concealed by soil a seed uncurls her name

          —Kat Lehmann

                              the interruption
                              of em dashes

                                        —Kat Lehmann


                                                                   Birds: define, then scatter. Then repeat.

                                                                             —Josh Massey

                                                                   Artists—avoid cars and other vehicles!
                                                                   Spinning wheels are not your friends!

                                                                             —Josh Massey


                              New Life Omen

                              A charcoal taste.
                              The flight of ghosts.

                                        —Briar Ripley Page

Flight Omen

Three severed bird wings dance across the asphalt, trailing red strings.

          —Briar Ripley Page


                              seedless rain the morgue in me

                                        —Lithica Ann


                                                                      Pirates, hunting rock
                                                                      crystals in a bowl of sea, kiss
                                                                      the voyages still.

                                                                                —Prosper Ìféányí


the cicada caught in the spider web

no longer has robin’s egg blue wings.

          —Linda M. Crate


                              dusk downpour
                              frozen by lightning

                                        —Robbie Gamble


                                                                      infinite smallness
                                                                      when he asks me to look for
                                                                      bacchus on the moon

                                                                                —Valerie Wong


                              half of me erased the sky inherited by crows


                              the glide of the scalpel down the belly of the cloud


                              mudlark the blue-green shift of eyes



Beach day

gull screams scrape the blue
crabs sand scrabbling like dogs
dead jelly dries up

          —Adrienne Pilon


                              calving glacier another cycle of boom and bust

                                        —Debbie Strange


—L. M. Cole



                                                                      Unmoored in my thoughts,
                                                                      Narrow blue pill my lighthouse.
                                                                      Whatever works, right?

                                                                                —Emily Neuharth

                              “Are you sitting down?”

                              My ex came back
                              Into my life today but
                              He’s gone forever

                                        —Emily Neuharth


how do I hold myself?

          —Aishwarya Vedula

                                                                      widening my view sea salt rose

                                                                                —Aishwarya Vedula


                              the dog on the bench keeps barking

                              & the man sitting with him keeps repeating

                              I don’t’ know what to say — I love you man

                                        —Mikey Swanberg


                                                                      rippled wake—
                                                                      as long as it takes

                                                                                —Shloka Shankar

                              raindrops sliding down glass :: the blue-grey light of living

                                        —Shloka Shankar

—Shloka Shankar


My Fourteenth Great-Grandfather was a Conquistador

Aren’t we tired of this story? The dead behind us, the dead between us.
The dead on their way from tomorrow’s rounds.


Like the motmot bird, without a second thought, I sup on poisonous things.
Make nutrients of the fatal face in mine, minerals of slime.

          —heidi andrea restrepo rhodes


—rs and Shloka Shankar