The officer from the county jail looks like Captain America.  
He steps out of the room so I can help my patient out of her dirty clothes 
and into a gown, but he leaves the door half open. 
I try to close it and he pushes back. I’m not worried, I say. 
I know you’re not but it’s my job to keep you safe.
I can’t tell if this offends me more because it is patronizing 
or because it is untrue. He’s the one that chained her to the bed.

Amnesty international, the UN Committee Against Torture, the ACLU, the American Medical Association, US law, Oregon law, laws in 40 other states plus DC, the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecologists, the American Bar Association, the National Commission on Correctional Health Care, even ICE 

condemn the use of shackles in pregnancy as a violation of human rights. 
But nothing changes on the frontline, so America and I keep having this conversation.

He asks me if a painful withdrawal isn’t just the consequence 
of her choices. I say Her whole life has been the consequence 
of someone else’s choices. 

I want to add

No one should be punished 
who has escaped a warzone, 
who has walked through the desert, 
who comes to and finds herself pregnant 
because we don’t like what they had to do to survive.
The women you shackle to hospital beds,
even while they labor, even after their c-sections, 
numb from the ribs down, are trying
to get off fentanyl, they are trying 
to imagine a life where they are free
to take their babies to the library when it’s raining. 

America, 
you wanna know what I’m scared of? 
Men who grin at me wolfishly while their girlfriends weep in labor,
anti-abortion activists who mail death threats to my hospital,
systems of oppression that pin down the powerless to sell the lie 
that getting by is the same 
as getting free

but that would be preaching 
and against all odds, 
we’re closer to a heart to heart 
than either of us planned, so I skip to the end, say
I want to help her get free.
Then he gets the call we’ve been waiting for.
He digs for his keys and the Tupperware for his leg chain, 
tells me my wish has come true, she’s been released. 
This is usually how it happens, the county 
doesn’t want the hospital bill.

She shimmies back into her hot pink dress,
tells me thank you
asks if she can take the cheesecake with her.
I tell her we’ll be here when she needs us. 
Her fingers flicker to her belly.
I’ll get by, she says.

Rae McMinn Kaigler (she/her) is a 4th generation Oregonian, labor and delivery nurse, mother and emerging poet living in Portland. If you can find her, you will likely do so wandering the trails, mountains, or rivers of the Pacific Northwest.

With blank faces, unblinking beneath the overhead lights,
only red-heart lips, perpetually sealed, they stand tall
in their usefulness. The ones who don dresses need no legs,
a metal pole will suffice. Their arms and hands are angled
into confident poses. Finger to chin in thought
about which skirt would look best for the party.
Magenta or periwinkle? Life is full
of tough decisions like that. Another points forward,
as in a conversation with a friend.
She exclaims how much she enjoys her new
dishwasher, and the other has found a new
stain remover. It works wonders, eliminating her
biggest challenges.

At the end of the day, the shoppers
with their bag-weighted arms, tails of receipt paper,
and designer scents that linger in their wake
have exited through the whoosh of the doors.
The manager, with aching feet and kids to feed at home,
cuts the voiceless music, flicks off the lights, locks up with a sigh.

Silence, for just a minute. Then the mannequins blink,
unlock their angled arms, arch their backs with a collective groan.
They slouch shoulders, release stomachs from being held in so tight,
for so long. With arms linked, they form a circle, temples touching.
They whisper—plot an escape.

Lauren Oertel (she/her) is a writer, editor, and community organizer based in Austin, Texas. She is a writing workshop facilitator certified in the Amherst Writers & Artists method. Her work has been published in Black Fox Literary, The Westchester Review, Gemini Magazine, The Sun Magazine, and more. She has been a winner and finalist in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction contests with The Letter Review, Writer’s Digest, Prime Number Magazine, and others. Lauren is the coauthor of the book Inside Out: A Texas Prisons Poetry Story, and her debut full-length poetry collection, Scars & Other Luxuries, is forthcoming with Finishing Line Press in November.

            a walk in Mayfield Park

I didn’t see it.
The pecan tree
branches and tapestries
of Spanish moss shadowed
the sun’s reflection off the silk
stretched across the path.
So I crashed right through
that delicate trap. Brushing off
the invisible string, I continued
my walk as a web-home wrecker
acquiring a cotton candy shawl.
It wasn’t until I stopped
rested to grip a live oak’s trunk
let its bark ground me
that I saw it. The spider,
too small to cause concern,
had hitched a ride. She shimmied
down my arm, over my hand
and settled into a new home
in the crevices of that bark.
I had been her destroyer,
but also her bridge.

Lauren Oertel (she/her) is a writer, editor, and community organizer based in Austin, Texas. She is a writing workshop facilitator certified in the Amherst Writers & Artists method. Her work has been published in Black Fox Literary, The Westchester Review, Gemini Magazine, The Sun Magazine, and more. She has been a winner and finalist in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction contests with The Letter Review, Writer’s Digest, Prime Number Magazine, and others. Lauren is the coauthor of the book Inside Out: A Texas Prisons Poetry Story, and her debut full-length poetry collection, Scars & Other Luxuries, is forthcoming with Finishing Line Press in November.

Its rooting tendrils shoot deep
winding down into the earth,
embedding in the dark soil
of thoughts rich with the wounds
we still cling to. Clutching great loss
even after it is all over, following loss
even if tiny spines pierce the heel
of our heart, with prickles almost invisible
but we know it is terrible to pry
them out. To think again, to breathe again,
to begin again. Spines press pain into our skin
when we tug the roots, take another breath.

Amy Madson (she/her) is a writer and teacher from Minnesota. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Concordia University, Saint Paul. Her poems and short stories have appeared in Feel Literary Magazine, Lunae Literature & Review, B O D Y, The Nelligan Review and elsewhere.

I chase shoplifters, search them, see them
naked. whore my hands, rent my mind,
pimp my words. sell shoes made by little hands.

I’ve got half the rent. electricity
cut off. water bill-final notice.

the sun screams epithets at my back,
spits at my face, burns my feet in Payless soles.
it swallows shadows, eats clouds, breathes hot air.

clip on tie. polyblend shirt. Blue Light Specials.
at $3.35/hour, I sew tears with leftover thread.

part time pay. food in plastic sleeves.
registers overflow in green for miles
of vegetable fields. untouchable. corporate owned.

Dolores, store clerk, found dead
in a lettuce field.
gunshot.
domestic violence.

doctor bill. to collections. no health insurance.
no vacation pay, but Ford Escort is too old
anyway. after 1,000 hours of work
a 5 cent per hour raise.

from the intercom,
We met our daily goal!
our department goal!

like idiots we applaud because we’re told
that communists are bad,
that socialism doesn't work,
that unions are only in the movies.

no Father Hidalgo to break chains. no Sally Field to lead a walkout.
the Book of Rosaura Revueltas on the cutting room floor.

the manager. bleach blond stick. beige pencil skirt. dollar signs for eyes.
holds a dollar shaped sponge. its profit sharing.
dunk it in water. it will expand.
from the corner Isabel yells,
I wish I could do that with my paycheck!

What did you say?

we laugh. our call for revolution disguised as a joke.
and I return to tapping on keys, measuring feet, chasing thieves!

Ricardo Moran (he/him) is a past recipient of the Peter K. Hixson Memorial Award for Poetry. His writing has been published or is forthcoming in Beatific Magazine, Cider Press Review, Midwest Quarterly, Perceptions Magazine, East Jasmine Review, The Seattle Star, and Willa Cather Review. He is a former board member and current advisory board member for San Diego Writers, Ink. and is a former associate editor with Zoetic Press. His debut poetry anthology, Not Quite Heaven, from Broken Tribe Press, was published in 2025 and was shortlisted for the 2024 Tribe Poetry Award. He has delivered poetry readings in Albania, Ireland, and a book signing in Norway. He lives in Albania, enjoys traveling, and learning how to say “good morning” in as many languages as possible. In every timeline, you can find him reading, writing, and plotting right here: www.ricardomoranwriter.com

1985

slow drip. mellow brew of cold cow dung
blankets, smears the air with gaseous vapor.

a rickety yellow bus at 7:20am
creaks. cold metal frame. vinyl seat.
English syllables disembark at the curb.

acne caked face. covered
in spindly corduroy legs.
Pierre Cardin cologne.
Members Only Jacket.
hair of mullet. Kmart backpack.
Velcro strap sneakers.

the holy mother scrubs me,
washes my thoughts, rinses my eyes
to erase my lustful gaze
on that guy’s crotch.

my book of Marx melds with Christ of the poor.
but my sword and shield
have not yet found their rhythm.

my father’s arsenal of words
are fists of fear,
of Catholic obedience,
of American pride.

the newspaper maps got it wrong.
the MX missiles live here, on his tongue.
he launches them with my grandfather’s voice for fuel,
built with his father’s father’s hand
to tell me that this school
will save me from the fags.

Bananarama whistles from the cafeteria.
the silver lid on the tall tamal pot clangs
and if i could, I would slip out of this gay skin, slide
it off like a wet, humid husk of foreskin
before I catch AIDS from a boy’s kiss.

sister calls us to lower our heads.
my rosary wraps around bony fingers,
resin beads press against the bottom
phalanx, tightened to the middle,
rub, press corners into flesh.
its fangs, its venom permeate my skin.
my words of submission--its libation.

Ricardo Moran (he/him) is a past recipient of the Peter K. Hixson Memorial Award for Poetry. His writing has been published or is forthcoming in Beatific Magazine, Cider Press Review, Midwest Quarterly, Perceptions Magazine, East Jasmine Review, The Seattle Star, and Willa Cather Review. He is a former board member and current advisory board member for San Diego Writers, Ink. and is a former associate editor with Zoetic Press. His debut poetry anthology, Not Quite Heaven, from Broken Tribe Press, was published in 2025 and was shortlisted for the 2024 Tribe Poetry Award. He has delivered poetry readings in Albania, Ireland, and a book signing in Norway. He lives in Albania, enjoys traveling, and learning how to say “good morning” in as many languages as possible. In every timeline, you can find him reading, writing, and plotting right here: www.ricardomoranwriter.com

I see you wrestling with yourself
teetering on the precipice of a cliff
numbing your senses with pleasure and pain
unaware that you are steps from the eternal shade

I would not gift you peace
I would not gift you tranquility
I would not gift you calm

I would gift you a storm
so that you seek shelter
and take care of yourself in a safer haven

I would gift you lightning 
so that you have cause to examine the sky 
and reconnect with your North Star

I would gift you an earthquake 
so that you recognise the unsteadiness of the earth 
and move yourself to solid ground

my dear friend 
on the precipice of change
it will not help for me to gift you what you desire 

you will find quiet soon
I pray it is inward peace you seek as you listen to yourself
rather than the silence that surrounds a slowly dying heart

Baillie Aaron (she/her) is an educator and entrepreneur with a background in behavioral science. A graduate of Harvard and Cambridge, she spent over 15 years supporting people navigating some of life’s hardest transitions - most notably, individuals leaving prison and rebuilding their lives. In 2023, she founded Being In-Between, which helps people in career transitions navigate uncertainty, reinvent their identity and shape a future that feels fulfilling, exciting and aligned. She is transfixed by liminality and moments of metamorphosis.

San Juan Mountains, CO


I saw the buck laid out like a busted myth—
legs folded, belly soft, ribs skyward
like someone gave up mid-prayer.

Magpie standing proud
on the chest,
all slick tail and side-eye,
scouting the seam
between meat and morning.

First day—
fur not yet slipped,
no blood, just the hush
before the work begins.

Second day—
a hole.
          Third—
          deeper.
                     Fourth—
                     bone.

That bird knew what it was doing.
Like it had done this a hundred times—
like it had a schedule,
a union card,
a holy assignment.

By the fifth day,
it looked like a heart
still beating
in a hollow cathedral of ribs.

It didn’t mourn.
Didn’t flinch.
Just kept carving
its wild devotion—
answering
whatever the gods asks
a creature to do
with a body,
a hunger,
and a day.

Connor Wolfe (they/them) is a writer, photographer, publisher, and advocate whose work spans over two decades and fourteen titles. Rooted in both literary and visual traditions of storytelling, their practice moves between image and language, often inhabiting the liminal spaces where the two converge. Influenced by the lineage of Beat poets and folk singers, Wolfe’s work is marked by a restless attention to place, impermanence, and the quiet revelations of the road.

They are the founder of Wayfarer Magazine and Wayfarer Books. Wolfe’s literary contributions have earned six Pushcart Prize nominations, the Gold Nautilus Medal for Poetry (2015), multiple Foreword Review Book Awards, and the Nautilus Silver Medal (2022). Their innovative approach to publishing led to two terms on the Board of Directors for the Independent Book Publishers Association, a TEDx talk at Yale University, and a degree from Harvard University through grant programs.

In 2024, they volunteered in the Collections Department at the Museum of Anthropology at Ghost Ranch, assisting in the repatriation of sacred objects under the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA). After wintering along the foothills of Cerro Pedernal, Wolfe continues to travel, working in both photography and verse alongside their three-legged black cat, momo.

The old man shakes the picture frame on the wall. The frame stayed up watching TV all night.

The old man walks to the park. He places the frame in a stroller. They walk by the tree
where the frame broke her arm. At lunch, he airplanes a spoonful of peas to the frame.
He wipes spit-up from her chin with Windex and a bib. The fabric has tears. It’s the one they gave him at the hospital where the frame was born. Seven pounds, eleven inches.

At night, the old man draws a bath for the frame. He elbows the water. Just right. The
frame floats in circles next to her yellow ducky. The frame hates it when the old man
cleans behind her ears.

The old man hangs the frame back on the wall. He kisses her on the forehead. He huffs on the glass and wipes the lip mark with his shirt corner. He leaves the light on. He knows the frame is afraid of the dark. He checks his phone. “Unread.” He looks at the frame. He smiles. He remembers to pull down chicken from the freezer. The picture frame’s cross-country team is coming over tomorrow. They love his chicken parm.

Jose Oseguera (he/him) is a writer of poetry, short fiction and literary nonfiction. His writing has been featured or is forthcoming in Water Stone, Pinch and Sonora Review. He is the author of the poetry collections The Milk of Your Blood (Kelsay Books, 2021) and And This House Is Only a Nest (Homebound Publications, 2024).

There is something sacred among the cottonwoods,
pines and black locusts—
a stillness echoing through the branches.
Even the birds sit among the leaves
in quiet reverie.

Among the trees
is sanctuary from a fractured world.
An air of ease
that stills the most restless spirits
living in a world torn apart by hatred, greed and delusion.
Where the different are shunned, children hunger,
and ignorance wears a badge of honor.

Walking along the paths
the aged trees share stories and wisdom—
a world long past.
A world where life was once held sacred.
And all life lived in contented balance.

The trees usher me into their world.
Their scent of sweet earthy decay
invites calm.
The leaves, stirred by wind,
sing gentle harmony.

They trust me, the trees.
They hold me safe among their branches
inviting me to stay.
I whisper to them, “If I stay,
who will share your stories?
Who will carry your wisdom?”

So I go—
The trees hold my spirit.
I carry their wisdom,
rooted in my heart.

Matthew Griggs (he/him) is a poet whose work draws deeply from the natural world, where he finds a sense of belonging, reverence, and quiet transformation. Much of his poetry is written while walking prairie trails or sitting beneath trees, where moments of stillness open into reflection. His writing explores themes of solitude, healing, emotional honesty, and spiritual renewal, often rooted in the sacred relationship between self and landscape. Influenced by the lyric clarity of Mary Oliver and the contemplative wisdom of Buddhist teachings—particularly those of Thích Nhất Hạnh—his poems act as meditations on impermanence, interconnectedness, and the emotional weathering of the human spirit. His imagery is precise and grounded in the specific flora and fauna of the Midwest, inviting the reader into a space of mindful presence and shared vulnerability. For Matthew, poetry is not just an art form but a practice—a way of listening to silence, honoring emotion, and bridging the inner and outer worlds. His voice is both gentle and direct, rooted in lived experience and the longing to make peace with the self. He writes to reconnect with the earth, to witness the quiet offerings of nature, and to remind others (and himself) that beauty and belonging are still possible, even in times of personal or collective unrest.

I feel distant from myself today.
There's a sadness deep within me—
an intense ache from somewhere
that I am lost to in this moment.
Perhaps it's just the dull sky,
pale with heavy gray clouds,
dampening my spirit.

Either way, this muffled gray permeates everything,
just like this stifling humidity.
It distracts my senses from
finding myself

where I wander the prairie
beside the woods
where the trees still hold my spirit.
Somewhere among the grasses,
my self—who I am—lingers still,
rooted in the meadow,
waiting to be found.

Bumblebees gathering sweet nectar
from the blossoms—
guiding me to the paths
lined by bee balm and black-eyed Susans.
Monarchs—guardians of the prairie—
float around me, gently returning
my attention to the present.
A doe stands in a questioning gaze,
so I ask it,

"Will I ever feel
the warming rays of the sun again?
Feel its light on my sun-worn skin?
Will the prairie allow me to remember
what I’ve forgotten?
Will there be strength enough
in what remains of me
to live in that deeper truth—
within a world burdened by suffering?”
But the doe silently returns
with her fawns back into the grass
leaving me to wonder
if I will ever find myself again.

Matthew Griggs (he/him) is a poet whose work draws deeply from the natural world, where he finds a sense of belonging, reverence, and quiet transformation. Much of his poetry is written while walking prairie trails or sitting beneath trees, where moments of stillness open into reflection. His writing explores themes of solitude, healing, emotional honesty, and spiritual renewal, often rooted in the sacred relationship between self and landscape.

Influenced by the lyric clarity of Mary Oliver and the contemplative wisdom of Buddhist teachings—particularly those of Thích Nhất Hạnh—his poems act as meditations on impermanence, interconnectedness, and the emotional weathering of the human spirit. His imagery is precise and grounded in the specific flora and fauna of the Midwest, inviting the reader into a space of mindful presence and shared vulnerability.

For Matthew, poetry is not just an art form but a practice—a way of listening to silence, honoring emotion, and bridging the inner and outer worlds. His voice is both gentle and direct, rooted in lived experience and the longing to make peace with the self.

He writes to reconnect with the earth, to witness the quiet offerings of nature, and to remind others (and himself) that beauty and belonging are still possible, even in times of personal or collective unrest.

From the collection, Blue Marble Gazetteer

Henry grabs the buoy with a boat hook,
wraps the line on a winch and hauls a seven
pot trawl, bits of seaweed and mud
flying off the rope.  Large gloved hands
snatch wire cages as they surface

with a dripping splutter.  Muscular,
with a creased, leathery face,
spindly chicken legs in short pants,
and bulging biceps, he’s Popeye escaped
from cartoons and comic strips, shaped

by seventy-five years of sun, wind,
salt and tides.  Caught in the wire parlor,
several glossy, dark-olive lobsters scuttle
about like giant Jurassic insects.
Shorts and a few eggers, spider

crabs and a starfish go overboard
with a plop, the keepers tossed into
a tank of circulating seawater.
Looking out at clusters of colorful plastic
buoys like a field of floating flowers,

he points a finger: “Greedy sons-of-bitches,”
he says in a voice rising from low growl
to godly bellow, “some of these bastards
with a couple thousand pots aren’t making
a living, they’re doing a killing,

raping the resource.”  In a tattered orange
apron, Henry boasts about his new
Harley, cuts thick chunks of stinking,
oily mackerel, stuffing them into each
emptied trap, a “lobster’s gourmet

fantasy.”  Years ago he was bar to bar
raising hell, igniting fights.  Now
“everyone scrambles when they see
this old fuck coming,” he says. “No telling
 what the SOB will do.”  Henry puts

the baited pots on the rail, slowly
piloting the boat forward, each one
falling with a rhythmic splash, quickly
disappearing beneath sun-sparkled green water.
“There are no laws,” he explains, “just

restrictions on peoples’ lives.”
But he keeps close to the pulse,
tying up his thirty-six-footer each
night beside the police boat.  Hosing
mud, fish oil and debris off the deck,

he guides the boat around a maze of red,
blue, and purple buoys.  “It’s a pirate
business,” he says. “Pricks soaking
pots just to hold ground when fishing
sucks, sabotaging boats, cutting lines.”

Henry fished until lobsters faded
in warming Long Island Sound waters.
A force of nature, he held on until Nature
gave out. “Never pray for me,” he’d laugh.
“No one gets outta here alive.”

David K. Leff is an award-winning poet and essayist, and former deputy commissioner of the Connecticut Department of Environmental Protection. He is the Canton, Connecticut poet laureate, deputy town historian, and town meeting moderator. He was a volunteer firefighter for 26 years.

In 2016 and 2017 David was appointed by the National Park Service to serve as poet-in-residence for the New England National Scenic Trail (NET). He has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize, and has twice been a finalist in the Connecticut Book Awards. David has received two silver medals from the Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY), and was grand prize short-listed for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. His work has appeared in anthologies, newspapers such as the Hartford Courant, and magazines including Appalachia and Yankee.

The author of seven nonfiction books, three volumes of poetry, and two novels in verse, David’s work focuses on the connection of people to their communities and the natural environment. He often explores commonplace elements of the world around us that have hidden meanings and unusual links to each other.

David has been the book review editor of Connecticut Woodlands, the quarterly magazine of the Connecticut Forest & Park Association and is now poetry editor. He is a staff writer for The Wayfarer Magazine.

David’s papers are located at the Special Collections and University Archives, UMass/Amherst. View his work at www.davidkleff.com

From the collection, Blue Marble Gazetter

Nearly one-third of the wild birds in the United States
and Canada have vanished since 1970.
     —Fitzpatrick & Marra, The New York Times, 9/19/2019


I awaken to ghost birds,
my ears ringing with dawn choruses past— 
robins, finches, warblers, thrushes, and wrens
erupting in melodies so loud and full I could not think,
my mind carried on a freshet of sound.

This morning is no silent spring,
but a season muffled, slowly choked of breath,
a boisterous choir fading to an ensemble
of sweet chirps and whistles,
not the wall of sound I heard as a boy.

Connecting earth, air and water,
wings and hollow bones morph to totems, portents.
Is there freedom or courage without eagles,
mystery absent owls peering into darkness,
peace and healing minus the grace of cranes?


I need no homing pigeons
when hushed birdsong augurs anxiety and awe,
messages me on the planet’s health.
Must every feathered thing be a canary,
every backyard, street corner and hilltop a coal mine?

David K. Leff is an award-winning poet and essayist, and former deputy commissioner of the Connecticut Department of Environmental Protection. He is the Canton, Connecticut poet laureate, deputy town historian, and town meeting moderator. He was a volunteer firefighter for 26 years.

In 2016 and 2017 David was appointed by the National Park Service to serve as poet-in-residence for the New England National Scenic Trail (NET). He has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize, and has twice been a finalist in the Connecticut Book Awards. David has received two silver medals from the Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY), and was grand prize short-listed for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. His work has appeared in anthologies, newspapers such as the Hartford Courant, and magazines including Appalachia and Yankee.

The author of seven nonfiction books, three volumes of poetry, and two novels in verse, David’s work focuses on the connection of people to their communities and the natural environment. He often explores commonplace elements of the world around us that have hidden meanings and unusual links to each other.

David has been the book review editor of Connecticut Woodlands, the quarterly magazine of the Connecticut Forest & Park Association and is now poetry editor. He is a staff writer for The Wayfarer Magazine.

David’s papers are located at the Special Collections and University Archives, UMass/Amherst. View his work at www.davidkleff.com

Who will claim this lily pad,
Island of paradise,
Wile away the day with birdsong
And waterfall spill over stacked slate?
Insects dance before skittering away
When predators advance to revel and marvel,
Lounging in anticipation
Mirth for moments, wings carry
In swirling movement,
The soft breeze,
Lulling the innocents

Mitzi Dorton (she/her) is author of the book, Chief Corn Tassel, Finishing Line Press, Literary Global Book Award finalist in history and biography. A multi-genre writer, she has poetry in Rattle, Shadowplay, Constellations, Appalachian Places, Poetry South, and is a finalist with both the Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge/Peace Poems, and the Golden Ox Micro-Prose Contest. She is a part of two award-winning publications, Rise, Northern Colorado Writers, Colorado Book Award in anthology and G. I. Days, Milltown Press, New Generation Indie Book Award finalist. Dorton is a former reader and reviewer with Nunum and past associate editor with Fiction on the Web.

And those days still live. Those suns never set, not permanently.
	No, I rise every morning to meet them—
the same, the same as it’s always been, eternity’s mists
	dispelling with each step taken within.
It still melts my soul to yours. You’re long gone, but the longing
	goes on, anyway. The tug to something
that wasn’t meant to last pulls me through our being impossible.
	From me to you, everywhere in-between,
those happy days together pulse still, at my fingertips,
	rippling in each word I put my hand to,
caressing every memory with the mystery of what
	could’ve been, touching on the meaning of
our being meant for longing alone. It is nobody’s loss,
	least of all, ours, that the timing was off—
The note we left on holds through every hour’s tolling,
	the sign of the times holds true in our words.

Garrett R. Bruner (he/him) is an archivist for archaeology projects, processing ancient Greek script related collections and serving as a site archivist for two Roman villas near Pompeii, Italy. He writes poetry daily since 2016 and it is forthcoming in The North Dakota Quarterly. He lives in Austin, Texas.

It won’t be long until you won’t find me there. It’s been a
	long time coming. It’s been unbecoming,
my holding on, day in, day out, for you to find yourself
	where I’m losing all sense of belonging.
My living, here, just isn’t cutting it. I got a gut feeling
	it won’t be getting much better, either.
With or without you, I’ve got to get going. There’s no promise of
	anything better, but what else is new?
I’m used to it. I’m pro at missing out on what’s plain as day.
	Absence made itself felt at my expense,
and now my soul pays for it, but still, your presence of mind
	made up for it, giving me something to
go off. Some way, I’ll never find my way back here. The time’s come.
	Tomorrow waits for my step, but I’m gone.
It’s all been done before. Off the edge of a silver forest,
	a sliver of an opening offered
a way forward, but, not for two. It took me in, alone, its gloom
	heavy on the boughs overhead, its shroud
light on the ground, its mystery rising as I’m down on
	my knees, its chorus barely a whisper…
Into its twists and turns, my soul remains true—
	in its mists, my step founders and ceases—
in another life, I will keep on walking should our paths cross,
	in another time, we would’ve gone on…

Garrett R. Bruner (he/him) is an archivist for archaeology projects, processing ancient Greek script related collections and serving as a site archivist for two Roman villas near Pompeii, Italy. He writes poetry daily since 2016 and it is forthcoming in The North Dakota Quarterly. He lives in Austin, Texas.

I could hold up my phone
and learn what bird makes this call 
like six cuts of a spade 
followed by a long sigh,
but a house going up needs
more to hold onto: repetition,
perhaps, or a brief un-
knowing. Meanwhile, six months
for the science building to fall, 
and still not really down. Backhoes bow 
through their rough archeology
as if grazing on the foundation.
All spring I watched cranes 
claw open the classrooms, marked 
weeks to summer by floors razed 
which sounds like gone up 
but is spelled like piles of torn concrete, 
more wire than you’d think
now gathered like snarled hair, the nest 
gone wrong. There’s a fence to protect 
us from it, or protect it
from us.  I couldn’t really see
change until I was gone— 
then the difference when I returned,
sky where there hadn’t been sky. 
Now birds, a chickadee flying
to the feeder for a single peanut
he takes to the tree. Back,
then away. Five peanuts. Winging off
through the pollen that floats
like asbestos, a man on a lift
to spray it with water, keep away
from our lungs. Below him, 
another machine stalks through 
looking for salvage.

Laura Donnelly (she/her) is the author of Midwest Gothic (Ashland Poetry Press) and Watershed (Cider Press Review), and her poems have appeared in Colorado Review, Missouri Review, Poets.org, SWWIM, Harvard Review, and elsewhere. Originally from Michigan, she lives in Upstate New York and teaches at SUNY Oswego.

My body wears no armor,
how lucky it’s got me. 
I keep it warm in pencil skirts,
it gets it all for free. 

My body has a stock portfolio 
of poetry, lipgloss & stews. 
It never feels fed enough
& constantly spews. 

My body does not play by rules,
it does what I would not. 
I’m fond of eggs, Netflix, words,
it only finds bodies hot. 

My body turns out all types of trash
like dead cells, migraines & tears. 
I work it out, shampoo it, keep it tidy
from bunions to ears. 

My body knows no street smarts,
just calculus, Hulu & lust. 
I stand by it as it breaks to pieces 
& heal it in good trust. 

My body hasn’t thanked me yet,
it loves dismantling me. 
I shove it Sisyphus-style uphill
& let it nap along the sea. 

My body never talks to me,
it has no social skill. 
I cater to its slightest whimsy,
it’s waiting for the kill.

Grace Lynn (she/her/them) is an emerging painter who lives with a chronic illness. Her work explores the intersections between faith, the natural world, art and the body. In her spare time, Grace enjoys listening to Bob Dylan, reading suspense novels and investigating absurd angles of art history.

I will cradle your head in my hands
like you once did for me
You smell of light lavender and a hint of black coffee
the same as always
Your voice more hollow now
never losing the cadence
as when you’d call us to put the clothes on the line
Your fingers walking along the edge of the tightrope
nimble and with precision you help me
learn the art of moving from basket, 
to commitment, to being free
now those same fingers are hooked up 
to the beepy things you hate so much
when I tell you you can’t go home for the 17th time in 8 minutes 
Your tone becomes clipped
explaining why you can’t stay here
I tell you
“Home is when I’m with you”
You calm
I comb your hair now a faded hue of slate
You are the reason I am here
Your body now getting ready to leave me
You grab my hand with surprising strength
even though your tendons have softened with time
You stroke the back of my hand softly
with your fingertips
I become 5 again

Dayna Hodge Lynch (she/they) is a Black femme poet from North Carolina. Dayna received her B.A. in English, a minor in African and African-American Studies at Loyola University of New Orleans, their MFA from Queens University of Charlotte, and MLS from North Carolina Central University. Her work can be found in Rattle, Rappahannock Review, Potomac Review, NZ’s Tarot, the B’K, and daynahodgelynch.com.

Dear Deddi, 

You’d never believe this hole-in-the-wall I found. 
Grits were on the menu—with cheese, butter, salt and pepper. 
Steak was offered smothered and covered. 
You know I don’t like meat like that. 
But I sat and looked at the antique chestnut wallpaper 
Same as the place off of 74, like you used to take us. 

My mind got confused this morning. 
Last night's tequila might’ve had something to do with it. 
Elements of my day reminded me of you, how you’d forget to get gas, 
I could’ve sworn I heard you say “Babygirl” 
or “can I hold some money til payday?”

It’s muscadine picking season now. 
You remember when we went hunting but I couldn’t kill a fly 
so y’all put me on “berry brigade?” 
Those wild deep purple muscadines are still my favorite. 

We got the big January snow you called about 3 days after you [redacted]. 
I made snow cream with too much vanilla extract and not enough cinnamon, the oatmilk wasn’t bad. Whirling whispers of death thick anointing the wind as the flurries fell to earth. 

 I’ve found I can time travel in my mind back to before you [redacted]. 

Holding the blue reel in my hand before dangling the Spotted Brim over by the bass littering banks before…

How am i supposed to be here without You?

Dayna Hodge Lynch (she/they) is a Black femme poet from North Carolina. Dayna received her B.A. in English, a minor in African and African-American Studies at Loyola University of New Orleans, their MFA from Queens University of Charlotte, and MLS from North Carolina Central University. Her work can be found in Rattle, Rappahannock Review, Potomac Review, NZ’s Tarot, the B’K, and daynahodgelynch.com.