\nI like when your eyes make their quick appearance, growing from nothing
\nto honest to God dinnerplates and disappearing again. AWOOGA! Eyes like
\na cartoon wolf. Quite unlike you as of late. You haven\u2019t had much room
\n 
\nTo want recently, only to need. To wish. Let me guess: you like the one frame
\nin the exact middle, when your beautiful nose pops in and makes you look almost
\nhuman. Very pretty. You can really see there how pillowy and tall your tongue is.
\n 
\nA detail I appreciate is the muscle at the back of your neck. The stringy bit
\nthat shakes and nods to save you the humiliation of speech. That tilts toward the ceiling
\nevery time I ask you \u201cwhat\u2019s up,\u201d even when we\u2019re on the phone, to confirm your answer of
\n\u201cThe ceiling.\u201d Checking that the roof hasn\u2019t fallen in on you.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTim Mayo<\/a><\/strong>
\n  
\n 
\nTHE SUNSHINE
\n 
\nIt\u2019s not like I had one of those episodes, where I
\nfloat through a tunnel to a bright and infinite room,
\nand I suddenly feel warm and fuzzy, as though
\neverything will be all right, because, now, I know
\nfor sure there is a god (of sorts), an afterlife, and<\/i>
\nI get to keep my cake and eat it, too. Then
\nthe bright room fades away, because, being infinite,
\nit never had the necessary walls to keep me. Down
\nthrough the tunnel I retreat back into my small
\nwounded body to wake in a hospital, where a ceiling,
\nfour walls, and a floor confine me.
\n                   All around me
\nloved ones are weeping; they mourn my imminent
\ndeparture from the touchable world, which had never
\nreally<\/i> touched me, though I can truly feel it now as hard
\nas the lump in my bed, poking me in the back, keeping
\nme from a good night\u2019s sleep. This is where I tell them
\nI\u2019ve seen the light, that bright infinite room, and maybe
\nI add some more to the story like my dead mother, who
\nwelcomes me with ragged arms, as she says, it\u2019s alright. <\/i>
\nSo that\u2019s what I say, it\u2019s alright, it\u2019s alright, end of story! <\/i>
\nAnd everyone stops crying, because I\u2019ve had the vision,
\nand now I can depart in peace.
\n                  But in fact, I don\u2019t depart.
\nI stay here in this bed. I go on living, and I\u2019m depressed
\nas hell, because my body is all bent and twisted, and I feel
\nthis can\u2019t-put-my-finger-on-it<\/i> discomfort pervading the air
\nlike a fog with four broken limbs, floating in this unlit room
\nas I watch these damned, off-white ceiling tiles,
\ntheir peek-a-boo holes like beady entries to a dark world,
\ntiles I can\u2019t stop looking at, because I\u2019m in this neck brace
\nwith a tube down my throat choking<\/i> me into breathing,
\nblocking my voice from bitching, and with another tube
\npoking out of my stomach to feed me drugs\u2013\u2013all of this
\n 
\nmeant to keep me painless, motionless, and complacent,
\nuntil I can feel\u2013\u2013who-the-hell-knows-when<\/i>\u2013\u2013better
\nabout the sunshine of shit luck and being alive.
\n 
\n 
\nTHE STRAW THAT BROKE THE CAMEL\u2019S BICEP
\n 
\nFigure the camel\u2019s back is already broken
\nbut he keeps on going. All he needs is five
\nmore pounds of straw for his master
\nand he\u2019s home free. So, he calculates
\nthe task: time divided by the sum of straw
\nmultiplied by muscle, as he chucks it all
\nup to the loft, where the long probability
\nof winter gapes and waits with a heady hunger.
\nHe tosses it like a coin, instead of packing it
\nall on his back, hauling it over dry sand
\n 
\nand dirt, like the beast of burden he really is.
\nAnd it works pretty well, until those last
\nfive pounds. This is where we come in,
\nthe citizenry and readers of this poem,
\nacting as witness to the gritty injustices
\nof the world. Trouble is all we ever do
\nis witness and listen to the camel brag
\nabout how he developed his one bicep,
\nworking for the Man\u2013\u2013grew it
\nlike a third hump to save his back.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s late now, and the camel\u2019s still counting:
\nfour point nine-five, nine-six, nine-seven,
\neight, nine-nine, and suddenly the poem
\ngoes snap. We, alone, have witnessed this,
\nbut what can we do? We\u2019re just readers,
\nand the camel isn\u2019t covered by OSHA
\nor even labor law. He\u2019s just a poor camel
\nin a parable about work and suffering,
\ntrying to thread his long neck and spindly
\nlegs through the eye of a needle
\n 
\nas the Man, turban and all, tries to slip
\nhis fat ass into the kingdom of heaven.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nThomas M. McDade<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHITE KNUCKLING
\n 
\nDriving a school bus
\nGreenwich, CT, 1980
\nthe engine is knocking
\nand tales of rods rocketing
\nthrough hoods fill my head.
\nBut halfway to the Convent
\nof the Sacred Heart the trouble
\nis first-grader Kim who was picked
\nto call her classmate Linda, \u201cnigger.\u201d
\nStopping for Kathy the Hoofer
\nwho dances in the aisle
\nto get my goat, I wave at her
\ndad who doesn\u2019t look rich.
\n I think of the mechanic
\nwho will repair the damage,
\nprobably get me fired.
\nKathy sits alone, taps her
\nrehearsing feet.
\nAs chosen Kim moves
\ntoward Linda there\u2019s a riot
\nof banging under the hood
\nthat doesn\u2019t distract me.
\nI\u2019m poised to hit the brakes
\nto foil the hateful plot when
\nKathy jumps up
\nand twirling twice lands
\nin the seat next to Linda.
\nShe stares down Kim
\nand I mash the gas pedal
\nto the floor urging the rods
\nto mimic Cape Canaveral
\nin Kathy\u2019s honor but the racket
\ndiminishes as the bus bucks
\nweakly at the convent gate
\nand dies like what should won\u2019t. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMike Mesterton-Gibbons<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA PORTRAIT IN RED
\n 
\nA<\/strong>uld Queen Camilla, shown a portrait, said
\nP<\/strong>olitely “Yes, you’ve got him!” to a famed
\nO<\/strong>il painter who immersed King Charles in red.
\nR<\/strong>epublicans might hope red paint proclaimed
\nT<\/strong>he king to be a closet one of them.
\nR<\/strong>ed Queen and Alice fans might see instead
\nA<\/strong> crafty Cheshire-Catlike stratagem
\nI<\/strong>n which King Charles becomes a floating head,
\nT<\/strong>wo floating hands, and nothing more: red haze
\nI<\/strong>s soon to hide the rest … It goes to show,
\nN<\/strong>o two beholders of what art portrays
\nR<\/strong>eact the same. So we can only know
\nE<\/strong>quivocally how Charles was got: the queen’s
\nD<\/strong>eclined to tell us what her comment means! <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMish Murphy<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSPEAKING OF ARTISTS
\n 
\nwho \u201cfeed off\u201d
\neach other\u2019s work\u2014
\n 
\nMozart kept
\na pet starling
\nwho sang Mozart’s tunes,
\n 
\nbelting them out
\nnote for note
\nwithout a flaw,
\n 
\nexcept the starling
\nimproved Mozart\u2019s art:
\n 
\nit changed
\nMozart’s sharps to flats.
\n  
\nQuestion for you\u2014
\n  
\nam I your starling
\n 
\nor are you
\nmine?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNina Nazir<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nREVERIE
\n 
\nHow I love to see a man in a suit, cycling
\nwith ease, something so attractive about that.
\n 
\nHey you, pumping the tyres there, why
\ndon\u2019t you three sixty round over to me?
\n 
\nWe could go for a coffee and talk about
\nwhat makes you tick, your favourite joke
\n 
\nwhat gets you off. I\u2019ll wear my bare-shoulder
\ndress for you and let you look all you want.
\n 
\nI don\u2019t normally go in for a situationship
\nbut what the hell, the air is heady with
\n 
\nthe breath of summer and life is a blink.
\nI would otherwise spend the afternoon
\n 
\nordering my world for a sense of control
\nI don\u2019t truly possess. How about we
\n 
\nget together, make a mess? while away
\nthe hours by the river, the bookshop
\n 
\non the corner, as a fake preamble for
\nsomething animal that would surely follow?
\n 
\nYou can keep your suit on and run your finger
\nalong my inside arm, as you tell me about
\n 
\nyour humdrum morning, your eyes telling me
\nsomething else. Or you can say nothing at all
\n 
\nas we hold hands, read poems aloud, steal
\na taste of life before it\u2019s gone with the zephyr.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nYoda Olinyk<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHOW TO CHARM A SNAKE AND OTHER MAGIC TRICKS
\n 
\nI know exactly how to stroke his
\nwant. Drag a wand of burgundy
\n 
\nacross my lips. Presto \u2013 they\u2019re the color
\nof lust. I know how to tease
\n 
\nmy hair just so. How to conjure
\nhis mother\u2019s cooking as he inhales
\n 
\nthe rosemary potion behind my left ear.
\nHow to alchemize king-sized
\n 
\nscallops in organic butter, give them life
\nwith each curl of my wrist.
\n 
\nTadah!<\/i> I am now a single
\npiece of dark chocolate melting
\n 
\non his tongue. I know how to choreograph
\nmy legs on his countertop. How to levitate
\n 
\nout of a skirt faster than he can say open
\nsesame.<\/i> I know how to make him want
\n 
\nme so hard he\u2019ll give up sleep. Abracadabra,
\nAlakazam<\/i>. I\u2019ve never met a woman
\n 
\nwho isn\u2019t willing to saw herself in half
\nfor a charming man with black eyes.
\n 
\nIt’s only cruel when they don\u2019t know
\nit\u2019s all a trick.
\n 
\n 
\nJEREMY ALLEN WHITE AIN’T GOT SHIT ON ME
\n 
\nWhen I kiss her the first time, she shucks
\nher head back, says, I had no idea
\nyou could kiss like that!<\/i> I don\u2019t ask a single
\nquestion, just take her lip ring into my mouth
\nand show her where the moon is.
\nThe next morning, I stir her
\nfavourite ingredients into a bowl, drip
\nhollandaise into her lips. I ask her
\nif she wants to know what we taste like
\nmixed together. Yes,
\nChef!!<\/i> She moans
\nas my knees lick the tile.
\nAs my fingers spread her shake. I feed on her
\nOh God<\/i> and Jesus Fucking Christ<\/i>. Mash
\nmy sweat into her sweet. She asks if I\u2019ll cook
\nher breakfast again tomorrow \u2013
\nIt is only now that I realize more<\/i>
\nis the only word she has for this.
\nThat she is magma and I am earth.
\nShe is yolk and I am bread. That she is
\ndesire and I am devour. That I am mouth
\nand she, a cavity.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFiona Pitt-Kethley<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFUCK SCHR\u00d6DINGER
\n 
\n\u201cFuck Schr\u00f6dinger\u201d the cat said as he dug
\nhis way out of the box. \u201cFuck Schr\u00f6dinger.
\nI\u2019m taking to the street to plan his end.
\nSchr\u00f6dinger was a kiddy fiddler, did you know?
\nPre-adolescent pussy was his thing.
\nThe Nobel Prize was sometimes given to shits.\u201d
\n 
\nSchr\u00f6dinger thought his box was still intact
\nand did not know about the hole below.
\nHis pet got out and cursed him at the door,
\npissed on the portals of his former home,
\ndecamped and leagued with other streetwise cats,
\nstarting a widespread cult amongst his kind.
\n 
\nBoxes\u2026 They worship boxes everywhere.
\nThe open box, a symbol of escape.
\nYou buy them cat toys\u2026They prefer the box.
\nThey like to sit in them and meditate
\non Schr\u00f6dinger and what they\u2019d like to do
\nif they could get the bastard in the box.
\nThey\u2019ve spread his story all around the world.
\nThe cats in Alpbach dance upon his grave,
\nleave stinking tributes there instead of flowers.
\n 
\n\u201cFuck Schr\u00f6dinger\u201d in catspeak is the noise,
\nthe simmering growl that all our furry friends
\nmake when we try to take them from a box.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKate Polak<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE EXHIBIT
\n 
\nCan\u2019t much see how much
\nis and how much is a story
\nmade of volition, velleity,
\n 
\nno, that\u2019s not a true thing at all, there
\nis no order of impulse higher than what
\nstories do, and I can\u2019t hear
\n 
\nnothing. I don\u2019t need your love. Don\u2019t
\nneed much: not safety, or sense, or a dare
\nagainst the dare I\u2019m owed, wanted
\n 
\nbut deferred, whatever never was. If you want-
\ned me, you would\u2019ve had me already,
\nintemperately, spread out beneath you
\n 
\nin all the ways I\u2019ve made something
\nbeautiful from nothing. I run it through
\nmy fingers and it disappears\u2014smoke
\n 
\nlifting to a sky I smile at, giving it the wink
\nreserved for inside jokes because it sprawls
\nand coils, calls and comes just like me.
\n 
\nYou are exactly how I thought
\nyou would be: sky blue, something I can
\nlive in but can\u2019t touch, can\u2019t see through.
\n 
\n 
\nPORCH SITTING
\n 
\nI want to touch the backs of your thighs
\nwhere the wicker reads welts in them, letting
\nthe evening come on down to our mouths. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJessica Poon<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDEAREST WOLFGANG
\n 
\nIf the Grand Canyon and the Niagara Falls
\nwere to fuck vociferously and merge,
\nthey would still be nowhere near as beautiful
\nas the shape of your head leaning against my knee
\n 
\nyour pure devotion makes the Virgin Mary
\nseem like a slutty gambler
\n 
\nit\u2019s true the moon is a tired old bachelor
\nthat doesn\u2019t even know how to put on a condom,
\nbut every time I see the moon,
\nglowing like a priest
\nreverentially unwrapping a cheeseburger,
\nI know he changed his outfit
\nin case you ever notice his bolo tie
\n 
\nlong story made slightly less long,
\nthe moon goes out of his way to see you
\nbut you are busy sniffing terra firma
\ntreating me like the sky
\nand quite frankly, the sky feels slighted
\nand has filed a grievance report
\n 
\nbtdubs, low-key always thinking about your bladder
\nbecause you ride shotgun in my mind, forever
\n 
\n 
\nTODAY\u2019S SPECIAL IS A BUZZKILL
\n 
\nWhen we describe writing as polished<\/i> or clean<\/i>, what we\u2019re really saying: good job withholding. We like what you have decided to show us. Thank you, for not entrusting us with more than you have; we would not have known how to handle it. We are glad you didn\u2019t show us anything else because your thoughts are not ready for bikini season.
\n 
\nWhen you see yet another sculpture of a naked woman, just remember: the sculptor originally had a seventh tit.
\n 
\nA laminated menu, mint green.
\nAll white girls love Halloween.
\nEverything is a fiction.
\nYour dog is probably cute because of incest.
\nJia Tolentino looks phenomenal as a blonde.
\nBitcoin is plot.
\nWhat if all I want to do is leave a palimpsest of a palimpsest?
\n 
\nYou\u2019ll be the couch; I\u2019ll be the settee.
\nWe\u2019ll both wish we were chesterfields.
\n 
\nI should be more worried about Greenland.
\nWe are all sluts for something.
\nSmall edible parts.
\nRender the unspeakable into anecdote.
\nHow much garrulousness is permissible?
\n 
\nAnd oh, your poor mother. You still want a salad named after you? Who do you think you are?
\nMint green: a laminated menu.
\nWouldn\u2019t you like to see that seventh tit right about now?
\n 
\nBut all I want to know is, when, exactly, did you stop loving me, and would you have said hello to Dionne Brand if you saw her near Dovercourt Park?
\n 
\n 
\nTHIS IS NOT THE WAY THE WORLD BEGAN
\n 
\nwith a PhD and no job
\nwith a black bean burger and a bamboo toothbrush
\nwith a single square of toilet paper after an impressively rippled fibrous shit
\nwith a diamond ring and an iPhone 100
\nwith organic cotton totes
\nwith a Google search history of Monsanto and praxis <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKen Poyner<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nEVEN-HANDED
\n 
\nI am the unfortunate man you caught around the edge of night peering in your window as you undressed mechanically before a soft, stuttering light. Had I wandered by earlier or later, there would have been nothing to draw me into the flowerbed to camp behind the defensive bushes. I would have gone on. There would not have been the moment of you turning, our eyes hooking feral understanding, our civil recognition of collaborative ends. Aware, you continued \u2013 not stacking the clothes as before, but asymmetrically letting them then drop disheveled around you. Let me in. I can restore order.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCharlie Probus<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRESIDUE FROM BIOHAZARDOUS MATERIAL
\n 
\nI asked the surgeon
\nto weigh my tits
\nwhen she sliced them off.
\n 
\nI thought if I knew
\nhow much they\u2019d been
\nweighing me down
\n 
\nI could finally measure
\nthe weight of everything
\nthat she couldn\u2019t cut out
\n 
\nI could finally see
\nwhat threatened
\nto crack me open.
\n 
\nShe never told me
\nhow much flesh and skin
\nthey carved from my chest
\n 
\nbut the space that was left
\nwas shockingly close
\nto what I\u2019d called love. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDonna Pucciani<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nICE, HIDING
\n 
\nNot the breath of angels
\nas we had hoped, nor the feathers
\nof invisible doves bringing peace to earth
\non the shortest day of this long year.
\nNot the touch of sweetness, the taste of honey,
\nthe brush of lips, an eyelid\u2019s flutter,
\n 
\nbut the deception of a quilted coverlet
\nover ice hard as the steel spade
\nattacking the impossible freeze
\nof last night\u2019s ice storm. A diamond-hard
\narrogance glares up through dawn\u2019s blizzard
\nof fluff and frivolity.
\n 
\nThis is the nature of betrayal.
\nWe play the game year after year,
\ndrawn to the softest chenille
\nblanketing a driveway needing to be cleared,
\nsurprised by the layer of ice beneath,
\ncatching the blade of the shovel.
\nA winter\u2019s night has left behind
\nthis dubious gift from a starless heaven,
\na passive-aggressive glitter,
\na skater\u2019s waltz crunching underfoot,
\na wondrous trickery. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBenjamin Cannicott Shavitz<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAVANT-GARDE
\n 
\nA well-cultured artist named Kenny
\nwould gather a crowd up and then he\u2019d
\nstuff rocks in his rectum
\nand promptly eject \u2019em.
\nIt spoke to the few, not the many.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHeidi Slettedahl<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA MAN TELLS ME I AM BEAUTIFUL
\n 
\nI laugh and say I\u2019m sure that isn\u2019t true.
\nStill it pleases me
\nand I assume that was his intent
\n 
\nHe isn\u2019t scary,
\nnot yet at least.
\nWe share a table in a crowded room.
\nI won\u2019t let him know where I am staying
\n(At least I think I won\u2019t)
\nbut I accept the proffered glass of wine.
\nI know better.
\nOf course I do.
\nOf course.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlec Solomita<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n1967
\n 
\nWe sit on the low stone wall
\nacross the street from school
\nsmoking cigarettes and feeling
\nsuperior to the hordes streaming
\n 
\ninto the morning half of their daily
\ndomestication. \u201cBaa-ing\u201d in mockery,
\nwe take our time, one more smoke
\nand then, loosely holding our books,
\n 
\nwe saunter after the wooly herd,
\nmuttering our bumptious morning banter:
\n\u201cI\u2019m a guay, you\u2019re a guay,
\ntogether we\u2019re a Paraguay\u201d
\n 
\nLes plans the evening aloud.
\nHe\u2019s got some Acapulco Gold
\nor so he says, and why not
\nbelieve him, he\u2019s an honest sort,
\n 
\nand doesn\u2019t know we call him
\n\u201cLes is less\u201d behind his back but \u201cSlim\u201d
\nto his face. We\u2019re not cruel, not a bit,
\njust enchanted by our own wits.
\n 
\nAnd by Shelley\u2019s high denim skirt.
\nShe wears it, she says, to disturb
\nProfessor Bell\u2019s quiet, intense devotion
\nto Donne\u2019s \u201cbusy old fool, unruly sun\u201d
\n 
\nDonne would likely write some verses
\nabout Shelley perched on teacher\u2019s
\ndesk with her legs crossed and her blouse
\nbuttoned tight against her generous bust.
\n 
\nIt was David Bell\u2019s first year as a high school
\nteacher \u2013 young, short, stout but nobody\u2019s fool.
\nHe taught us, despite Shelley\u2019s capers,
\nto love Marvel, Donne, and Shakespeare.
\n 
\nWe all loved Shelley without instruction,
\nfour or five boys and three or four fun
\ngirls, but Shelley loved only me.
\nSo, through my dolor she kept my sanity.
\n 
\nNot all of the kids in this loopy,
\nself-satisfied, depressed group
\nwho called others not \u201csquares,\u201d but \u201ccubes,\u201d
\nthrived as adults as well as the rubes.
\n 
\nBut Shelley did. In time, she lowered her hems,
\nmarried a doctor, got rich, collected art, wore gems.
\nAnd now, if her teeth are strong as she once was supple,
\nshe\u2019s chewing contentedly on the Big Apple.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTrish Somers<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDON’T SAY US
\n 
\nThere’s still blood in your hair <\/i>
\n    Deftones “Mascara”
\n    Around the Fur 1997
\n 
\nRare fog and a bumped flight
\nChance encounter LA airport
\nKey in ignition
\nJust shut up and drive
\n 
\nme nearby
\nand a million miles away
\nToss the script improvise
\nRe-cast me in the role
\n 
\nof the one you want -almost
\nUndress me in her clothes
\nCos there’s something about us
\nDon’t say lust
\n 
\nThe way I shake
\nin the corner you throw me in
\nafter you drag me back
\nDon’t say run
\n 
\nI’m flying down Melancholy Highway
\nwith a bump on my head
\nWhy should I fear you
\nwhen I can miss you instead ?
\n 
\nIt’s too bad it’s too bad <\/i>
\nLonely is an airport away
\nand you’re married
\nto me <\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJulie Standig<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nEDNA IS IN THE MULLIGATAWNY SOUP
\n    (because I love Millay)<\/i>
\n 
\nWhy mulligatawny?
\nWell, it\u2019s all about the spice\u2014a little pricey,
\nand a lot of exotic. And it\u2019s not without demands\u2014
\njust the right amount to invade your tastes
\nand permeate your senses.
\n 
\nSaut\u00e9 the diced ginger, onion and carrot,
\nadd crushed garlic (must be crushed)
\nwith tomatoes, and low salt chicken broth.
\n(Edna\u2019s salty enough). Simmer then spice:
\ncurry, cumin, cardamom, paprika and pepper.
\nLast, add apples and let it simmer.
\n 
\nThe final touch? Unsweetened coconut
\nmilk. Must be unsweetened.
\nNecessary to take things down a notch
\nand to achieve the desired color.
\nYou know it\u2019s right when it\u2019s a match
\nto Millay\u2019s ginger red hair.
\n 
\nAnd like Edna, the soup spikes a need.
\nFirst just to satisfy, but as you know,
\nthe need for more is soon to follow.
\nSlip on a silk kimono, add a gin rickey,
\nelevate your feet, fluff your hair, exhale.
\n 
\nA blazing fire is preferred, but you know Edna,
\na couple of candles will do.
\n 
\n 
\nSpoiler Alert
\n 
\nI didn\u2019t get the big deal over the Barbie<\/i> movie.
\nAnd that multi-level dream house never appeared,
\nand I do mean never, in any of my dreams.
\n 
\nHard to forget a pink house, pink sofas, kitchen,
\ntoilet and a three-storied winding hot pink slide.
\nBut I did marry a Ken.
\n 
\nNever owned a Mattel Barbie doll. My father presented
\nGenevieve to me. Similar but with black hair. Not blonde,
\nnot blue-eyed. He alleged she was the French<\/i> version.
\n 
\nCan\u2019t remember why, but I did get Midge, Barbie\u2019s bestie.
\nBrown bangs with That Girl<\/i> flipped hair, scattered freckles.
\nBarbie\u2019s only friend at a time when life was less pink.
\n 
\nBut how about that curious conclusion to this flick?
\nThe now human bouncy Barbie, ecstatic, eager
\nto check in for her very first pap smear.
\n 
\nBarbie\u2019s first dose of reality. But granted, Gerwig funny.
\nI admit the movie had a strange appeal\u2014gave me an urge,
\na need to Google<\/i>, to ogle, to own a Barbie.
\n 
\nMy new Barbie just arrived. Very edgy, short punk hair,
\nperfect poseable body displayed in cropped halter,
\nmetallic skirt and pointy little boots.
\n 
\nStill, I say no to reality\u2014no to the trip to the gyno,
\ngive me fantasy, the perfect shapely plastic look of it all.
\nNot pink and frilly, but finally flawless in black and white.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlex Stolis<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWELCOME TO PLANET MOTHERFUCKER
\n 
\nThey tell you the easy stuff: how the cells will weaken
\nhow they\u2019ve done this thousands of times, how technology <\/i>
\nhas progressed so much in the past 5-10 years.<\/i>
\n 
\nThey tell you about side effects, prognosis vague
\nin their factual, objective scientific language.
\nNever talking how hope catches in your throat;
\n 
\nnever saying how the future suddenly becomes
\nthe now, how you never owned your life;
\nit\u2019s a gift you\u2019re expected to return.
\n 
\nNever saying how we spend our time suspending
\nthis disbelief; making up happilyeverafter stories
\nwith gods in heaven waiting to reward us.
\n 
\nHere are your options:
\n 
\nDo nothing. Die faster.
\nRemove the offending organ but not the chance for reoccurrence.
\nAssault your body with hormones and radiation.
\n 
\nWish for the best.
\n 
\nAll their knowledge and experience bundled
\ninto glossy tri fold brochures, your road mapped
\nin brief episodic encounters with strangers.
\n 
\nIn this notsobravenew world the landscape is charted
\nby Gleason Scores, grief, and tattooed triangulation
\ndots on your previously unscarred skin.
\n 
\n 
\nATOMIC CITY (MINNEAPOLIS RADIATION ONCOLOGY)
\n 
\nDoc says the Big C is no joke but I\u2019m intent
\non shooting B&W blanks into the sky and wait
\n 
\nfor the sun to fall. I\u2019m not the man I used to be,
\nwas never the man I was; just another revved-up
\n 
\nstory in my own mind, hopscotching through
\nthe landscape; scorched earthing through life.
\n 
\nTwo stone throws away, my past is catching up
\nto my hubris. Listen, you can hear dawn begin
\n 
\nto crack; fear\u2019s a passing malaise, courage a mirage,
\na Dali watch ticking away the countdown.
\n 
\nAtomic City glows on the horizon, a dystopian Oz
\nwith no Wizard. I\u2019m ready to dance on my grave,
\n 
\ngoing to grab the hand of the nearest radium girl
\nand jitterbug our way to the end of the world.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDan Thompson <\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLOVE DURING WARTIME
\n 
\nYou loved me, and sometimes I loved you.
\n 
\nRice paper walls
\nwhite as moonlight on bone \u2013
\nthe twisted alleys a tangled mass of writhing snakes
\nand just as dangerous.
\n 
\nYou cried tears of involvement
\nwhile I observed my participation
\nboth actor and director.
\n 
\nThe madness of love whispered into your ear
\nspeaking more loudly
\na higher pitch
\na rising
\nwailing
\nshriek-
\nhigh
\nscream and the wave broke over you \u2026
\n 
\nI watched, safe on the beach.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nM. Benjamin Thorne<\/a><\/strong>
\n  
\n 
\nTHE EMPEROR ON THE HILL
\n —for Wallace Stevens<\/i>
\n 
\nHe placed a poem on a page
\nand fat it was, but also square.
\nPlain it was with words melodious
\nand lush yet somehow spare.
\nIts vastness sprawled everywhere.
\nThe barren whiteness pooled around
\nand took shape from its sound,
\nfrom a subtle, concupiscent word.
\nHe sang a genius beyond you and me,
\nlike nothing else of sky and sea.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNancy Tinnell<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAN ASSAY OF PURPLE
\n  
\nchildren in her class loved the teacher\u2019s celebration:
\nher favorite color proclaimed in garments, ink pens, markers
\nthey delighted in each day\u2019s purple surprise
\nfor purple thrives in classrooms and crayons
\n 
\nragged gray quartz, subjected to a hammer and chisel
\nwill eventually confess its amethyst identity
\nrevealing crystals of beauty in return for heavy blows
\npurple is a precious gem hidden beneath a rough exterior
\n 
\nanthocyanins create purple flowers
\npink wavelengths merge with clouds and blue sky
\ntheir atmospheric chemistry delivers a purple sunset
\nfor purple exists both below and above
\n 
\nthe woman next door never faced a hammer
\na fist altered her hemoglobin and bright red blood
\nbringing purple to her skin, bruise after bruise
\npurple is an unseen heartbreak visible on arms and faces<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEmma Urbanov\u00e1<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBARRED TENDER
\n  
\nbut I think of the world
\nas always in my bare hands,
\ntipping:
\neverything that fits onto my tray
\nis the weight of the sky and the sun
\n  
\nlike orange confit
\nthis unpeeled existential mode
\n  
\ncenturies spent in another skin
\ndecades of being paid for
\nvigilance
\nof aproning down on attitude
\na constricted state of being on the lookout
\nfor everything
\n 
\nwaitress, first and foremost
\nonly then
\n    human
\n 
\n 
\nJEWELRY FROM TEHRAN
\n 
\nthe tiny room was overcrowded with bodies
\ntrundling on top of one another
\nhospitality is a perverse industry
\ntits kiss grab pull   hair choke (the limited vocabulary of sexual encounters)
\n 
\nsecrets leaving stains on our chipped souls as we swallow them
\nlike rings, carrying them inside our thinned, hollowed out frames
\nwith no backbone. ready to protect our happiness
\nat all costs, with our hind legs, toward obliteration. towards better days,
\nlike the sour scent in the tiny room the rancid sheets the crumpled
\nBurger King bag
\n 
\namong the knickers, crusted with juice and sweat
\namong the red-wine-soaked tennis shoes
\nwe pray to dear lord to forgive us   our skins <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSharon Whitehill<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOBJECT LESSONS
\n   Colors are the mother tongue of the subconscious<\/i>. \u2013Carl Jung
\n 
\nA revelation to me, when I saw the exhibit,
\nthat those gleaming marble statues I love,
\nthose bodies of perfect proportions, had once
\nbeen vividly painted\u2014which led the exhibitors
\nto paint replicas of the most famous<\/i> to show
\nthey were not, as earlier scholars convinced us,
\nleft purposefully bare by their creators
\nto heighten the glimmer of shadow and light
\non pale skin.
\n 
\nA falsehood, that claim. Which compels me to ask
\nwhy artists who lived in countries awash
\nwith the brilliance of sea and sky,
\nwhy would they have left their statues unpainted?
\nWhy not<\/i> clothe them in dizzying harlequin patterns,
\nas in this exhibit, or paint their skins olive,
\ntheir wounds dripping red?
\n 
\nQuestions that lead me, as the curators intended,
\nto look askance at earlier scholars\u2019 dismissal
\nof traces of paint that still clung to the otherwise color-free
\nstone\u2014as if whiteness reflected the purity of an ideal
\nin more than just bodies of marble. Questions
\nthat also unsettle me when I admit that I feel overwhelmed
\nby this garish display. And chagrined to acknowledge
\nthe pleasure I feel to remember the cool white marble
\nof those lovely sculptures, their power, even now,
\nto calm and unclutter my mind. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIN MY DREAM I USE MY SUPERPOWER TO CHANGE BUMP STOCKS
\n 
\nMy lady friends and I stroll to the bump stock club,
\nglittered walls, strobe lights. In the air, dainty perfume,
\nmasculine musk. We dance the bump stock shuffle
\nin fishnets, short shorts, tank tops and boots.
\nArms flail, legs kick, heads nod
\nlike hammers striking nails.
\n 
\nEnd of the night:
\nall bodies glisten with sweat.
\nThe only casualties
\nripped fishnets and sore feet.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan J. Wurtzburg<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSAFE KEEPING
\n 
\nMy first important key: silver-colored, entrusted to me
\nby my father. Pledge of independence slung from my neck,
\nstrung on a red-ribbon. Memorable medal of a latchkey child,
\naward for the oldest sibling. Later, keys to cars, safety,
\n 
\nbut not on my bicycle. Wheeling up Toronto\u2019s Yonge Street,
\n 
\na man sprints into the road to spit on me. Saliva-wet cheek,
\n 
\nbesmirched, I power those pedals uphill, scared to pause.
\n 
\nA grandfather sweeps majestically around the corner of Bloor Street,
\n 
\nmy bike handle caught in his car door, harasses me, speeds away.
\n 
\nKey interactions for understanding how men abuse women
\nin public, private learning a part of the future. Life to come
\nof many keys safeguarding me; locks on homes, cars, offices,
\nluggage, garden sheds, bike padlocks, and my stubborn heart.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nArtists’ Bios:<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAlan Abrams<\/a><\/strong>, art school dropout, middling carpenter, ace motorcycle mechanic, unfaithful lover. A scribbler of stories and poems, a generous handful of which have been published in journals and anthologies including The Innisfree Poetry Journal, Disturb the Universe, The Raven’s Perch, The Galway Review, Litbop<\/i> and The Rat’s Ass Review.<\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Ayres<\/a><\/strong> is the author of Walk Like the Bird Flies<\/i> (Finishing Line, 2023) and Red Cardinal, White Snow<\/i> (Main Street Rag, forthcoming). Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poems and translations from the Spanish have appeared in numerous journals. She lives in Fort Worth and teaches at Texas A&M University School of Law.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJocko Benoit<\/a><\/strong> is the author of three collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Real Estate Deals of the Apocalypse<\/i>. His poetry has appeared in Gargoyle, New Ohio Review, Rattle Poets Respond, Southern Poetry Review, Spillway<\/i> and many other journals.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nF. J. Bergmann<\/a><\/strong> lives in Wisconsin and fantasizes about tragedies on or near exoplanets. She is the poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change<\/i>. Her work has appeared in Abyss & Apex, Analog, Asimov\u2019s SF<\/i>, and elsewhere in the alphabet. She thinks imagination can compensate for anything.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Beveridge<\/a><\/strong> (he\/him) makes noise <(xterminal.bandcamp.com)<\/a> and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity\/non-school publication in November 1988, and it’s been all downhill since. Recent\/upcoming appearances in Utriculi, Plexus, and The Rumen, among others.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrook Bhagat<\/a><\/strong> (she\/her) is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won contests and appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen<\/i>, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal<\/i> and a professor of creative writing at Pikes Peak State College. brook-bhagat.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLoukia Borrell<\/a><\/strong> is a first-generation American born in Toledo, Ohio, to Greek-Cypriot immigrants. She is a former print reporter who transitioned to writing poetry and essays in her fifties. Her work has appeared in Pangyrus, Roi Faineant Press, One by Jacar Press, Poetry Bus Magazine and elsewhere. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English, with a journalism concentration, from Elon University. She lives in Virginia. For more info, go to loukialoukaborrell.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrian Builta<\/a><\/strong> lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been published in North of Oxford, Hole in the Head Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review, TriQuarterly<\/i> and 2River View<\/i>, among others.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJim Burns<\/a><\/strong> was born and raised in rural Indiana and spent most of his working life as a librarian in Iowa and Florida. His retirement a few years ago gifted him with time, and he returned to a much earlier interest in writing, especially poetry, being fortunate enough to now have had a number of pieces published online and\/or in print. He lives with his wife and dog in Jacksonville, Florida.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeff Burt<\/a><\/strong> lives in Santa Cruz Country, California. He has a digital chapbook available,Little Popple River<\/i><\/a>, from Red Wolf Editions, and print chapbook from Red Bird Chapbooks, A Filament Drawn so Thin. He has previously contributed to Rat’s Ass Review, as well as Williwaw Journal, Willows Wept Review, and Heartwood.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\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>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong> has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog<\/i> and Random Saints<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLori D’Angelo<\/a>\u2019s<\/strong> stories have appeared in various magazines such as Divinations, JAKE, Litmora, Thin Veil Press, Worm Moon Archive<\/i>, and Wrong Turn Lit<\/i>. Her first book, a collection of short stories titled The Monsters Are Here<\/i>, is forthcoming from ELJ editions in 2024. Find her on Twitter @sclly21<\/a> or on Instagram at
\nlori.dangelo1<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nScott Davidson<\/a><\/strong> grew up in Montana, worked for the Montana Arts Council as a Poet in the Schools, and \u2013 after most of two decades in Seattle \u2013 lives with his wife in Missoula. His poems have appeared in Southwest Review, Hotel Amerika,<\/i> terrain.org<\/i><\/a> Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing<\/i>, and the Permanent Press anthology Crossing the River: Poets of the Western United States<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCover Artist Binod Dawadi<\/a><\/strong>, the author of The Power of Words, holds a master’s degree in English. He has worked on numerous anthologies and been published in various magazines. His vision is to change society through knowledge, so he wants to provide enlightenment to people through his writing skills.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDani De Luca<\/a><\/strong> is a dancer, death doula, poet and teacher. Her work has been published with Bent Key Press, Querencia Press, and is featured in Free Verse Revolution<\/i> magazine and Gypsophila<\/i> magazine, among others. Her debut chapbook Of Lost Things<\/i> was published by Querencia Press (2024). She resides outside Nashville with her husband and son. Find her via her website dani-deluca.com<\/a> or @danidelucawriter<\/a> on Instagram.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHannah Dilday<\/a><\/strong> is an emerging American writer currently residing in the Netherlands. She earned her BS in philosophy from The University of Oregon and has been living abroad for the past four years. Hannah’s poetry has appeared in ONE ART, Anti-Heroin Chic, Poem Stellium,<\/i> and Red Eft Review<\/i>. When Hannah is not writing poetry, she enjoys photography, traveling, and practicing Dutch with locals.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSara Eddy<\/a>\u2019s<\/strong> full-length collection, Ordinary Fissures,<\/i> was released by Kelsay Books in May 2024. She is also the author of two chapbooks Tell the Bees<\/i> (A3 Press, 2019), and Full Mouth<\/i>, (Finishing Line Press, 2020), and her poems have appeared in many online and print journals, including Threepenny Review, Raleigh Review, Sky Island<\/i>, and Baltimore Review<\/i>, among others. She lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, in a house built by Emily Dickinson\u2019s cousin.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJames Evans<\/a><\/strong> is a writer from Kentucky. His work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual, The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative, Anti-Heroin Chic, and elsewhere.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nArvilla Fee<\/a><\/strong> teaches English and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review<\/i>. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Calliope, North of Oxford, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Mudlark<\/i>, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side<\/i> and This is Life<\/i>, are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling, and she never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). To learn more, visit her website: https:\/\/soulpoetry7.com\/<\/a> <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nA recent octogenarian, Vern Fein<\/a><\/strong>, has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces in over 100 different sites. A few are: Gyroscope Review, Young Raven\u2019s Review, Bindweed, *82 Review, River And South, Grey Sparrow Journal, and Rat’s Ass Review. His second poetry book\u2014REFLECTION ON DOTS\u2014was released late last year.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDevon Fulford<\/a><\/strong> is a poet and educator. She has a doctorate in education and masters degrees in both creative writing and education. Devon has published three poetry collections: southern atheist: oh, honey<\/i> (cathexis northwest press, 2021), the skin song<\/i> (bottlecap press, 2024), and gulp<\/i> (red ogre review, forthcoming august 2024). Other poems can be found in body literature, dead mule school of southern literature, longridge review, blood pudding press, indolent books, crosswinds poetry journal, and more.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong> is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota 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 California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJ Kramer Hare<\/a><\/strong> is a native of Pittsburgh, PA. He enjoys climbing rocks and hearing jazz. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Zero Readers, Jerry Jazz Musician, Clackamas Literary Review<\/i>, the Oakland Review, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily<\/i>, and elsewhere. You can find him at kramerpoetry.com<\/a> <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Harlow<\/a><\/strong> resides in upstate NY. He is the author of Places Near and Far (Louisiana Literature, 2018). His poems appear in Poetry Northwest, RHINO Poetry, Tar River, The Beatnik Cowboy, and elsewhere. Or so he has been led to believe.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nStephanie L. Harper<\/a><\/strong> is a neurodivergent poet, mother, and transplant from Oregon now living with the world’s most adorable husband and cat in Indianapolis, IN, where she completed her MFA in Poetry at Butler University. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Crab Creek Review, The Iowa Review, Laurel Review, Pleiades, Salamander Magazine, Taos Journal of Poetry<\/i>, and elsewhere.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHayley Mitchell Haugen<\/a><\/strong> holds a PhD in English from Ohio University and an MFA in poetry from the University of Washington; she is Professor of English at Ohio University Southern in southeastern Ohio. Light & Shadow, Shadow & Light<\/i> from Main Street Rag Publishing Company (2018) is her first full-length poetry collection, and her chapbooks are, What the Grimm Girl Looks Forward To<\/i> (Finishing Line Press 2016) and The Blue Wife Poems<\/i> (Kelsay Books, 2022) She edits Sheila-Na-Gig online<\/i> sheilanagigblog.com><\/a>and Sheila-Na-Gig Editions.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAnglo-Danish by birth but Bahamian by upbringing, Robin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong> has lived and worked in the Bahamas (bank clerk), Denmark (factories and janitorial), Canada (prison guard, bookstore owner), Australia (restaurant work), USA (25 years of developing and teaching business simulations around the world). Now working on his poetry at formalverse.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJennifer Randall Hotz<\/a>\u2019s<\/strong> work has appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, Naugatuck River Review, Connecticut River Review<\/i>, and Literary Mama<\/i>, among other publications. She won 1st place in poetry for the Virginia Writers Club 2023 Golden Nib Awards and was nominated for a 2024 Pushcart Prize. Her lifelong love of music and words drew her to poetry, where she delights in weaving the various strands of her interests into something new. Find her at: www.jenniferrandallhotz.com<\/a> <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDoug Jacquier<\/a><\/strong> writes from the Fleurieu Peninsula in South Australia. His work has been published in Australia, the US, the UK, Canada, New Zealand, India and Turkey. He blogs at Six Crooked Highways<\/a> and is the editor of the humour site, Witcraft<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCarey Jobe<\/a><\/strong> is a retired attorney. His work has recently appeared in The Orchards Poetry Journal, The Lyric, The Road Not Taken, Sparks of Calliope<\/i>, and The Society of Classical Poets<\/i>. He lives and writes near Tallahassee, Florida.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGina Kotinek<\/a><\/strong> is a student at Rice University. She can usually be found hunched over her computer, reading, writing, or searching for the art of conquering carpal tunnel and tendonitis.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPeggy Landsman<\/a><\/strong> is the author of the full-length poetry collection, Too Much World, Not Enough Chocolate<\/i> (Nightingale & Sparrow Press, 2024), and two poetry chapbooks, Our Words, Our Worlds<\/i> (Kelsay Books, 2021) and To-wit To-woo<\/i> (Foothills Publishing, 2008). When she isn’t reading and writing in her relatively cool (78\u00b0 F) South Florida apartment, she’ll be out walking on the beach where, along with seashells, she sometimes finds the right word. Learn more about her at peggylandsman.wordpress.com\/<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTyler Lemley<\/a><\/strong> is a recent graduate of the University of the Incarnate Word in San Antonio, Tx where he received his Bachelor of Arts in Theatre Arts and English. Tyler writes from the perspective of a queer person from a small Texas town grappling with love and belonging. He has been published in the Quirk literary journal and has work forthcoming in The Tusculum Review, Voices de la Luna, and The Main Street Rag.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDawn Levitt<\/a><\/strong> is a two-time heart transplant recipient who co-founded an animal rescue which saves dogs from the streets of Detroit. She is a freelance writer, poet, and essayist who is currently writing a memoir about growing up with congenital heart disease and receiving two heart transplants. She lives with her family near a wetland preserve in the Detroit suburbs. Her work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in Insider Magazine, Newsweek My Turn, Blue Villa, Remington Review, Alchemy Spoon<\/i>, and Intangible Magazine<\/i>. Find her at www.dawnlevittauthor.com<\/a> or Twitter\/X @2HeartCore4U<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHeather Lewis-Barchue<\/a><\/strong> is a 44-year young woman who has lived more life in those years than some may experience in an entire century. She loves reading, mothering, writing, fashion, running, the outdoors, meditating, and love – not necessarily in that order. Heather is a woman who has given selflessly for her family while storing away her innermost heart and soul with just a pen and paper in hand.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFay L. Loomis<\/a><\/strong> leads a quiet life in the woods in Kerhonkson, New York. A member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers and the Rat’s Ass Review Workshop, her poetry and prose appear in numerous publications, including six poetry anthologies. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nChristian Hanz Lozada<\/a><\/strong> wrote the poetry book He\u2019s a Color Until He\u2019s Not<\/i> and co-wrote Leave with More Than You Came With<\/i>, and his short works have been published all over and have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors and their kids at L.A. Harbor College.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJamie Manias<\/a><\/strong> is a poetry MFA candidate and instructor at Bowling Green State University, where they serve as an assistant editor to the Mid-American Review. Their work has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, dadakuku, and a queer anthology by Moonstone Arts Center. They can be found on Instagram at@jamiemanias<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTim Mayo<\/a>\u2019s<\/strong> poems have received seven Pushcart Prize nominations, and his second volume of poems, Thesaurus of Separation<\/i> (Phoenicia Publishing, Montr\u00e9al, 2016) was a finalist for the 2017 Montaigne Medal and for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. His subsequent chapbook, Notes to the Mental Hospital Timekeeper<\/i> (Kelsay Books, 2019) won Honorable Mention in the 2020 Eric Hoffer Chapbook contest. He lives in Brattleboro, VT, USA where he works in a mental institution.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nThomas M. McDade<\/a><\/strong> resides in Fredericksburg, VA. He is a graduate of Fairfield University. McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran, serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA and aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE \/ FF-1091). He’s been recently published in The Argyle Magazine<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMike Mesterton-Gibbons<\/a><\/strong> is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University who has now returned to live in his native England. His poems 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>
\n 
\n 
\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>
\n 
\n 
\nNina Nazir<\/a><\/strong> (she\/her) is a British Pakistani poet, artist and blogger based in Birmingham, UK. She’s had work published in various journals including Ink Sweat & Tears, The Ekphrastic Review, Unlost Journal<\/i> and Harana Poetry<\/i>, among others. She can usually be found at her favourite caf\u00e9 with her nose in a book, on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir<\/a> or on X:@NusraNazir<\/a> <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nYoda Olinyk<\/a><\/strong> (she\/they) is a writer, editor, and abortion from Canada. Their work has appeared in many beloved journals and they have two books out. You can find more of Yoda at www.doulaofwords.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFiona Pitt-Kethley<\/a><\/strong> has published poetry and prose with publishers including Chatto, Abacus, Salt, Peter Owen, Dreich and others. Her last book was Washing Amethysts in the Bidet. She lives in Spain and is planning to publish some bilingual editions of poems on Amazon.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKate Polak<\/a><\/strong> is an artist, writer, and teacher. Her work has recently appeared in DIAGRAM, Miracle Monocle, McSweeney\u2019s, Drunk Monkeys, Moria, Inverted Syntax<\/i>, and elsewhere. She lives in south Florida with her familiars and aspires to a swamp hermitage.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJessica Poon<\/a><\/strong> is a writer, critic, and former line cook. Her writing has appeared in The British Columbia Review, Joyland, Ricepaper, subTerrain<\/i>, and the Toronto Star<\/i>. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Guelph. She is currently working on her first novel and is almost always with her dog.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKen Poyner<\/a>\u2019s<\/strong> eleventh book, \u201cWinter\u2019s Last Apple\u201d, came out in Summer 2023. Eight of his previous ten books are still in print. He lives in Virginia with his world-champion power lifting wife of 45+ years, assorted rescue cats, and various betta fish. Recent work has been out in \u201cSein Und Werden\u201d, \u201cThe Literary Yard\u201d, \u201cCaf\u00e9 Irreal\u201d and elsewhere.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCharlie Probus<\/a><\/strong> writes a variety of things from Durham, North Carolina. They are a multi-disciplinary artist. Their visual art has been seen at many craft fairs and most recently at the CoLab Gallery in Raleigh and their first play, “Brothers in Arms,” is premiering at the Raleigh Fringe Festival this year. In their paid time, Charlie helps people navigate capitalism, and in their spare time they explore nature and practice all kinds of alchemy.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDonna Pucciani<\/a><\/strong>, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, The Pedestal, Journal of Italian Translation, Acumen and other journals. Her seventh and most recent book of poetry is EDGES.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBenjamin Cannicott Shavitz<\/a><\/strong> is a writer and linguistics scholar. He lives in Manhattan, New York City and received his PhD in linguistics from the Graduate Center at The City University of New York. He has published two collections of his own poetry (Levities<\/i> and Gravities<\/i>), as well as an anthology of poems by New York City poets from throughout history (Songs of Excelsior<\/i>). See www.kingsfieldendeavors.com\/writing<\/a> for links to his writing.
\n  <\/a>
\n 
\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, was published this summer by Kelsay Books.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlec Solomita<\/a>\u2019s<\/strong> fiction and poetry have appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Panoplyzine, Poetica, Lothlorien, Litbreak, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, Oddball Magazine, The Galway Review<\/i>, and elsewhere, including several anthologies. His poetry chapbook, \u201cDo Not Forsake Me,\u201d was published in 2017. His full-length poetry book, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was released last spring by Kelsay Books. He’s working on another, tentatively titled “Small Change.”<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTrish Somers<\/a><\/strong> is out of L.A. Ca. where she lives with her Significant Other and a crazy cat or two. Her work is included in the 2022 Poetry Marathon Anthology (print). Online poems can be found at New Verse News, Rat’s Ass Review and elsewhere. For a unique take on today’s issues, visit her Substack page, ” Bitch n Complain”.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJulie Standig<\/a>\u2019s<\/strong> poetry has recently appeared in Schuylkill Journal Review, US1 Poets\/Del Val, Gyroscope Review<\/i> and Crone<\/i> editions, and other fine publications. She is the author of two books, <\/i>The Forsaken Little Black Book<\/i> and Memsahib Memoir<\/i>. She is not done yet. Once a lifelong New Yorker she now happily resides in Bucks County, Pa. with her husband and their Springer Spaniel. website: https:\/\/juliestandig.com<\/a> <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlex Stolis<\/a><\/strong> lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker\u2019s Press, Jasper’s Folly Poetry Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife<\/a> was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024. RIP Winston Smith is forthcoming from Allen Buddha Press. He has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize. He can also be found at https:\/\/alexstolis.myportfolio.com\/ <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDan Thompson<\/a><\/strong> is a U.S. Army veteran and former professor. He has also worked as a professional musician and music producer for educational videos.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nM. Benjamin Thorne<\/a><\/strong> is an Associate Professor of Modern European History at Wingate University. Possessed of a lifelong love of history and poetry, he is interested in exploring the synergy between the two. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Sky Island Journal, Cathexis Northwest, Griffel, The Westchester Review, Feral,<\/i> and Gyroscope Review<\/i>. He lives and sometimes sleeps in Charlotte, NC.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNancy Tinnell<\/a><\/strong> lives and writes in Louisville, KY. She has self-published two chapbooks and enjoys planning reading events that include music performances by her friends. Her poems have appeared in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Poetry Breakfast Literary Journal, and ONE ART Haiku Anthology 2024.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEmma Urbanov\u00e1<\/a><\/strong> (she\/her) is a writer from Slovakia currently living and studying in the Netherlands. She holds a master\u2019s from the University of Glasgow in comparative literature and English literature. Her work has been published by small leaf press, From Glasgow to Saturn, GUM, and Speculative Books.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSharon Whitehill<\/a><\/strong> is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems in various literary magazines, her publications include two academic biographies, two memoirs, a full collection of poems, and three poetry chapbooks. Her latest, THIS SAD AND TENDER TIME appeared (Kelsay Books) in December 2023.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong> lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in As it Ought to Be, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, One Art, Loch Raven Review, Panoply, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, Spank the Carp, The New Verse News<\/i>, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best New Poets 2024 nominee. Her first chapbook, Ready or Not<\/i>, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan J. Wurtzburg<\/a><\/strong> enjoys writing poetry, a fun learning experience after an academic career. Her credits include being a semi-finalist in the Crab Creek Review<\/i>\u2019s Poetry Competition, 2022, and the Naugatuck River Review<\/i>‘s Poetry Contest, 2022. Wurtzburg is an Associate Poetry Editor at Poets Reading the News<\/i>, a recent development. In spring, 2025, her poetry book, Ravenous Words<\/i> (co-author Lisa Lucas) will appear, much to her delight.
\n 
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\n 
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\n <\/p>\n

\nBack to Top<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nEdited by Roderick Bates
\n 
\nRAT\u2019S ASS REVIEW FALL-WINTER ISSUE 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<\/div>\n

 
\n 
\n 
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