She looked at me, turned,
hopped ahead, turned back,
jumped into the grass.
Then she lunged up,
snatched a dragonfly
right out of the air.
Don is a biomedical researcher living in Pittsburgh, PA. His poetry has appeared online at TuckMagazine.com, Uppagus Magazine, Vox Populi Sphere, and others, in print in Hanging Loose (1972) and Neurology, and in several print anthologies including in both English and Farsi in Persian Sugar in English Tea, Volumes I and III.
Covers gravestones
Erases names and dates
Pale green
& white growth overlapping
circular shapes expand
with every year
of neglect.
Rain
will not wash away
the stain
only spur
further growth.
I expect
someday to wear
a mantle of lichen
like a warm coat
sheltering me
from the cold, dark dirt.
James P. Roberts is the author of five previous collections of poetry. Recent work has been published in Weirdbook, Mirror Dance, Rosebud, Sand Canyon Review and Zingara Poetry Review. He lives in Madison, Wisconsin where he haunts Little Free Libraries and has a passion for women’s flat-track roller derby.
We used to pretend that we were wealthy. After all, as we were taught in theater class, it is the appearance that counts. Keep up the illusion long enough and it becomes a reality.
We shopped in the jewelry stores uptown. We never bought anything, but we made excellent excuses for not doing so: The amber did not quite go with my eyes; I did not really like the emerald; and so on. Then one day I saw an amethyst pin. I loved it! We said we would think about it and left.
I got a second job – just temporarily. I became a telemarketer. I hated every minute of it, but I was good at it. I guess all that pretending, all that making claim to an alternate reality paid off. At the end of six months I had saved twelve-hundred dollars.
I put on my one good dress – black silk crepe but very plain – and wearing sunglasses but no make-up, I walked into the jewelry store with the cash. The pin was still there! (I imagine it was too small for someone who could afford whatever she wanted to take notice of.) I never wore jewelry when I went into that store except for the gold studs in my ears, a graduation present from my aunts. I went home wearing the pin on my black dress. The austerity of the neckline really set it off.
There was a woman sitting in our living room with David, drinking white wine. David introduced her as Margot. I guess we effectively carried off the appearance of wealth, because Margot took quite a close look at my pin. She was a dancer, or so David said. That seemed to be true from the way she held herself and from the length and tone of her legs. She looked elegant and aloof. Perhaps Margot was pretending to be beautiful.
She certainly convinced David. He left me for her the following weekend. He said that he was obsessed with her exquisite looks, that he had more in common with her that with me and that he and I weren’t really meant for each other.
Antoinette Carone was born in West Virginia. She has studied theater in New York city and holds a bachelor’s degree in Romance Languages. When she and her husband decided to spend a year in Naples, she kept a journal which was later published as Ciao, Napoli – A Scrapbook of Wandering in Naples. Her short stories “The Eternal Return” appeared in the May 2018 issue and “The Demon” in the January 2019 issue of the online journal Ovunque Siamo. She is an active member of the New York Writers’ Coalition.
The thunder was growling
like any defenseless thing
and the birds flew in circles
over our heads. Everything
was tired; the branches lied
vine-like over the rain-slick
street like lost shoelaces
inching back into pairs,
and we bent our boredom
to the back burner in origami
folds. The whole store sat unnoticed
which, to the lot of us, led
to a collective unrest.
I tucked the worn rags into water
and you, with your names
I’ll forget easily when it’s time,
cleared the mold off
of every peach. These days,
in my monotony,
I am a thing capable of rotting,
scared or stoned, a still-stemmed
stone fruit already molding,
before the bird wings catch
in the fence snares, before
the stars yelp back to life,
before anyone can taste it,
before anyone would care.
Kara Goughnour is a writer and documentarian living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They are the author of “Mixed Tapes,” forthcoming in the Ghost City Press Summer 2019 Micro-Chap Series. They are the recipient of the 2018 Gerald Stern Poetry Award, and have work published or forthcoming in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Third Point Press, and over forty others. Follow them on Twitter and Instagram @kara_goughnour or read their collected and exclusive works at karagoughnour.com.
I spend an afternoon listening for the sound sun makes when it hits the ground,
a symphony as it slides off blades of grass, drowns itself in pools of shadow,
then stumble up a broken mountain to see how wind is cradled.
Not a single straight line is made anywhere.
Perhaps this accounts for our human obsession with maps,
our need to press curves into grids.
They say it is for memory, but I don’t believe them—
you can’t remember this.
How land spreads before sunset fire.
How ravens fly without moving a wing.
How a single leaf makes the decision to fall.
Does earth know to catch it when it does?
Jessica Michael lives and writes in Prescott, AZ when she’s not traveling this intriguing blue planet. Her work has appeared in Allegro, Comstock Review, Red Fez, Rebelle Society, Outdoor Australia, and others. Find her poetry and photography at www.authorjessicamichael.com or follow her on Instagram as @authorjessicamichael.
I don’t want to give too much away
but the sun doesn’t rise in this one.
Instead, I light a matchstick on your spine
and our slept-over sweat doesn’t burn
and the bathtub quakes with lavender and grime.
These days, we sleep in shifts
and watch for shadows, crawling about
like things that don’t live here, like things
that don’t live anywhere.
I’m hoping that, in every scenario,
you still love me more in the end.
Outside, the hydrangeas are sagging
with rain and inside you are looking me over.
I don’t want to give too much away
but, in this one, the night is both wasted and spent well.
Kara Goughnour is a writer and documentarian living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They are the author of “Mixed Tapes,” forthcoming in the Ghost City Press Summer 2019 Micro-Chap Series. They are the recipient of the 2018 Gerald Stern Poetry Award, and have work published or forthcoming in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Third Point Press, and over forty others. Follow them on Twitter and Instagram @kara_goughnour or read their collected and exclusive works at karagoughnour.com.
Made of glass this morning,
I’m pleased that anyone can see
through me to the landscape beyond.
Being so fragile I take great care
walking up the post office steps,
and standing in line avoid
bumping old ladies clutching
parcels intended for grandkids.
The day sighs many great sighs.
It expects me to understand why
I’m made of glass this morning,
instead of rising in a fist
of stainless steel. The river
brims at the post office window.
It also is glass this morning.
If I stepped on it, tried to walk
its naked water, we’d collapse
into each other’s shy embrace,
subject and verb uniting.
I reach the window to buy a stamp
but the clerk looks right through me
to the next person in line.
I cough to get his attention
but something inside me cracks
and I have to step aside and clutch
myself to myself to avoid
shattering all over the floor.
I’ll mail my letter tomorrow
when I’ve reverted to simple flesh.
Today I’d better lie down somewhere
in the shade so I don’t start a fire.
Somewhere in the damp old forest
where no one will step on me,
my utter transparency
plain as an artist’s model,
too slick to exhibit shame.
William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His poetry, essays, reviews, and fiction have appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught writing and literature at Emerson, Goddard, Boston University, and Keene
State College. His most recent books are A Black River, A Dark Fall, a poetry collection, and Train to Providence, a collaboration with photographer Rodger Kingston. His website is williamdoreski.blogspot.com.
There is an ache like oceans
emptying themselves of everything but salt.
I walk the bottom,
cut my feet with wandering,
I fear her reckless chasms
and keep going.
Because for years
I thought I had a choice
in who and what and how I loved
when the only choice I ever had
was if I loved at all.
Here I am,
singing music to call the sea to shore.
Jessica Michael lives and writes in Prescott, AZ when she’s not traveling this intriguing blue planet. Her work has appeared in Allegro, Comstock Review, Red Fez, Rebelle Society, Outdoor Australia, and others. Find her poetry and photography at www.authorjessicamichael.com or follow her on Instagram as @authorjessicamichael.
The sun, unchained a few weeks,
direct and unapologetic.
Like me, ready to bloom.
Water surface tepid,
unfiltered rays against my cheeks.
Solar angle closes
one degree at a time,
until the heat extinguishes itself.
Wrap towel around my shoulders,
rinse my feet in water.
Cold gnaws spaces between toes.
In the distance, hills of sand
extend in all directions.
Earlier this afternoon,
I ran down the largest hill
amidst hordes of children:
more slowly than last year,
but still upright.
Swim one more hour
until the sand cools.
Place towel in the trunk,
turn ignition key. Listen
to the crunch of tires on asphalt.
Another August gone.
How many are left?
Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Tacoma, Washington. She is the author of two chapbooks and four books. Her next book, Misguided Behavior, Tales of Poor Life Choices will be published by Czykmate Press in Autumn, 2019. Leah’s work appears or is forthcoming in Blunderbuss, The Spectacle, Outlook Springs, Mojave River Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, Barnhouse, and other publications. She was a featured poet at the 2015 New York Poetry Festival, and a runner-up in the 2012 Wergle Flomp humor poetry contest.
The tornado
whispers across
the green lake
heads for your eyes
so that when I kiss you
your body splatters me
with droplets of jade
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. He has recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.
It’s near sunset and the horses are high up on the hill.
Clouds are moving in. No rain but much shadow.
The light’s an untrustworthy yellow.
He opens the barn door wide
then climbs the rise toward where
the mare and her colt, the stallion,
nibble away the hours on the lush grass.
It’s the third day of his new status
as a widower farmer.
He looks at the turkey vultures
with a more jaundiced eye.
Likewise, the red fox.
Or anything willing to peck over a carcass.
The death of a loved one
brings out every death.
Some creatures react with glee.
Others, like the horses,
indulge their mellow indifference.
Some things won’t change.
He’ll still cut up his apples,
pour salt on the slices.
He’ll drink tea with globs of honey.
And he’ll attend to the horses,
fetch them back to their stalls
while it’s not too dark out.
Their manes glow.
Their heads nod amiably.
And they follow where he leads.
The horses are the perfect companions
if life is to reestablish itself.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Nebo, Euphony and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.
That night, I tied a tiny string to each of the stars
and pulled them down towards the earth
in a big bundle, like a flower bouquet
They left trails in the jelly sky
and tangled on the wisps of clouds
A few even clanged into each other
and the sound was like a bell
So, I pulled harder
Wrapped the strings around my fist
and let them cut into my pale cold flesh
Finally, my efforts came to fruition
and a single star floated down into the troposphere
I cradled it in my arms and sang to it
– until it burst –
and the embers dissipated in the
milky night
Linnea Cooley is a poet residing in the Washington D.C. area. Her poetry appears in Neologism Poetry Journal, Boston Accent Lit, and Anti-Heroin Chic among others. More of her work can be seen on her website, linneacooley.weebly.com.
I thought I lost a thousand years,
turns out I was just blinking
What I thought a ruptured volcano
is just what I’ve missed in aching
Hanging out the window sill –
is even half of me worth saving?
I never made it to the church,
but held my faith in breaking
Why rebuild this house when it’s the land that’s cursed?
I hear it, I hear it, I hear it
I got nowhere by acting low –
even my shadow overheated
What’s a rhapsody within myself
when all I did was stay seated?
Forge anything and hope it grows
to shed a weight only Atlas knew
I calculate I’m nothing special
because entropy does what we already do
There’s a wave so big I can’t see its crest
But I feel it, I feel it, I feel it…
Joe Albanese is a writer from New Jersey. His work can be found in publications across the U.S. and in ten other countries. Joe’s novel, Caina (Mockingbird Lane Press), and his novella, Smash and Grab (Books to Go Now), were both published in 2018.
From your hope is how I hear you
Through your unabashed scars is how I feel you
Between each thought I always see you
And it’s in your flowing that I know you
The sacred and magic are born from you
For simple being, the world should thank you
In crowded streets I may have lost you
But with heart-star lantern, I’ll search for you
Although ghosts may sometimes haunt you
It’s because who wouldn’t live beside you?
From your laughter I cannot save you
But in tears I’d never have you
If it’s in the sunlight that I want you
Then it’s in its shadows I am with you
If all our lives I never reach you
Then let these words be how I love you.
Joe Albanese is a writer from New Jersey. His work can be found in publications across the U.S. and in ten other countries. Joe’s novel, Caina (Mockingbird Lane Press), and his novella, Smash and Grab (Books to Go Now), were both published in 2018.
Monday
Mother sits in her favorite armchair, peering through the picture windows onto her backyard garden. The rose trees are beginning to bloom, she calls to me. I’m in the kitchen, washing up last night’s dishes, scrubbing spills from the stove, sweeping and mopping the floor. I respond with a quick, that’s nice. She leaves her spot only for meals and bathroom breaks. Night falls; a veil of darkness obscures her precious flowers. I plant a light kiss on her cheek as I put her to bed.
Tuesday
The rose trees are beginning to bloom. Her words seem to dance across her lips. I’m busy loading the washing machine and unloading the dryer. I look up, but I don’t respond. Mother stands at the window like an expectant child on the night before her birthday.
Wednesday
Mother, are you finished dressing? Again, she’s standing by the back window, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Have you seen them? The roses are beginning to bloom! Her blouse hangs open; her hair’s undone. I walk over to her and place my hand on her forearm. Come with me mom, we’re running late for your appointment. I don’t bother to look out onto the garden; I’m busy calculating how long it will take me to finish getting her dressed.
Thursday
Okay mom. I’m off. Lunch is in the fridge. There’s a glass of coconut water on the table and if you need a snack there’s a granola bar in the cabinet. I should be back by dinner time.
Have you seen them?
Seen what?
The roses buds. The rose trees are beginning to bloom.
I know, I know. I’ll look at them when I get back. I have to go. Love you. I grab my purse and head out the door.
Thursday Evening
Mom, I’m home. Mom, I’m back. I open the fridge and retrieve a bottle of cold water. It’s 5:30, and her lunch is still there. Mom, where are you? Why haven’t you eaten? I walk through the house, glancing into her bedroom, the bathroom and the living room. Finally, I look out the back window. She’s there, sitting on the bench in her beloved garden. I retrieve her lunch from the fridge and head outside. Mom. She doesn’t respond. Mom, you must be starving. I lay my hand on her shoulder, there’s no response. Mom, mom! Are you alright? Mom say something! Mom! Mom!
Friday
The hospital’s ER is ice-cold. Pictures of children playing in fields adorn the walls.
Saturday
I call close friends and family. My hands shake as I dial each number.
Sunday
I stand at the window gazing out into the back yard. Yellow, pink and red roses adorn my mother’s garden. The roses are in full bloom
Arlene Antoinette is a poet of West Indian birth who grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She graduated from Brooklyn College and worked as an instructor with disabled individuals for many years. You may find additional work by Arlene at Foxglove Journal, Little Rose Magazine, I am not a silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, The Feminine Collective, The Open Mouse, Amaryllis Poetry, Boston Accent Lit, Sick Lit Magazine, Postcard Shorts, 50 Word Stories, The Ginger Collect, Neologism Poetry Journal and Your Daily Poem.
