{"id":4488,"date":"2025-09-03T11:29:18","date_gmt":"2025-09-03T15:29:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4488"},"modified":"2026-02-04T16:52:10","modified_gmt":"2026-02-04T21:52:10","slug":"fall-winter-2025","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4488","title":{"rendered":"Fall-Winter 2025"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\n <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nThis issue is now available on Amazon in paperback and e-book formats.<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\nDonald Patten<\/a> “Mask Gleaners” <\/strong> (charcoal on canvas)
\n 
\n <\/p>\n

The Poetry<\/h3>\n

 
\n 
\n 
\nKelli Allen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nROBBING THE TABLE WHERE NOTHING EXISTS
\n 
\nBoth our jackets escaped the fall, but the radio stayed
\na static river anyway, no matter how quick you reached,
\nthen retracted long fingers, second-guessed. This brass
\ncorned table, belly-up, is the last weight
\nmarking our division. The potency of your salesmanship
\n 
\nis a mirror for your capacity to carry my promiscuity
\nto a studied tomb. You were ever conceding
\nto some gods of good. Your internal consistency,
\nmy external proverb, worn as a medallion\u2014sameness
\nbottled as weak midwestern hailstones in April.
\n 
\nYour back in its fullness presses into my spine.
\nWe shuffle, a ghost crab pale apricot, only yellow inside
\narterial walls, lining I Love You\u2019s esophagus smooth,
\nand force all eight limbs toward a doorway no longer
\nours. I stop to say us<\/i>, the city outside answers nothing<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMona Anderson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFOR ALL THE BOYS I KISSED
\n   after George Bilgere<\/i>
\n 
\nFor J. who, when the bottle pointed to him,
\nraced across the circle to smother my closed
\nlips with his sloppy, wet mouth, nothing
\nlike my pillow\u2019s soft embrace. How I wondered
\nif this kissing stuff was for me. For B, stingy
\nwith his kisses as though he\u2019d run out. Is this
\nwhy my hungry eyes searched for his at every party?
\nWhen in truth his kisses were dry and empty
\nlike the bottom dust in a Cheerios box.
\nFor the boys who parked in the back row
\nof the drive-in movie theater and obliged
\nmy drunken requests, as I stumbled from car
\nto car, with mostly chaste pecks so I woke
\nin the morning only somewhat mortified.
\nHow I sat on C.\u2019s lap in the crammed back seat
\nof the Horsemobile, so named for its driver\u2019s
\nrather large nose. We necked — a strange name,
\nI thought, for something so exquisite — while friends
\naround us drank beer and sang Born to Be Wild.
\nFor T., in another back seat in some guy\u2019s Pontiac
\nleft to be fixed in the bowels of the SuperAmerica
\ngas station where he worked, we worked on kisses
\nwith lips sometimes soft and searching or hard
\nand gasping, my pillow practice a distant memory.
\nHow I wish I\u2019d have kissed more boys back then.
\nWhen I didn\u2019t know others were sometimes forced
\nfurther around second or third base. That behind
\nneighbors\u2019 doors, lips could sneer or bruise.
\nWhen it was only about the kiss and nothing more.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeff Bagato<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSINGING THROUGH THE FLATS
\n 
\nBillie caught the melody
\non the refrain;
\nher voice didn\u2019t quite hit
\nthat high note
\nso she let
\nthe song continue
\nwithout her
\n 
\n\u201cPlay it again, I\u2019m gonna
\nhit it this time.\u201d
\nEasy enough
\nto back up a CD
\n 
\nThe guitar lead rings
\nout, the rhythm churning tight
\ninto the groove;
\nBillie comes in on cue,
\nholding her notes
\nsteady through the first
\nhigh on the chorus,
\nbut misses on the repeat,
\nand there are lots
\nof repeats
\n 
\nI come in singing the rest
\nwith her, raggedy and raw;
\nwe sound like shit,
\nbut it\u2019s the feeling
\nwe wanted
\n 
\nBillie laughs when the song
\nfades out: \u201cIt sounds better
\nthat way;
\nwe gotta do it
\nlike that every
\ntime\u201d<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Beveridge<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nORISON
\nto Constance Plumley<\/i>
\n 
\nOur bodies cleaved
\nto one another,
\nentangled as best we can
\nshort of our molecules
\nintermingling. Your lips
\non my shoulder, my fingers
\nat rest against the base
\nof your spine. We take up
\ntoo much space on the mattress
\nas we beseech any errant
\nhigher powers to meld us,
\nmake us taste not just with tongues
\nbut with our whole skin,
\nmake us sing each other\u2019s euphoria
\nnot just with lips
\nbut with every atom
\nin the room.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRose Mary Boehm<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLETTER TO MY YOUNG AND VERY
\nHANDSOME ENGLISH TEACHER
\n 
\nThose foreigners are so perverse
\nas to attempt in English verse
\namusing those whose life’s endeavor
\nis bringing language to whomever
\nis keen to have it brung to them.
\nHere goes – right in the lion’s den:
\n 
\nDear friend, this thing<\/i>, I fear,
\nis bigger than it did appear
\nat first. On second glance
\na shift is taking place – by chance,
\nnot by design – I’m sure.
\nBut lust does have its own allure.
\nObject-specific in my case
\nI cannot see it as malaise,
\njust as a self-perpetuating
\njoy and excitement. And berating
\nthe writer for neglect and hence
\nof self-inflicted abstinence.
\nAffection-based, good lust endures.
\nThus, I remain, most truly,
\nYours . . .
\n 
\n 
\nODE TO MY BRA
\n 
\nTwin cradle of my flesh, once coveted
\nfor the status it bestowed on girls
\nwhose little bumps still hurt and barely showed,
\nnow a sad necessity in my fight against gravity.
\nYou weight bearer, enhancer, changing
\nshape with fashion dictated by men:
\nwe once had sharply pointed breasts
\nunder tight sweaters\u2014
\ndo you remember \u2018Lost in Space\u2019?
\nThen we neglected you, the seventies
\nfreed our young breasts
\nfrom your perceived constraints
\nwhile you moped in dark drawers.
\nThat didn\u2019t last long. You soon reestablished
\nyour dominance and convinced us
\nof our need for you.
\nYou had your moments:
\nmany an evening (and not always evenings)
\nit came off with a twang
\nremoved by impatient hands
\nor just falling after a fumble in the dark.
\nI am grateful, dear brassiere,
\nlife without you wasn\u2019t as comfortable
\nas we imagined and only half the fun.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAce Boggess<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNEEDING FIRE
\n 
\nI must rush to buy a new lighter
\nbefore the last of my flame won\u2019t reignite.
\n 
\nMy cigarette stands naked in the cold.
\nFlick & flick, a spark, a lie
\n 
\nlike one of those contraband prison Bics
\nexhausted down to flint & fumes.
\n 
\nI\u2019ve cooked my tips with oven burners,
\nalso using batteries & wire.
\n 
\nI\u2019m not that wild man anymore.
\nI need an easy touch
\n 
\nto curl my extra finger.
\nDays of playfulness in desperation
\n 
\nare too far in the past
\nto jumpstart using what I have on hand.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nIsabelle Bohl<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHANDS ON THE WALL
\n 
\nI don\u2019t mean those on penitentiary
\ncinder blocks
\nsmeared with inmates\u2019 blood,
\nstomped after the click of cuffs\u2014
\nnot these stains on our story, scrubbed out
\nto wash sin and evidence away.
\n 
\nI mean the stenciled hands waving
\nfrom the bosom of a Patagonian cave\u2014
\nNeolithic ochre testaments\u2014
\nI wish could reach through time
\nand hold
\nthose of prisoners
\nand their captors in brotherhood.
\n 
\nWe are those human hands.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMorgan Boyer<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHANKSGIVING 2024
\n 
\nSeats unfilled as a muted
\nfootball game plays, its silence
\nechoing the mouths unopened
\nat the Thanksgiving table.
\n  
\nYou wish you could go back.
\nVote differently. Vote so your daughter
\nWould look you in the eye again.
\nVote to rescue the bonds that you broke.
\n  
\nYou didn\u2019t know ties could
\nbe severed by a red hat,
\nthat the orange bull could pull
\nshared strands of DNA apart
\n 
\nthat a single vote could undo 18 years
\nof Disney-themed birthday parties,
\nWednesday movie nights, prom pictures,
\nand graduation dinners at the Cheesecake Factory
\n  
\nwith the swipe of a finger on a dusty screen.
\n  
\nThe air is as hollow as this joke of a Thanksgiving;
\nyou try to rationalize your decision but come up short,
\nyour defense undoing itself as the green beans
\nand mashed potatoes hold court. You won but also lost.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrian Builta<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSOMETHING LIKE SYMPATHY
\n 
\nLook, sweet life, I didn\u2019t sign up
\nto be on some spectrum, or for
\nyour well-intentioned examination
\nof my jellyfish collection,
\nthe way a walk chaffs the crotch,
\nthis bright hostile environment.
\nReaching for the pickles, I sideswipe
\nthe marmalade and presto: obscene grammar.
\nLook, crude promise, I don\u2019t like you
\nand you don\u2019t like me, but we
\nboth have to deal with these
\nfucking cottonwood seed pods, so let\u2019s
\npretend this poem is a third grader
\nas you explain the procedure
\nyou are about to perform.
\nLook, a foolproof rice technique
\nwill only get you so far,
\nunclogging the toilet is on regular rotation,
\ndead roadside cats somehow disappear.
\nLook, I put so much faith
\nin that dashboard Jesus and fell
\nfrom a height anyway.
\nNext time we visit Kukulcan,
\nbring your own damn virgins.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Carleton<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFILLING IN THE GAPS
\n 
\nWhen you\u2019ve sunk miles into Route 15,
\nyour skirt smushed frumpy in the seat of the car,
\n 
\none breast rubbed raw by the shoulder belt,
\nyou think of road trips launched at midnight
\n 
\nthirty years ago with 100,000 times more energy\u2014
\ndark highway rolling, coolers and instrument
\n 
\ncases blocking the rear view, spaces wedged with
\ncoffee cups and pretzels,
\n 
\ntapes spinning, jokes erupting, and you zingy,
\nready to drive all night and arrive at dawn greeted
\n 
\nby one last straggling session among the dew-sweating tents.
\nBut wait. This is spotty recall playing the song
\n 
\nwrong, skipping how you pined for sleep and drove dazed
\nfor twelve hours after a cyclone style of packing
\n 
\nthat once seemed etched into your DNA and is, in your 60s,
\nrare and how, once chairs were unfolded
\n 
\nand coffee brewed, you\u2019d zombie through the day,
\nhedging melodies and riding chords.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLAST SNOW
\n  
\nThe sun yellows over the ridge, a ripe pear
\nin white sky above woods. Suddenly, March has
\nswallowed warmth and plays the porch railings
\n  
\nlike a xylophone. Again, we become tenants of icy light,
\n of glassy stairs and glossed ramps, of Windex frozen
\n in the car seat. After winter’s wary locking in,
\n 
\nwe are used to stillness, used to waiting, used to
\nwatching countless TV procedurals.
\nUnder their influence, this late freeze
\n 
\nthe gleaming stoop, the slip-and-fall driveway,
\nthe shadows taking shape in the side yard,
\nseem ordinary, until I catch a blessing of feathers
\n 
\nin the trees and feel incipient spring, although
\nI know only vultures fly in this weather.
\n  
\n 
\nTAKING TEA
\n 
\nWhat happened is at the bottom of my every day,
\nthe residue in the teapot, the cobweb
\nI don\u2019t see when I am up on the ladder dusting,
\narmadillo in the garden scything away at the pepper plants.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s not as if I don\u2019t remember my sons\u2019 formula breath
\nor holding my grandsons hostage on my lap,
\nbut I\u2019m wary of child-gossip and nursery-confession.
\nInstead, I think more about civics and loss,
\n 
\nthe one misunderstood, the other hissing away slowly,
\nlike a gas leak. Don\u2019t mistake me\u2014 also love songs
\nand the damned moon, and if not devotion, then
\nhard breath and sweat, and mean shirts, oh, and drinking,
\n 
\nshutting the bar down, Still, there is curiosity, flirtation
\nand the incessant donkey work of lyric, all the while
\nswiping spiders, swallowing my tea, reading
\nthe leaves stuck at the bottom of the cup.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCraig Cotter<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE LAST TIME
\n 
\nI saw the primary color
\ntoy planes
\nI want to land on Carrie’s landing-strip
\n1969 at a corner store
\non Watkins Lake Road in Drayton Plains, Michigan
\nI asked my mother about it last month
\nshe said you could get tomato sausage there
\n 
\nthey were behind glass
\nI had no money
\nand a strange man bought me one.
\n 
\nIn Chinatown today
\nI visited 3 stores looking for small plastic planes
\nto send you one with the poem I wrote at lunch
\n(not at an Olivetti typewriter store).
\n 
\nFuselage nose to tail 2 inches
\nwing span 2 inches\u2014
\n     I think the first one that should land on you
\nshould be the green.
\nI never had a favorite color
\nbut used to answer that when dumb-ass adults
\n(mostly teachers)
\nwould ask.
\n           I think of you crying naked in your bed
\nin Oceanside
\nmy hand flying the plane over your territory.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTRANSPLANT
\n 
\nI never liked Phillip.
\nHe was unkind to his mother.
\n 
\nPhillip died of a stroke.
\n(That is, post-stroke, comatose,
\nin tears his mom pulled the plug.)
\nAge 42. Smoker.
\n 
\nBlackened lungs. Other body parts\u2014
\nclear corneas, pink kidneys, pancreas, liver,
\nplus a heart of questionable karma\u2014
\nnow travel in new bodies.
\n 
\nThose corneas\u2014what wonders
\nshall they behold? Oh people!
\nBear these gifts with grace.
\nAnd be kind to your mothers.
\n 
\n 
\nSHE RUNS THROUGH ROADWORK
\n 
\nFists on hips
\nas if pushing pelvis
\nfrom mind
\n 
\nHead high, alone in earbuds
\nponytail flaps
\nred flag
\n 
\nBottom bounces
\nthis side, that
\n 
\nSweating workmen
\npause to watch
\n 
\nGloves
\ngrip shovels
\n 
\nSilent, then
\nresume digging
\n 
\nSo much of life
\nunspoken<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLiz Craig<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIN LOVE
\n 
\nYour watched hand rests on my thigh,
\nfingers dip.
\nContend with hard edges –
\nreach around for seatbelt steadiness.
\nDiscover new compartments
\nwhen prone and sliding open.
\n 
\nAfter I\u2019m with you,
\nI have to readjust all my mirrors.
\n 
\nI\u2019m a dripping doorway,
\npuddling on the floor.
\nSensing residual friction heat,
\nyou skillfully stroke my ego while
\ntaking pictures of ceilings;
\nthe decorated limits
\nplay at your periphery.
\n 
\nMap memories,
\na timeline view of emotion
\ncolours locations past,
\nneatly frames each of our twenty-four hours.
\n 
\nWhile googling substitutions,
\nI slip in lust,
\nand land in Love.
\n 
\n 
\nTHIS HAS PROMISE
\n 
\nMy calendar is full of hearts.
\nI track how drippy I was last night.
\nMy foot! You licked my wetness all the way up my leg.
\nAll my clothes are inside out in each other,
\npast layers unwrapped.
\nBiscuits! have an exclamation and a capital in this new life.
\nPlacing yesterday\u2019s worries in the bin
\nI stick my nose in your beard,
\nedged with flowers.
\nStreetlight cum stains,
\npools on my cheeks.
\nI\u2019m red scented – you are wonder.
\nCounting as I cut the tops of strawberries,
\nI reach seven or eight million gods and think
\nThis has promise.
\n 
\n 
\nTHE WATCH
\n 
\nHappy good still night
\n 
\nplays like morning, but not quite.
\nIn between first and second sleep
\nwhen we touch in the watch.
\nTea cold, snow quiet –
\nwaking up as half of a leg sandwich
\nwith furry cat topping.
\n 
\nHappy good morning still, again.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Crocker<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSTICK AND TWIST
\n 
\nThe more that you dislike the way I am,
\nthe less I worry what it is you like.
\nI let go the way that you don\u2019t like
\nthe rattled heart of me, the way I am.<\/i>
\n 
\nPerhaps we\u2019re going through a sticky patch.
\nThe patch that stuck us down long years ago
\nis not as sticky now. But even so,
\nits tar has held us close enough to catch.
\n 
\nIt covers up the cracks and hides the shabby
\nseams we couldn\u2019t mend. We still pretend
\nto rub along regardless. In the end,
\nperhaps we are just averagely unhappy.
\n 
\nThe way we blister love and twist its scar.
\nWe sort of stick it out. And peel apart.<\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCS Crowe<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE FIG TREE
\n 
\nWe knew where all the fruit trees lived.
\nMulberries along the red dirt road,
\nSweet lemons behind the barbershop,
\nPomelos in Mr. Gene’s yard.
\nFigs in the corner of the abandoned lot.
\n 
\nHow many times did we get stung by wasps
\nTrying to cross a meadow of wildflowers?
\n 
\nThe whole world is the Garden of Eden
\nTo children who do not yet understand borders.
\n 
\nWhere the bumblebees flew, we wandered,
\nWhere the carpenter bees buzzed, we sat.
\nWherever we went, something bit or stung us,
\nBut who cared? We collected used cigarettes.
\nSpread the ashes on the welts. Plucked fruit.
\n 
\nWe didn’t think about pollination until it shared
\nA sentence with extinction and endangerment.
\n 
\nTogether, we ate of this tree, juices dripping
\nDown our chins\u2014never thinking of the wasps.
\n 
\nWe raced each other and the birds, first
\nTo eat the freshest fruit on the furthest limbs.
\nNot knowing what we left to rot, the trees
\nWaiting to grow from the drunkenness
\nOf their ancestors’ shade. Just like us.<\/a>
\n \u2003
\n 
\nJohn Davis<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIN A POPLAR TREE
\n 
\nAn engine or a saw what the what?
\nTwo eagles flap black wings
\nin a heron nest, ravage fledglings,
\nclaw, peck, scavenge baby flesh.
\nThe mother, helpless, squawks, screeches.
\nHow savage our national bird. Hear
\nthe crunch-crackle of bones, the whoosh-whap
\nof wings. Same bird on a dollar bill
\nand national seal. Feel the frantic
\nstruggle of the child clutched in claws,
\nthe gnaw, the fly away before it\u2019s swallowed.
\nFeel it, fledglings, the scrape, the gush
\nof blood what this man has done.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\nJohn Delaney<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE GOLDEN EAGLE HUNTRESS
\n 
\nThe huntress stole the eaglet from its nest
\nand raised it like a family pet,
\nwith proper feedings and companionship,
\nuntil a bond was formed between the pair.
\nThe goal was winter hunting of red foxes.
\n 
\nHere, the girl demonstrates her control
\nof the eagle\u2019s skill. It sits on her gloved arm,
\nwearing a little green hood over its eyes
\nto keep it calm as the girl talks and gestures.
\nOnce it\u2019s removed, the bird stands up, alert.
\n 
\nThe pair, with an assistant, go uphill
\nto a rock outcrop, where the assistant
\ntakes the bird and, on a given signal,
\nreleases it while the girl runs back down,
\ndragging a fox skin behind. The eagle,
\n 
\nseeing the motion, swoops down to catch it,
\nreceiving a meat snack reward. Then up
\nthey go again. This time, when she runs down
\nshe calls to it, and the bird wastes no time
\nrushing to her outstretched arm with its meat.
\n 
\nThe two have become a devoted pair.
\nThere\u2019s something moving in their partnership.
\nFor seven years, in hunting treks, contests,
\nand exhibitions, they\u2019ll work together.
\nThen she\u2019ll release the eagle to the wanton wild
\nlike a vigilant parent with her grown-up child.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEllen Estilai<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOCTOBER 2024: STATER BROS. PARKING LOT, HOT SUNDAY BEFORE THE ELECTION
\n 
\nShe came at me slant, pushing her cart across my path so I had to acknowledge her. Spring-coiled, she was itching for a conversation. I could have been anyone. I nodded to her and grabbed a cart, one that would roll straight. Seeing an opening, she began in mid-rant, offended by the grocery store\u2019s prices, underwhelmed by the remodeling, cheated, fed up. She assumed I sympathized. Iranians would say, del e por khooni dasht<\/i>, she had a heart full of blood, a lot to get off her chest. I\u2019d been told we should listen, that we hadn\u2019t listened enough, so I gripped my cart and waited. \u201cCountry\u2019s a mess. Farmers in California have seeds in the ground, and the government\u2019s taking our water, giving it to miners in Idaho.\u201d
\n 
\n \u201cOh, are you a farmer?\u201d I asked.
\n 
\n\u201cNo, I\u2019m a victim.\u201d
\n 
\nI angled my cart toward the store and its cool interior, preparing a non-committal farewell. Then her wheels came off. \u201cIt\u2019s all gonna change when he\u2019s elected, you know. The first three months will be really hard, but then,\u201d her voice rising, \u201cwe\u2019re gonna be rich and we\u2019re gonna be free!\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cGotta go,\u201d I said. \u201cForgot my sunscreen.\u201d
\n 
\n     Hearts are full of blood.
\n     Shopping carts in autumn\u2019s heat
\n     roll past each other.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nArvilla Fee<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMY GRANDMA KNEW
\n 
\nJesus
\nhow to can tomatoes,
\nhow to catch more flies with honey,
\nhow to use the sun ball as a clock
\n 
\nshe knew camp fires,
\ntin cans cut open with knives,
\nthat moss mostly grew
\non the north side of trees
\n 
\nshe knew how to sing
\nThe Devil Went Down to Georgia
\nand how to play the fiddle
\nthat\u2019d put Johnny boy to shame
\n 
\nShe knew red morning skies
\nmeant rain was coming,
\nshe knew shelling peas
\nand thumping melons,
\n 
\nghost stories in the night,
\nhalf-truths and outright lies,
\nshe knew how to hold a girl-sized hand
\nwhen life went a little sideways.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nVern Fein<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGUMSHOE LIT
\n A view of Micky Spillane and my Dad<\/i>
\n 
\nMy Dad quit high school as a sophomore.
\nThe Depression impoverished his family.
\nHe was an A student, told a story
\nabout how he found a wallet with $5 in it.
\nDespite what a boon it was,
\nreturned it and got praise for reward.
\n 
\nDespite his incomplete education,
\nDad devoured books and loved them.
\nWhen I was a teen, he insisted
\nI read Hugo\u2019s Les Miserables<\/i>
\nover my angst and protest.
\nI became a literature professor.
\n 
\nBut among the book stacks
\nbeside his bed, crouched Spillane.
\nAfter my dad died, I picked up
\nI, the Jury<\/i>, one of a flurry of novels
\nthis tough-as-nails author\u2019s
\ndetective creation, the executing dick
\nMike Hammer, reveled in. A perfect name
\nfor the way that gumshoe and my Dad
\napproached their hard-boiled lives.
\n 
\nSadly, later, when I found about my Dad\u2019s
\nadultery and business chicanery,
\nI wondered if the pull of Spillane
\nhad turned that wallet-returning,
\nnoble young man into a scalawag.
\n 
\nWhen Mickey said he didn’t
\ngive a damn about critics\u2019 opinions
\nbecause more people ate
\nsalted peanuts than caviar
\nand that none of his characters
\ndrank cognac or sported mustaches
\nbecause he couldn’t spell the words,
\nor that he didn’t have fans but
\na lot of customers because
\nthat should be the goal of writers,<\/i>
\nI understood my father better and wept.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlessandra Foster<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE MINIMALIST
\nfor Patricia<\/i>
\n 
\nInside the glossy greeting card
\nmy best friend for sixty years
\nwrote \u201cHappy Birthday –
\nFrom the minimalist to the enthusiast.\u201d
\n 
\nThe card\u2019s cover shows a cat
\nflamboyantly arrayed
\nin gorgeous excess.
\nDraped in multiple feather boas
\nscarlet, emerald,
\nturquoise, electric blue,
\nthe cat stands party-ready
\nto be admired and adored.
\n 
\nI loved the card, enjoyed its humor:
\nMy friend got it right about us,
\nshe reserved and I effusive.
\nBut unlike her over-the-top cat,
\nmy preferred array is unadorned gray
\nand I hate parties.
\nAn enthusiast? Yes.
\nBut also a pessimist
\nwho usually sees the glass
\nempty and broken.
\n 
\nWhich it is
\nsince my friend died.
\nSo at least in this poem
\nno hyperbole
\nno embellishment
\nno excessive admiration.
\nIt\u2019s the least I can do.
\n 
\n 
\nUNSAFE HARBOR
\n 
\nHis grand piano stands grandly
\nin front of luxurious wine velvet drapes
\ndrawn against the pale light
\nof a waning winter afternoon.
\nManhattan traffic muted almost to silence,
\nthey sit opposite each other on two large sofas,
\na gently erotic pull between them
\nas they sip scotch from pewter goblets.
\n 
\nA cocooned ephemeral world
\nof music, beauty, comfort,
\nwarmth inside and outside the body;
\na leisurely evening of pleasure
\nlies ahead as she denies
\nhis active alcoholism,
\nhis suicide attempts,
\nhis twenty-plus years of life before her birth,
\nhis long-time love for the man he lives with
\nwho is out for the evening.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMae Fraser<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDISSECTION OF THE MIDDLE CHILD
\n  after \u201cThe Women in My Family are Bitches\u201d
\n  by Melissa Lozada-Oliva<\/i>
\n 
\nmiddle child, rebel child
\na pleasure to have in class<\/i> child
\n 
\nqueer child, lover child
\ncries at any instance child
\n 
\ninvisible child, abused child
\ndidn\u2019t realize they were even abused child
\n 
\nlife insurance child, award winning child
\nthe only one keeping everything together child
\n 
\nno contact child, okay maybe sometimes child
\ndoesn\u2019t know how boundaries are supposed to be made child
\n 
\nscared child, conflictless child
\nterrified of standing up for themself child
\n 
\nfriendly child, people pleaser child
\nso well behaved, should never be an earthquake child
\n 
\nhurricane child, olive branch child
\nafraid of repercussions child
\n 
\nhealing child, therapist child
\nthey do not know how to be anything but a pawn child
\n 
\ndoes anyone really know them at all, child?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Freborg<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA SPIDER\u2019S WEB
\n 
\nLeaving the patio that day,
\nour group came to a sudden halt \u2014
\nbetween the bushes that marked our path
\na spider had spun a work of art.
\n 
\nThis fragile gossamer bridge,
\na silken trap for the unwary,
\nsparkled in the sunshine. Athena herself
\nmight not have met the challenge of this Arachne.
\n 
\nWe were not the prey intended
\nbut, humanlike, we could not let it be.
\nOne threw a random flower,
\nwatched it lodge in the sticky strands.
\n 
\nA museum curator might have declared,
\n\u201cAn innovative composition,\u201d
\nbut the spider was offended.
\nShe claimed control of her own web.
\n 
\nSlowly, delicately, she rewove the corner of her web,
\nstubbornly excising the intrusive flower.
\nShe worked diligently, weaving and cutting,
\nuntil the flower hung by a single strand.
\n 
\nSix of us watched for the final moment:
\ntransfixed, we waited until the flower fell,
\nthen we went our way, a different way \u2014
\nrespecting that spider and her web.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMarissa Glover<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE ETYMOLOGY OF REDUNDANCY
\n 
\nWords have power to shape
\nthe world. Just ask Adam
\nor the Associated Press.
\n 
\nLanguage is living,
\nwill outlive us, will
\ntell our lineage
\nabout us the way
\nhistory books tell kids
\nabout King George III.
\n 
\nWords, like people,
\ncannot be trusted.
\n 
\nWhat is it about human nature
\nthat compels us to indulge,
\nto be extra, to resent basic,
\nto talk about literally dying
\nwhile we\u2019re literally not?
\n 
\n\u201cHe drank copious amounts
\nof whiskey.\u201d Did he?
\nDrink large amounts
\namounts of whiskey?
\n 
\nIn an unhinged world,
\nwhere warriors watch
\nour every word, policing
\npoets and protestors,
\nwho greenlights nonsensical
\nnomenclature?
\n 
\nIs there such a thing
\nas an inactive<\/i> shooter?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAS SEEN IN DAYLIGHT
\n 
\nIt may seem like a disguise
\nbut this is me. I peeled off
\nthe suave mask. And the false
\npiercing eyes. And the fake ears
\nthat listened to your every word.
\nAnd the trick mouth that spoke
\nits lines so sweetly. This is what
\nI\u2019m like when I\u2019m ordinary.
\nLove this and you get this.
\nLove this and I\u2019ll throw in
\n     the masquerade.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMax Gutmann<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTERRY, FLYING IN FROM CHICAGO
\n 
\nTerry, flying in from Chicago,
\nfingers the fashion magazine she bought
\nto kill time back at O’Hare, contemplates
\na fraying seam in her seat, wordlessly
\ndeclines the tray the stewardess offers.
\nThe elderly man in the next seat snores,
\na shirt tail hanging over his seat belt.
\nClouds wrinkle the sky. Her eyes won’t stay shut.
\nThe engine’s wide white noise filling her ears,
\nshe fights the impulse to tuck his shirt in,
\nand, clenching, shoves all her worn strength into
\nthe hope he’ll stay asleep until they land.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nErin Hay<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBAG OF HANDS
\n 
\nLeft in a mess of empty drinks,
\ntossed aside on a tropical beach
\nelegant skeleton, papered, as if in silk,
\nconsider the cocktail umbrella
\na bright bourgeois surprise
\npi\u00f1a colada\u2019s class, trash in disguise
\nhalf-buried there in Huatulco\u2019s sand
\n 
\nuntil the beach seller\u2019s bored teen,
\nnervous, and starry-eyed, grabbed it.
\njust as we all locked eyes;
\nthe alibrije vending Mam\u00e0,
\nthe petty umbrella snatcher
\nand previously, anonymous, me.
\nShe knew, we knew she was sneaking.
\n\u201clos manos? no necesitas tus manos, mija?\u201d
\nthe mom asked, hissing ironic, fury
\n 
\nthe kid dropped it, hot, like a dead bird
\nits blue eggshell wing augured in
\ndropped it, like it was never hers
\ndropped it like that bag of eight hands
\ndiscovered first by flies, then by federales
\npetty thieves. chopped like chicken.
\nhands first off. bagged for effect. four sets.
\nthe narcos barely covered the rest
\nup along that quiet highway,
\nnear the Oaxaca-Puebla state line,
\nhalf-buried in sand.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWINE CELLAR
\n 
\nDown in the cobwebbed cellars of the mind
\nfabulous wines you don\u2019t dare drink are stored,
\neach carrying a price you can\u2019t afford;
\nso you pass by, deliberately blind.
\nUpstairs a loved one, dreamier than a vision,
\ndisplays each quality your soul desires –
\nor is a mere projection from the fires
\nthe building\u2019s furnace stokes with soft derision.
\nYour passions aren\u2019t alive, alight, upstairs:
\nyour love a mere projection of the schemes
\nthe animated house evolves. Your dreams
\nlive in your basement, though you\u2019re unawares.
\nThough Bacchus urge you to uncork that wine,
\nthe world would find it filthy, not divine.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nD. A. Hosek<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCHICAGO SONNET 26
\n 
\nAin\u2019t no one gon\u2019 choose to live in no tent
\nInna park with the trash and the dirt and the cold,
\nBut you fresh outta jail ain\u2019t got one damn cent
\nAnd every single place you go you told,
\n 
\n\u201cThis ain\u2019t no place for you we got children here,
\nFolks with jobs, responsibility and you\u2014and you\u2014
\nSome broke, broke-down ex-con. You wanna be near
\nThese straight folk with your criminal life? Who
\n 
\nWould ever stand for such a thing?\u201d So I got
\nMyself a tent, don\u2019t ask how or where,
\nClaimed me a patch of grass with this whole lot.
\nNow I gotta leave cause the straight folk get scared.
\n 
\nSpent all day looking for a place, started at dawn,
\nThe city came by and took my shit while I was gone.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAnn Howells<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIN MY DNA
\n 
\nI respond to taut tendons
\nbeneath tanned forearms,
\ndeep chuckles of surprise.
\nDeep in tangled ganglia
\nI am certain . . .
\n     were I blue-nose baboon
\n     within your pheromone waft,
\n     the call would be the same.
\nSeed within you sing to me
\nlike a rain stick.
\nDeep in tangled ganglia
\nI am certain . . .
\n     were I warthog, sea slug, lupine,
\n     I would feel the brush
\n     of springtime’s round belly,
\n     produce a perfect spherical ovum.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLinda Laderman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI CANNOT ESCAPE
\n 
\nmy body\u2014a covered by the dark body, an unrepresented body, a succumbed to plastic surgery body, an unruly body, this body belongs to me, my wholly unrepentant body, a hide your saggy arms body, living in a boney body, a body left for a forbidden body, a dress your age body, a mirrored body, a legislated body, at night I pray my baby is not a girl body, my pregnancy is not an exhibit, let me touch your baby belly<\/i> body, a you look too thin body<\/i>, a where do I put my hunger body, a how much did you lose<\/i> body, a hey look at the fat girl<\/i> body, a heckled by construction workers body, why are people staring, a what did you do to incite him<\/i> body, a stranger moving a hand up my leg body, why blame me<\/i>, a breasts developed too young body. My body is a lover I cannot leave.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKaren Laugel<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nANYWAY
\n 
\nNicole Brown Simpson was found
\nnearly decapitated on June 12, 1994,
\nafter documenting 62 instances of domestic abuse
\nduring her marriage to OJ Simpson, and Afghani Malala Yousaf
\nwas shot in the head for advocating for girls\u2019 education,
\nwhile Atsede Niguse, seeking a divorce, was blinded
\nand disfigured by her Ethiopian husband who
\nflung battery acid in her face. He has yet to be charged.
\nLook up when you walk along the garden path and live
\nin the space where the birds sing. Journalist E. Jean Carroll
\nsued a now-sitting President
\nfor sexual assault and won. Nothing.
\nAttorney Anita Hill and Professor Christine Blasey Ford
\nreported being sexually assaulted by
\ntwo different candidates for Supreme Court Justice,
\nboth of whom were appointed anyway. I sometimes
\nwonder about the unique vertebrae in the heron\u2019s neck,
\ncrucial for executing lightning-fast strikes. Over 80 women,
\nled by Italian actress Asia Argento, reported incidents
\nof sexual assault and rape committed by
\nproducer Harvey Weinstein, whose conviction was overturned
\nin appeal. My husband grabbed my breast in public
\nand would not apologize. You\u2019re making too much of it he said.
\nI like the cacophony of songbirds at dawn. I like
\nmy oldest pair of slippers because they\u2019ve molded to my feet.
\nRania al-Baz, a Saudi Arabian television broadcaster published
\nphotographs of herself after being beaten by her husband
\nfor answering the phone without his permission. She left
\nfor France, apparently never to return. Don\u2019t go
\nmore than three days without listening to music and learn
\nto play an instrument if you can. Janay Palmer was struck
\nunconscious in a hotel elevator by her fianc\u00e9, Ravens running
\nback, Ray Rice. They married the day after the assault.
\nThe Legend, Tina Turner, repeatedly suffered a broken nose
\nand third degree burns at the hands of her controlling husband,
\nIke. Why didn\u2019t you just lock the bathroom door,
\nqueried my husband\u2019s lawyer during our divorce trial.
\nI did, I said.
\nI kayak alongside riverbanks of ribbed mussels and fiddler crabs
\nand paint them with watercolors in my book of wonders. I share
\nmy writing with bad-tempered poets. I ride my bicycle
\nover the dunes and celebrate the wind on my face.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRichard LeDue<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDAY 4 OF A 6 DAY TRIP
\n 
\nRoadkill isn\u2019t very poetic,
\nnor is passing on a double line,
\nbut an open car window
\non a hot day
\nfeels more like freedom
\nthan the most feathered metaphor,
\nand our empty soda cans are full
\nof minutes and miles.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNancy Smiler Levinson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMY TRUE LOVE GAVE TO ME
\n 
\nMy true love gave to me
\na Zenith radio during our courtship
\nafter my NY apartment was burglarized
\n 
\nMy true love gave to me
\na sterling silver Georg Jensen pin
\non my birthday in our first year of marriage
\n 
\nMy true love gave to me
\na bronze leather handbag for the new pantsuit craze
\nsuggested by a saleswoman in Los Angeles
\n 
\nMy true love gave to me
\nA Valentine gift of black lacy under panties
\nfrom famed Fredericks of Hollywood
\n 
\nMy true love gave to me
\na drop moonstone necklace on our 30th anniversary
\nwhile celebrating the weekend in San Francisco
\n 
\nMy true love gave to me
\nan Italian watch  parties  flower bouquets on special
\noccasions throughout the following sixteen years
\n 
\nMy true love gave to me
\na small white rose for Mother\u2019s Day
\ntogether we put it in a glass of water
\na paper flower he had made in Day Care<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeremy Mauser<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAUBADE IN A WINDOWLESS ROOM
\n 
\nI don\u2019t remember dozing off, and neither
\nwill you; I have no idea whether it\u2019s dawn,
\nwhether the sun batters every room but ours.
\n 
\nPart of me hopes that our corner of the city
\nis still coated in moonglow, that our friend S.
\nwill continue to sleep in his bedroom, because
\n 
\nwhat a joy it is to finally capture this intimacy
\nwith you, what ecstasy to confirm the depths
\nof our friendship. In a couple hours I will tell
\n 
\nE. we slept together, and she\u2019ll chuckle, then
\nsay we\u2019re cute (even though you and I are
\nqueer, even though she has asked more than
\n 
\nonce whether I\u2019ll be okay if I\u2019m never with
\nanother man in that way again). E. will ask
\nif I can say you and I shared the futon, rather
\n 
\nthan saying we slept together, and I\u2019ll oblige.
\nWhen S. emerges from his room, I\u2019ll feign
\nsleep, and he\u2019ll let out an exasperated groan;
\n 
\nbecause to share a bed with someone means
\nto claim a sort of ownership. Because you
\nand me sleeping together, this is a skit,
\n 
\nan act we will never repeat. A reminder
\nthat we are what we are, and we inherit
\nthe confines of our conduct from our
\n 
\nstraight friends. Tonight you\u2019ll sleep
\nin S.\u2019s bed, and I\u2019ll stare at the ceiling,
\nthe warmth of your breath echoing
\n 
\non my neck. But isn\u2019t it special\u2014no,
\nreally, it is\u2014isn\u2019t it special how we
\nwoke up without a dawn.
\n 
\n \u2003
\nMR. THESEUS HEAD
\n 
\nIf we were Mr. Potato Heads, if our
\nlimbs were detachable, would you
\nwant to swap arms with me, maybe
\njust for the day? I\u2019d love to rip out
\nyour blue eyes and hand you mine\u2014
\nlike I said, just for the day\u2014so we
\ncan learn how differently we taste
\nthe same colors. Tell you what,
\nafter that I\u2019ll swap our legs because
\nI want to understand how it feels
\nto be short like you\u2014no offense\u2014
\nand to look up at everyone every
\nday. No offense. From there, if you\u2019re
\nstill onboard, my fellow Mr. Potato
\nHead, I\u2019ll grab your dick, and hand
\nyou mine, and when I touch myself,
\nI\u2019ll really be touching you, which
\nis kinda sweet, man, don\u2019t you agree?
\nWould it be considered masturbation
\nif I reached between your thighs
\nand stroked the artist formerly known
\nas my penis? At what point am I
\nno longer myself, are you more me
\nthan I am me? If I ran away after
\nswapping all our limbs, would
\nyou chase me? Or would we
\naccept our new bodies, remain
\nfriends, and stare into our old eyes
\nwith a masculine affection we
\nnever could find in the mirror?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTim Mayo<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAT THE CHEMO CLINIC
\n 
\nIt\u2019s been several years since I went, and I went only once
\nto accompany my daughter. So, now, as I try to dredge up
\nthe details to tell you or to tell anyone who, unafflicted,
\ndoes not suffer, though we all do in our different ways,
\nmy memory melds the moment with my imagination,
\nmakes of it something other than it is or was.
\n 
\nPicture yourself out for your ritual Sunday drive,
\nand you need gas, so, you pull in to your local Exxon
\nto fill up your body for a trip to an aimless place,
\ncircling around the lake of regret, asking yourself
\nwhy you didn\u2019t do this before, cruising on through
\nthe neighborhood of wistfulness. What can I say?
\n 
\nI remember the twitter of small talk in the treatment room.
\nHow it echoed like spring, surprising me with its sound,
\nas, armed with her pillow, book, and cellphone, my daughter
\npicked a private spot to wait for the attendant nurse to come,
\nattach the clear plastic hose to her chest and start the pump,
\nso I could see how prayer poured into the hourglass of her heart.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJason Melvin<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nUSED BOOKS II
\n 
\nCathy had a colonoscopy scheduled
\nI know this from the letter
\nstuffed in the first few pages
\nof a Stephen King novel
\npulled off the shelf at the used bookstore
\nher home address   phone number
\nand gastrologist in bold black ink
\nI can\u2019t help but ponder
\nthe state of Cathy\u2019s butthole
\nand if polyps were present
\nI hope they weren\u2019t cancerous
\nher appointment was three years ago
\nany bad news would have been dealt with
\nI hope she\u2019s doing well
\nand has picked up the latest King novel
\nit was a banger<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCorey Mesler<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nKATHY DAWSON
\n 
\nI took Kathy Dawson\u2019s hand.
\nI wanted to kiss
\nher but she was a neighbor
\nand, if it failed,
\nit would have failed too
\nclose to home.
\nI wanted to kiss Kathy Dawson
\nand unfold her the
\nway a flower opens in the
\ndawn. I can see now
\nhow white her body would have
\nbeen, how it would have
\nfelt when I entered her like a sin.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJK Miller<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

 
\n 
\nICELANDISH
\n 
\nAfter parsing
\nthe human genome
\nand passing out
\nSniffin’ Sticks
\na neurologist in Iceland
\n 
\ndiscovered a mutant gene
\nthat makes some people
\nthere
\nimmune
\nto the reeking odious funk
\nof rotten or fermented fish.
\n 
\nThese people
\ncan’t recognize
\nthe piscine perfume
\ncaused by the chemical
\ntrimethylamine (TMA)
\neven when it hits them
\nsmack in the face.
\n 
\nInstead
\nthey smell
\ncaramel, potato,
\nketchup
\nand roses.
\n 
\nNor does
\nbody odor
\nor urine
\nspoil them.
\n 
\nwhich explains
\nthe Icelandic tradition
\nof fermenting shark
\nby pissing on it
\nand burying
\nit in the dirt.
\n 
\nor serving up
\nsour ram’s testicles,
\ncod tongues,
\nand fish bellies.
\n 
\nI wonder if
\nan olfactory mutation
\ncan explain
\nour tolerance for
\nDonald Trump.
\n 
\nIcelanders,
\nyou devils!
\nYou enjoy
\ntickling
\nour noses,
\ndon’t you?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nElisabeth Murawski<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBEST
\n 
\nShe laughed too loud
\nand didn\u2019t like to read,
\n 
\ntold too many lies.
\nNo smiles in her eyes
\n 
\nfor a fistful
\nof wilting dandelions
\n 
\npicked just for her.
\nI took it home,
\n 
\nthe small wooden table
\nthey found her
\n 
\nleaning against
\nin her last loneliness.
\n 
\nI keep it in the den,
\nstacked high with books.
\n 
\nWho am I to say
\nher best wasn\u2019t good enough.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNina Nazir<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI MET CARLOS CASTANEDA IN A BAR
\n 
\nHe was drunk when he came in
\nor on something, probably
\nthose peyote buttons he tried one time.
\nHe wanted to tell me stories
\nwhile I served him up a pale ale
\nand asked him what he was doing
\naround these here parts.
\n 
\nLooking for an ally,<\/i> he said
\nor power, or both.
\nSounds fascinating<\/i>, I said
\nthinking I better not
\nserve him again after this one.
\n 
\nHe lit up a joint and I told him
\nhe couldn\u2019t smoke in here
\nbut he only blew me a smoke ring
\nand began telling me about the time
\nhe wrestled a moth the size of a tree.
\nIt\u2019s the shaman\u2019s sign<\/i>, he said
\nif a moth flies into you, scattering
\nits gold dust upon your person.<\/i>
\n 
\nAh<\/i>, I said, thinking, I hope dude\u2019s not driving
\nbut then he blew another smoke ring
\nand a smaller one through that
\nand they turned into demons
\nfighting in mid-air
\nand I grew kind of hypnotised.
\n 
\nI noticed too
\nhow his jade-green eyes
\nturned purple then dark. Felt like
\nsome kind of sorcery was going down.
\n 
\nWhat is this ally you\u2019re looking for?<\/i>
\nI asked, intrigued despite myself. <\/p>\n

One that holds an answer to my riddle<\/i>, he mused.
\nProblem is I don\u2019t know what form it\u2019ll take
\nor if I\u2019m in the right place
\nbut I followed the gold dust
\nand it led me to you.<\/i>
\n 
\nI laughed, thinking
\nthat was a line I hadn\u2019t heard before
\nbut he didn\u2019t laugh with me
\nand asked instead When was the last time
\nyou saw the moon make love to the sun?<\/i>
\n 
\nWhen was the last time
\nyou had a good night\u2019s sleep, sir?<\/i>
\nI didn\u2019t want to play his game,
\nI had no time for riddles
\nand it was nearly the end of my shift.
\nWould you care for a midnight walk?<\/i> he asked.
\n 
\nHackles risen, I merely smiled
\nthen turned away to serve someone else
\nbut when I returned he\u2019d disappeared
\nand a huge moth
\nthe size of my hand
\nfluttered over my head
\ninto the lamplight,
\nspraying gold dust as it went.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTom Probasco<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSIGN
\n 
\nI drive by a wooden sign,
\nattached to a tree
\nnear some other trees,
\nthat no longer says
\nwhat it said.
\nIt says nothing, now,
\nor something I can\u2019t see,
\nhaving lost its paint,
\napparently.
\nA bare board,
\nyet the shape reveals
\na manufacturing.
\nA bit hidden,
\nstill it\u2019s in a position
\nto speak.
\nWeek after week
\nI pass it,
\nand I thought today,
\nit seems to be saying more and more
\nwhatever the trees say.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDavid Ram<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFORGIVE US, RACCOON
\n 
\nThe first morning after the full Wolf Moon
\nyou materialized, frozen solid
\natop a shoreline alder in your worn
\nwinter coat, eyes closed, domino mask lolled,
\n 
\nfront paws slung across a branch and hind ones
\ndangling from your paunch. Young mothers assured
\ntheir small skaters that you would wake up soon.
\nAn ice fisherman claimed he found you dead
\n 
\ninside a hollow bole, moved and arranged
\nyou in that pose as a practical joke.
\nWhile gawkers snapped cell pictures and wondered
\naloud, for three days you never awoke
\n 
\nbut fell below in a slushy barrow,
\nyour impromptu mausoleum of snow.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAmy Riddell<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDRIVING YOUR ASHES BACK
\nFROM THE CREMATORIUM
\n 
\nI crashed
\ninto the hard truth
\n 
\nof your no longer
\nbeing,
\n 
\nthe impact
\na measure
\n 
\nof denial,
\nthe face of finality
\n 
\nblind-
\nfolded
\n 
\nwith the dishcloth
\nof daily care,
\n 
\nhow you
\ninched away
\n 
\nso silently
\nI never saw
\n 
\nyou slipping
\ninto
\n 
\nthe mouth
\nof the envelope
\n 
\njust handed
\nto me
\n 
\nacross
\na scarred
\n 
\nconference
\ntable,
\n 
\na signed
\ncertificate,
\n 
\nyour name
\nprinted there
\n 
\nand everything
\nelse I can\u2019t say,
\n 
\nthe car idling
\nat the stoplight,
\n 
\nyour cardboard
\nbox
\n 
\nbuckled in.
\n 
\n 
\nDAUGHTER
\n 
\nHer arms open
\nshe appears
\n 
\nbeside me
\nheals
\n 
\nthe gash
\nbetween what is
\n 
\nand what was
\nrecovers
\n 
\nwhat fell down
\nthe dry well
\n 
\nof me
\na dusty ruin
\n 
\ngrief\u2019s tears
\nsacred
\n 
\nin the font
\nof her hands
\n 
\nthat held mine
\nwhen
\n 
\nshe took
\nher first steps
\n 
\nnow repairing
\nwhat\u2019s
\n 
\nbroken
\nin my bones
\n 
\nso that\tI
\ncan walk
\n 
\nmy way back
\nto yes<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Sandler<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSHIVER ME TIMBERS
\n 
\nI try to calm him, but he tacks,
\nforays under the Jolly Roger,
\nsalvos fired from the gunlocks
\ntrying to blow out of the water
\nwhat\u2019s gathering at the horizon,
\na first day of kindergarten.
\n 
\nHe dons an eye patch. Arrr!<\/i>
\nhe growls as if spitting a hardtack
\nof reading, writing, \u2018rithmatic,
\nso I say It\u2019s okay to feel scared.<\/i>
\nBut he jibes, flees, giving my flank
\nno quarter\u2026
\n 
\nI\u2019d walk the plank
\nfor him, but can\u2019t sail on his sloop
\n 
\nor fathom staying here, marooned.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClaire Scott<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nINSANITY
\n 
\nMost members of my family
\nsuffer from minor illnesses
\nlike spring allergies, light headaches
\nand insanity, particularly my grandfather
\nand my mother (isn\u2019t it always the mother?)
\nbut also my brother and of course me
\nwho has spent thousands on therapists
\nwho at first are interested, wondering
\nif sneezes, coughs and mild migraines
\nare psychosomatic, trying EMDR, CBT,
\nsomatic work or having me sit in a chair
\nacross from my cough and asking it what it wants
\nthey rarely get to the problem of insanity
\ntackling the low hanging fruit first
\npaying no attention to the man under the couch
\nhumming Old MacDonald<\/i>
\nthe arsenic in my cup of tea or the fact
\nthat my landlady stabbed her husband
\nand stuffed him in the furnace which is why
\nmy clothes smell of scorch
\ntherapists eagerly take my checks
\nuntil they finally give up
\nsaying it isn\u2019t a good fit
\nas they spray eucalyptus air freshener
\nand sing EE I EE I O<\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDonald Sellitti<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE NUMBERS
\n 
\nHis eyes had died before the rest
\nof him. Lifeless in their sockets,
\nthough the numbers on the monitor
\nclaimed that he still lived.
\n  
\nWe took our places around the bed
\nand began the mourning weeks before
\nthe beeping stopped and they called it death.
\nWe spoke of him in past tense now.
\n 
\nI wrote. Mary cried. And Jimmy called
\nhis bookie. Placed a bet on daddy\u2019s heart
\nrate as the old man lay there brain dead,
\nempty-eyed, immobile.
\n 
\nThe number just kept coming up
\nand coming up: one seven seven,
\ninsistent as a baby bird.
\nBeeping, flashing, pulsing like
\nhe\u2019d hit the jackpot at the slots.
\n 
\nA message from a God
\nwho\u2019s always leaving signs for those
\nwho play the numbers. Little clues
\nto keep them at the table, feeling lucky.
\n 
\nWe all threw in except for dad;
\na dollar or two at five hundred
\nto one. A long shot, just for fun.
\nDad was told his odds were good,
\nso he bet it all. Unlike Dad, we won.
\n 
\nNext day, Jimmy threw a wad of
\nbills between dad\u2019s legs and
\ndivvied out the cash as if the
\nold man wasn\u2019t even there.
\n 
\nWe pocketed our winnings
\nas dad stared at the ceiling
\nwith vacant eyes, waiting to pass
\nthrough the photo of a plane
\nI\u2019d pasted there.
\n 
\nA Cessna 180, I think.
\nThat was the number.
\nYeah.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAnushka Sen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGOOD NEIGHBORHOOD
\n 
\nAnother poisoned squirrel hits the street,
\nstopping short your jaunty midday tread.
\nThe city lays its secrets at your feet.
\n 
\nIt rots more still and slow than fallen leaves;
\nthe resting pose as definite as lead.
\nAnother poisoned squirrel hits the street.
\n 
\nClassic mixup: rat for squirrel, bait for feed.
\nPOISON, posters scold, PROTECT YOUR PET.
\nThe city lays its secrets at your feet.
\n 
\nSomeone went too far, we all agreed,
\nand left the vermin<\/i> running wild instead!
\nAnd yet, a poisoned squirrel hits the street,
\n 
\nso stiff, so angular, no longer sweet,
\nthe stare indecent on the outsize head.
\nThe city lays its secrets at your feet\u2014
\n 
\nyou learn how light your step is, how discreet,
\nhow intricate the alleys of your dread.
\nAnother poisoned squirrel hits the street.
\nThe city lays its secrets at your feet.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMary Sesso<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDEATH IS AN OLD MAN\u2019S SWEETHEART
\n 
\nDad told me I needn\u2019t have come,
\nsaid he wasn\u2019t scared. He and death
\nhad been friendly for years. Now
\nthey were closer. Death covered him
\nwith its jaundiced shadow\u2014even
\nthe part in Dad\u2019s hair turned yellow.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s like they were lovers\u2014
\nthe two in such a tight embrace
\nDad\u2019s breath began to stumble.
\nThe last night they lay down
\ntogether, it\u2019s as if death
\nsaid I would never leave you,
\nso why hang on until tomorrow?
\n 
\nMy flowers came to say goodbye.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHeidi Slettedahl<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nYOU VISIT OFTEN
\n 
\nThe website told me this today.
\nYou visit often<\/i>.
\n 
\nThe site that holds my father\u2019s life.
\nHis daily records.
\nWhat he eats.
\nHow often they turn him in the night.
\n 
\nYou visit often?
\n 
\nNo, no, I don\u2019t.
\nNot enough.
\nNowhere near enough.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPaul Smith<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBEEP BEEP
\n 
\nThe rich of us have Sisyphus
\nthe rest of us have Wile E Coyote
\nit is paranormal or something
\nto push a rock up a hill
\nbut to chase something
\nuncatchable
\nnow is normal
\nwhere we live there
\nare no hills
\nno boulders
\nthere are dreams
\nthere are buses
\nthere are girls
\nthey get away
\nI saw them
\ngoing to a party
\nin their Coupe de Ville
\nwhat were they doing here
\nin the flatirons?
\nIn Nowheresville?
\nthey probably were lost
\nI thought about chasing them
\nbut the Roadrunner
\ncaught my attention
\nand I chased him instead
\nthat\u2019s the thing
\nisn\u2019t it
\nSisyphus fails just one way
\nwe fail
\nby running into a painted tunnel
\ndisappearing into a dust cloud over a canyon
\nblowing up a mountain that falls on us
\nskiing off the side of a cliff
\nACME TNT exploding in our face
\nwe\u2019ve learned to flop in countless ways
\nHeraclitus might call it progress
\n 
\n 
\nOUTCAST
\n 
\nA man should not see
\na woman discarded by
\nthe coterie she clings to
\nhanging by her coattails
\nand by shreds of talk
\ndismissed
\nas nonsense
\ngaze downcast
\nignored
\nsad wave of the arm at half mast
\nthen the silent walk away
\nfrom where there is laughter
\nand nowhere to go
\neyes at the floor
\nfull of what once was hope
\nlook down a corridor
\nwhere there is a stairway
\na stairway going down
\nto a street full of
\nsunlight
\nand noise from Marvin Gardens
\nloud as a steam engine
\nthat welcomes
\nand comforts
\nand functions as a purge
\na suppository
\nthat supposes what was
\nwas not
\nand that room upstairs
\nno longer exists
\nlike the man
\nthat never saw<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlec Solomita<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOUT OF TOWNERS
\n 
\n\u201cThis grass ain\u2019t blue,\u201d she says, rolls the window down. \u201cWhat\u2019s all this bluegrass bullshit?\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s blue-ish. Enjoy it.\u201d
\n 
\n\u201c\u2018Blue-ish?\u2019 You mean like you\u2019re boorish?\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cLike you\u2019re shrewish.\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cThat\u2019s not so nice.\u201d She lifts her ankles around Rob\u2019s neck sitting shotgun. \u201cAnyway, what I am is bored-ish.\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cDon\u2019t fight.\u201d Rob turns on the radio, fiddles string out twanging.
\n 
\n\u201cThat\u2019s bluegrass,\u201d says Iris laughing, \u201cand we ain\u2019t fightin\u2019, we be fussin\u2019, right Jethro? That differn\u2019t ta fightin\u2019.\u201d Then softening, \u201cWish we were back in Providence. What be the name o\u2019 dat filly again? \u2018Flake?\u2019\u201d
\n 
\n\u201c\u2018Snake,\u2019\u201d I say \u201cand when we get there, that sombitch gonna make us rich.\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cYou\u2019re the son of a bitch,\u201d says Iris.
\n 
\n\u201cOnce more,\u201d Rob intones, \u201cunto the breach!\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cNah,\u201d I say, \u201cWe\u2019re OK. \u2019Long as Snake sheds her skin and slides down that track bright scales flashing, everything\u2019ll be jake.\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cDon\u2019t make no never mind to me,\u201d Iris sings, hillbilly travesty redux. \u201cAs long as ah gets me one of dem Peppermint Juleps.\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cMint<\/i> Juleps,\u201d Rob corrects with a sigh, \u201cnot peppermint. Actually, at the Derby they use spearmint.\u201d
\n 
\n\u201cWell ah\u2019ll be!\u201d Her quick smile a flashbulb blinding.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGalen Steele<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGOODNESS
\n 
\nEven patience has its limits
\nand yells at the kids sometimes.
\nI once saw peace give joy a bloody nose,
\nand after the second drink
\neven self control
\nwill make out with faithfulness.
\nRecently kindness
\nspread gossip that made gentleness cry,
\nand just today love
\ntook one glance at me
\nand said,
\n\u201cLook,
\nI think we both
\nneed some space.\u201d<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDan Thompson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDAD
\n 
\nI see him leaned over the old radio,
\ntrying to get Hank just a little bit clearer.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s 9:30
\nand the folks went to bed a long half-hour ago.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s the decade of the birth
\nof rock
\nand roll
\nbut the lonely young man
\nfrom rural Vermont
\nhas a stronger connection
\nwith the blues-infused
\ncountry music of the American South.
\n 
\nHe hums along with
\n\u201cWedding Bells,\u201d
\nthen sings the words when
\n\u201cYour Cheatin\u2019 Heart\u201d
\nreaches out to him over the air \u2026
\na big smile on his face.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Thornton<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRESTLESS TRAVELER
\n 
\nRestless traveler when you see
\na beggar sitting cross legged on
\npavement before the post office
\nstaring into a paper cup
\n 
\nwhen you venture into cobbled
\nneighborhoods and glimpse
\na second story beauty lifting
\nvibrant silk shift over her dark head
\n 
\nrevealing in window frame
\npetal breasts & slender hands
\nadorned with pointed shiny nails
\nyou will know you have found a place
\nto both attract and repel you.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRebecca Weigold<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE RAPTURE OF EVE
\nAfter Our Daily Bread (Le Pain Quotidien)<\/i><\/a> by Ren\u00e9 Magritte (Belgium) 1942
\n 
\nYou bit into a crimson cosmic crisp and your earthy eyes
\nwidened, transformed into otherworldly blue. Glorious
\ngolden dew dripped from your rebel-red lips to your chin,
\n 
\nthe wetness new and surprising. A gown of light fell
\nfrom your body, puddled at your feet, burned off like fog.
\nFor the first time, you noticed petal-pink nipples of
\n 
\ndelicate breasts, shapely curves of belly and thighs. With
\nfruit in hand, you saw your skin blush with dayspring.
\nYou were not made a creature of sacrifice, not even of
\n 
\nyour own apple. So you plucked another and ran with it
\nthrough Eden, plunged breathless in a meadow of laughter,
\nate the tart and gorgeous fruit, dropped flirtatious daisy
\n 
\nflorets from your fingers: he loves me, he loves me not.<\/i>
\nWhen you came upon Adam sleeping in the cleft of a rock,
\nyou paused to ponder his naivet\u00e9, envy his intact cloak of
\n 
\nrighteousness, lust for him. You woke him excitedly and
\ngave him his fruit. He ate, then saw you with fresh eyes.
\nNow you stood above him unveiled, pinkened and ripe,
\n 
\non billowy fields of white devil\u2019s trumpets, swollen
\nclouds of water hemlock and scarlet speckled lilies; you
\nstood, commanding heaven\u2019s mysteries against a sun of
\n 
\nintellectual fire in a probing blue sky. Adam exclaimed,
\n\u201cMeh asinu?!<\/i>\u201d and you cried. You cried at a glimpse
\nof your first bruise, the sting of your first scratch, the blood
\n 
\nwhen Adam entered you. You saw the first wake of vultures
\ngorge on a carcass and you were horrified. You thought of
\nwhat it meant for the rest of us. The endless graves that
\n 
\nwould come. I wonder if you self-harmed, apologized to your
\ndaughters. You are maligned because your paradise is now
\nour graveyard. But allow me to celebrate you with sparkling
\n 
\nMo\u00ebt & Chandon, your heart\u2019s desire of love poem
\nrhododendrons, a timeless black dress of effortless grace,
\nand my best Gala apple crisp.
\n 
\nI would have done the same.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKit Willett<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nANYTHING WITH A FLARED BASE
\n 
\nWherever I find myself in the house,
\nthere will always be close to hand
\na small object with a big function.
\n 
\na votive tealight stand, for holding prayers,
\na resin vase, for showing dried wildflowers,
\na bottle, to store the finest perfume,
\n 
\na paperweight, glass, to keep things still,
\na polished stone pestle, for the grinding,
\n   slow and rough and deliberate,
\n   the breaking open, the penetration
\n   of warm and fragrant spice,
\na ceramic incense burner, a reminder
\nof all the beauty of the world
\nas the smoke rises lazily to heaven.<\/a>\u2003
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFUCK PARKINSON\u2019S
\nIn Memory of James<\/i>
\n 
\nMy brother-in-law, diagnosed
\nin his late forties, knew
\nhe couldn\u2019t win
\nthe brutal aggression
\nbut fought on his terms.
\nKarate classes to start the attack,
\nmiddle finger poised at the disease
\nthat chose him. Four years later
\na black belt to wear or slap
\nacross the face of Parkinson\u2019s.
\nHe continued medieval reenactments,
\nexcelled at and taught the art
\nof armored combat, fencing,
\narchery. Now, his body no longer
\nable to resist the disease,
\nhe waits in an urn
\nto be buried next to his parents,
\nburned to ash
\nas black as his belt.
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n <\/a>
\n <\/p>\n

Artist’s Bios:<\/h3>\n

 
\n 
\nKelli Allen<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. Allen is the co-Founding Editor of Book of Matches literary journal. Allen\u2019s latest book is Leaving the Skin on the Bear, C&R Press, 2022. She currently teaches writing and literature in North Carolina. kelli-allen.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMona Anderson<\/a><\/strong>, a retired clinical mental health counselor, has lived in the New Hampshire countryside for 46 years where she and her husband raised two sons and a multitude of cats. She is co-author of The Art of Building a House of Stone<\/i>. Her work has appeared most recently in Touchstone, Smoky Quartz, Adanna Literary Journal, Northern New England Review, Earth\u2019s Daughters, Voices Unbound (An Anthology of International Poetry), Portrait of New England<\/i> and others.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeff Bagato<\/a><\/strong> produces poetry and prose as well as mail art, electronic music and glitch video. New books for 2022 document experimental text work from the past few years, including In the Engine Room with Bettie and Andrea Reading Pornography, Gonch Poems, Robot Speak, and Floral Float Flume: Flue Flit Flip. A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at jeffbagato.wordpress.com<\/a>.<\/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 The Pierian, Utriculi, and Discretionary Love, among others.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRose Mary Boehm<\/a><\/strong> is a German-born UK national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her work has been published (and rejected) widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and in print). She was several times nominated for a \u2018Pushcart\u2019 and \u2018Best of Net\u2019. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, was published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new chapbook is about to be published. www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com\/<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAce Boggess<\/a><\/strong> is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy<\/i>. His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Hanging Loose<\/i>, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His forthcoming books include poetry collections, My Pandemic \/ Gratitude List<\/i> from M\u014dtus Aud\u0101x Press and Tell Us How to Live<\/i> from Fernwood Press, and his first short-story collection, Always One Mistake<\/i>, from Running Wild Press.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nIsabelle Bohl<\/a><\/strong> began writing poetry upon retiring from teaching. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee whose poems have appeared in Quartet, The Rye Whiskey Review, Glassworks<\/i>, and anthologies. Her collaboration poetry book Our Various Selves<\/i> is coming soon from Cold River Press. She was born in France and recently moved from the Northern Adirondack Mountains to the Twin Cities in Minnesota.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMorgan Boyer<\/a><\/strong> is the author of The Serotonin Cradle (Finishing Line Press, 2018), If I Wasn\u2019t Sacred (Alien Buddha Press, 2025) and a graduate of Carlow University. Boyer has been featured in Kallisto Gaia Press, Thirty West Publishing House, Oyez Review, Pennsylvania English, and Voices from the Attic. Boyer resides in Pittsburgh, PA.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrian Builta<\/a><\/strong> lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His poetry has been published most recently in Freshwater Literary Journal, Meridian<\/i>, and Red Ogre Review<\/i>. In first grade he won a blue ribbon for the 35-yard dash and in second grade he was Most Outstanding Student for the month of October. He is the author of A Thursday in June<\/i> and Everyday Oblivion<\/i> and more of his poetry can be found at brianbuilta.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Carleton<\/a><\/strong> writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Rattle, ONE ART, Valparaiso, SWWIM<\/i>, and New Ohio Review<\/i>. Sarah\u2019s poems have received nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave<\/i>, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/a><\/strong> writes in the Arkansas Ozarks. She is the author of four books and five chapbooks and the 2020 winner of the Phillip H. McMath Poetry Award for The Mercy of Traffic<\/i>. Her first book, Reading Berryman to the Dog<\/i>, was reissued by Belle Point Press in 2022. Her second, Discount Fireworks<\/i>, is online at Doubleback Books. Her most recent Anthology publication is in Attached to the World: a New Ecopoetry Anthology<\/i> 2025. Find her at wendytaylorcarlisle.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCraig Cotter<\/a><\/strong> was born in 1960 in New York and has lived in California since 1986. His poems have appeared in hundreds of journals in the U.S., France, Italy, the Czech Republic, the U.K., Australia, Japan, New Zealand, Singapore, Canada, India and Ireland. Books include <\/i>The Aroma of Toast, Chopstix Numbers<\/i>, and After Lunch with Frank O\u2019Hara<\/i>. www.craigcotter.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>. He appreciates wagging tails and dog-eared pages. His website is joecottonwood.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLiz Craig<\/a><\/strong> is a professional pianist and music teacher in Toronto, ON, Canada. She’s been writing poetry since her teen years and finds that just the right combination of words can help her revisit a delicious memory. She has been published in the Manitoban and Young Ravens Literary Review.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Crocker<\/a><\/strong> has a 25 yds breast-stroke certificate, several Scouting badges and \u201cO\u201d level Epistemology. He has won prizes \u2013 bubble bath mostly, a bottle of Baileys once. His poems squat in obscure corners of the internet. Googling him will tell you all about a deceased Sheffield-born rock singer. He gets by with little help from friends.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCS Crowe<\/a><\/strong> is three crows in a trench coat that gained sentience after eating a magic bean. He spends his days writing stories on a stolen laptop and trading human teeth for peanuts. A poet and storyteller from the Southeastern United States, he believes stories and poems are about the journey, not the destination, and he loves those stories that wander in the wilderness for forty years before finding their way to the promised land.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Davis<\/a><\/strong> is the author of Gigs, Guard the Dead<\/i> and The Reservist<\/i>. His work has appeared in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review<\/i> and Terrain.org<\/i>. He lives on an island in the Salish Sea and performs in several bands.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Delaney<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s publications include Waypoints<\/i> (2017), a collection of place poems, Twenty Questions<\/i> (2019), a chapbook, Delicate Arch<\/i> (2022), poems and photographs of national parks and monuments, Gal\u00e1pagos<\/i> (2023), a collaborative chapbook of his son Andrew\u2019s photographs and his poems, Nile<\/i> (2024), poems and photographs about Egypt, and Filing Order: Sonnets<\/i> (2025). He lives in Port Townsend, WA.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEllen Estilai<\/a><\/strong> is a former university lecturer and arts administrator who has found a third career as a poet and essayist. In 2023, she published a memoir of Iran, Exit Prohibited<\/i> (Inlandia Institute), and a hybrid chapbook, The Museum of Missing Things<\/i> (Jamii Publishing). Her poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Fiolet & Wing: An Anthology of Domestic Fabulist Poetry, Sheila-Na-Gig, Heron Tree<\/i>, and New California Writing 2011<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nArvilla Fee<\/a><\/strong> lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her five children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine<\/i>, and has been published in over 100 magazines. Her three poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life<\/i>, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces<\/i> are available on Amazon. Arvilla\u2019s life advice: Never travel without snacks. Visit her website and her new magazine: https:\/\/soulpoetry7.com\/<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHaving published over 300 poems and short prose pieces on over 100 different sites, Vern Fein<\/a><\/strong>, a late starting poet, is delighted to be part of the poetry world in his retirement and able to read in public and spread the poetry word in his community as well as participate in the local and the Rat’s Ass on-line sessions. He has published two books so far and is aiming at another in 2026. A few of his publications are: Gyroscope Review, Young Raven\u2019s Review, Bindweed, *82 Review, River & South, Grey Sparrow Journal, and Rat’s Ass Review.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlessandra Foster<\/a><\/strong>, lifelong and long-lived reader and writer of poetry. Publications: Bramble, Literary Veganism, Moss Piglet, Verse-Virtual. Loves dogs. Enjoys TCM classics, including Noir Alley, and Hallmark romances. Vegan forty-three years.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMae Fraser<\/a><\/strong> (they\/she\/he) is a hopeless romantic poet from the New Hampshire seacoast. Their work has been published in Sheepshead Review, Santa Fe Writer\u2019s Project Journal, and Northern New England Review, among others. You can find them online @maeflowerreads<\/a> or in a cafe or underneath their giant pile of unread books.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Freborg<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s humor has appeared in Scalar Comet, American Bystander, Little Old Lady Comedy<\/i>, and Defenestration<\/i>. Her poetry (mostly less funny) has been published by Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Right Hand Pointing, The Orchards Poetry Journal<\/i>, and WestWard Quarterly<\/i>. She is a retired social worker and editor.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMarissa Glover<\/a><\/strong> lives in Florida, where she\u2019s busy swatting bugs and dodging storms. Her poetry collections, Let Go of the Hands You Hold<\/i> and Box Office Gospel<\/i>, are published by Mercer University Press. (Go Bears!) Recent work is found in Whale Road Review, Halfway Down the Stairs<\/i>, and Ink Sweat & Tears<\/i>. Look for new work upcoming in Eunoia Review<\/i> and Spare Parts<\/i>. You can follow Marissa on social at _MarissaGlover_<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong> is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River&South and The Alembic. Latest books, \u201cBittersweet\u201d, \u201cSubject Matters\u201d and \u201cBetween Two Fires\u201d are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Cantos.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMax Gutmann<\/a><\/strong> has contributed to New Statesman, The Spectator, Able Muse<\/i> and dozens of other publications. His plays have appeared throughout the U.S. and have been well-reviewed (see maxgutmann.com<\/a>). His book There Was a Young Girl from Verona<\/i> sold several copies.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nErin Hay<\/a><\/strong> is a California poet, with several poems previously published in the Rats Ass Review. She lives with her beloved, a ceramic artist, and an inspiring menagerie of pets and plants.<\/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 
\nD. A. Hosek<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s poetry has appeared in Hanging Loose, Meniscus, Great Lakes Review, Bronze Bird Review, Belt Magazine<\/i> and elsewhere. He earned his MFA from the University of Tampa. He lives and writes in Oak Park, IL and spends his days as an insignificant cog in the machinery of corporate America. dahosek.com<\/a> @dahosek.bsky.social<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAnn Howells<\/a><\/strong> edited Illya\u2019s Honey<\/i> for eighteen years. Recent books include: So Long As We Speak Their Names<\/i> (Kelsay Books, 2019) and Painting the Pinwheel Sky<\/i> (Assure Press, 2020). Chapbooks include: Black Crow in Flight,<\/i> Editor\u2019s Choice \u2013Main Street Rag<\/i>, 2007 and Softly Beating Wings,<\/i> 2017 William D. Barney winner (Blackbead Books). Ann\u2019s work appears in many small press and university journals here and abroad. She is a multiple Pushcart nominee.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLinda Laderman<\/a><\/strong> is a Michigan poet and writer. Her poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, numerous literary journals, including Westchester Review, Eclectica, The MacGuffin, Rats Ass Review, SWWIM, Action Spectacle, and ONE ART. She is a past recipient of Harbor Review\u2019s Jewish Women\u2019s Prize. Her micro-chapbook, What I Didn\u2019t Know I Didn\u2019t Know, can be found online at https:\/\/www.harbor-review.com\/what-i-didnt-know-i-didnt-know<\/a>. In past lives, she was a journalist and taught English at Owens Community College and Lourdes University in Ohio. For nearly a decade she was a docent at the Zekleman Holocaust Center near Detroit. More work and information at lindaladerman.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKaren Laugel<\/a><\/strong> is a physician and emerging writer who lives on the Delaware coast with her kayaks. Her poems have appeared in Pen in Hand<\/i>, the Tipton Poetry Journal<\/i>, and the Quartet Journal<\/i>. Additional works will soon be featured in the Bay to Ocean Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Gargoyle Magazine<\/i>, and the Ginosko Literary Journal<\/i>. She is a student of The Writers Studio in New York City and is a member of the Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild, Coastal Writers, and the Eastern Shore Writers Association.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRichard LeDue<\/a><\/strong> (he\/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print and is the author of numerous books of poetry. His latest full-length book, \u201cAnother Another,\u201d was released from Alien Buddha Press in May 2025.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNancy Levinson<\/a><\/strong> is author of a poetic memoir, Moments of Dawn, and a chapbook, The Diagnosis Changes Everything, as well as some thirty books for young readers. She is a Pushcart nominee for an anthologized CNF and was recently honored in the ( 2025 ) October Poetry Project. Her work has appeared in Rat’s Ass Review, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Hamilton Stone Review, Silver Birch Press, Jewish Literary Journal, Ink in Thirds, The Jewish Writing Project, and elsewhere. She lives and writes in Los Angeles.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeremy Mauser<\/a><\/strong> is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Alabama. His poetry and prose can be found, or is forthcoming, in Eggplant Emoji, sneaker wave magazine, and Cloudscent Journal, among other publications. He is an Assistant Fiction Editor at the Black Warrior Review, an amateur stand-up comic, and a self-proclaimed Oscars trivia expert who can be found on Instagram @jamauser13<\/a> and Bluesky @jeremymauser.bsky.social<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTim Mayo<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s 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 where he works in a mental institution and is a founding member of the Brattleboro Literary Festival.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJason Melvin<\/a><\/strong> is a father, husband, grandfather, and metals processing center manager. His writing has appeared in Roi Faineant, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl, Olney, Punk Noir, Rat\u2019s Ass Review<\/i> and others. His first book, Wrong Things<\/i>, is available courtesy of Bullshit Lit<\/i>. His second book, Brother<\/i>, will soon be published by Anxiety Press. He can be found on X @Jason5Melvin<\/a>, Instagram @JasonMelvin5<\/a> and on his website at jasonmelvinwords.weebly.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCorey Mesler<\/a><\/strong> has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Five Points, Lunch Ticket, Good Poems American Places,<\/i> and New Stories from the South.<\/i> He has published over 50 books of fiction and poetry. His newest book, A Troubling of Goldfish<\/i>, is from Big Table Books. With his wife he runs Burke\u2019s Book Store (est. 1875) in Memphis.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJK Miller<\/a><\/strong> is a former third grade dual language teacher. He lives on the edge of cornfields. In the summer of 2025 he completed a solo 1,335-mile bike ride from his house to his son’s house to see his newborn grandson. He is the first prize winner<\/a> of the 2025 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest. His poetry has been recently featured in shoegaze literary, Midsummer Dream House, Harrow House, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily<\/i>, and Academy of the Heart and Mind<\/i>, among others.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nElisabeth Murawski<\/a><\/strong> is the author of Heiress, Zorba\u2019s Daughter<\/i> (May Swenson Poetry Award), Moon and Mercury<\/i>, and three chapbooks. Still Life with Timex<\/i> won the Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize. Alias Irene<\/i> will be published in August 2025. A native of Chicago, she currently lives in Alexandria, VA.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNina Nazir<\/a><\/strong> (she\/her) is a British Pakistani poet, writer and fine artist based in Birmingham, UK. She has been widely published online and in print, more recently with The Ekphrastic Review<\/i> and Ink Sweat and Tears<\/i>. She is also a Room 204 writing cohort with Writing West Midlands<\/i>. You can usually find her with her nose in a book or on Instagram: @nina.s.nazir<\/a>. She blogs regularly at www.sunrarainz.wordpress.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCover Artist Donald Patten<\/a><\/strong> is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He creates oil paintings, illustrations, ceramics and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries throughout Maine. To view his online portfolio, visit @donald.patten<\/a> on Instagram.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTom Probasco<\/a><\/strong> has had poems published in the Northwest Indiana Literary Journal<\/i>, the INverse Poetry Archive<\/i>, and in several Indiana Writers Center publications, including Flying Island.<\/i> In addition to writing the occasional poem, he plays harmonica in the Indianapolis band True North.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDavid Ram<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s recent poems appear in Amethyst Review, Meat for Tea: Valley Voices, Stone Poetry Quarterly, The Orchards Poetry Journal, unearthed,<\/i> and elsewhere. David retired from teaching community college and lives with his wife in western Massachusetts, where he practices poetry writing, rowing and grandparenting.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAmy Riddell<\/a><\/strong> is the author of two poetry collections, Bullets in the Jewelry Box (FutureCycle Press) and Narcissistic Injury, a chapbook (Pudding House Publications). A Pushcart nominee, Amy has poems in the current issue of The Inflectionist Review (#20) and poems forthcoming in The Orchards Journal of Poetry, Rust & Moth, and The South Florida Poetry Journal. Her previous publishing credits include Prairie Schooner, Black Warrior Review, and Birmingham Poetry Review.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Sandler<\/a><\/strong> is the author of a poetry collection, The Lamps of History<\/i> (FutureCycle Press 2021). His work has appeared in scores of journals, including recently in The Ecological Citizen, Macrame Literary Journal<\/i> and The Ekphrastic Review<\/i>. Previously he worked as a lawyer and arbitrator, has served in the State Department, and taught as an adjunct at the Georgetown and University of Washington schools of law. Michael lives near Seattle; his website is www.sandlerpoetry.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClaire Scott<\/a><\/strong> is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called<\/i> and Until I Couldn\u2019t<\/i>. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters\u2019 Journey in Photography and Poetry.<\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDonald Sellitti<\/a><\/strong> was a scientist\/educator at a Federal medical school before turning to poetry following his retirement. His publications in medical journals such as Cancer Research and Oncology Letters have been succeeded by publications in a number of more amusingly titled journals, including Better Than Starbucks, The Alchemy Spoon, Door is A Jar, Gyroscope Review, Ink in Thirds, and Rat\u2019s Ass Review, which nominated him for a Pushcart Prize.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAnushka Sen<\/a><\/strong> is originally from Kolkata, India and now teaches English Literature at Loyola University, Chicago. She is drawn to musicality, animals, and a strong sense of place in art. She occasionally translates from Bengali to English and her poems (original and translated) have been published in Rust and Moth<\/i> the Asymptote<\/i> blog, and Eunoia Review<\/i>, among other places.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMary Sesso<\/a><\/strong>‘s latest chapbook has just been published by Kelsay Press.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHeidi Slettedahl<\/a><\/strong> is a US-UK dual national who goes by a slightly different name professionally. She has been published in a variety of online literary journals. Her collection of poetry, Mo(u)rning Rituals<\/i>, was published by Kelsay Books in 2024. Her most unusual talent is her ability to ride a unicycle.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPaul Smith<\/a><\/strong> writes poetry & fiction. He lives in Skokie, Illinois with his wife Flavia. Sometimes he performs poetry at an open mic in Chicago. He believes that brevity is the soul of something he read about once, and whatever that something is or was, it should be cut in half immediately.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlec Solomita<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s fiction and poetry have appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Panoplyzine, 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 in 2021 by Kelsay Books. He’s just finishing up his second full-length book of poetry.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGalen Steele<\/a><\/strong> enjoys being a proud father, a squirrelly son, a weird uncle, a rambunctious friend, and a grateful husband. He amuses himself by scribbling poems into the margins of contracts, reports, and church bulletins. He writes poetry, memoir, and the occasional play. His prior work has been published in Fireflies\u2019 Light, the Book of the Year for the Poetry Society of Texas, and his debut collection of poetry Five Things (2025).<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDan Thompson<\/a><\/strong> (PhD) is a former editor and professor whose poetry, personal essays, articles, and reviews have been published in scholarly as well as literary journals, including, most recently, Canary, Eclectica, Black Coffee Review, Rat\u2019s Ass Review<\/i>, and Jerry Jazz Musician<\/i>, among others. In an earlier life, he worked as a music producer for educational videos and as a disc jockey at a country music radio station.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Thornton<\/a><\/strong> lives and works in Binghamton New York where she has been employed as a copy writer for a utility company, an editor for an academic press, and a high school teacher of French. Her work has also appeared in Foothills Review and Blackbird.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRebecca Weigold<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s poetry has appeared in BlazeVox, The Ekphrastic Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Tishman Review<\/i>, and more. Two of her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She has participated in the famous Chicago Poetry Slam at The Green Mill, hosted by Marc Smith. She lives in Kentucky.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKit Willett<\/a><\/strong> is a bisexual poet, English teacher, and executive editor of the Aotearoa poetry journal Tarot. His debut poetry collection, Dying of the Light<\/i>, was published by Wipf and Stock imprint Resource Publications in 2022.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong> lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, One Art, Loch Raven Review, Panoply, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, The New Verse News<\/i>, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and her first chapbook, Ready or Not<\/i>, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.
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\n <\/p>\n

\nBack to Top<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nEdited by Roderick Bates
\n 
\nRAT\u2019S ASS REVIEW FALL\u2014WINTER ISSUE 2025 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<\/div>\n

 
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\n 
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      This issue is now available on Amazon in paperback and e-book formats.       Donald Patten “Mask Gleaners” (charcoal on canvas)     The Poetry       Kelli Allen     ROBBING THE TABLE WHERE NOTHING EXISTS   Both our jackets escaped the fall, but the radio stayed a static […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":4,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-4488","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nFall-Winter 2025 -<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4488\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Fall-Winter 2025 -\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"      This issue is now 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