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A Tub Poem I was watching this poem float by and thinking it was painted by Van Gogh I don’t know Or was it the women going to and fro talking of Michelangelo I don’t know but what I do know that there are no words once the water gets cold and the words get old Tied Down I don’t wear ties anymore but I have hundreds of them hanging around and when I die I don’t want one on Same thing goes for these poems I’ve been writing daily since Ash Wednesday and if this energy creeps into another Lent let me burn the ties and the poems too and then push me towards the many books that are collecting dust especially those diaries stacked not neatly in the bowels of the basement cleanse me of my sins and wash away my iniquities after the fire amen The Last War For the last war on planet earth I don’t want to wear a uniform maybe just an olive green tee shirt in vogue these days by a Jewish comedian but of course war is not a laughing matter I want to be in a foxhole with you with shovels to dig our trench deeper so deep that we’d be at the opposite end of the world I used to think that it would be China but now I’m not sure there’s a good possibility we’d end up in the middle of the ocean somewhere we’d bring along an inflatable raft like the one used in a James Bond movie just in case we’d be in it for the long haul living on each other’s breath not tiring of the work involved knowing in advance that we may be the only two alive to start something new

We share moments of grace And we love the bones of the bird That flies around our blooming fantasy Collecting paper notes written in your own text. We sit by the water Coming to terms with loss Objecting against the need for revenge We swirl out drinks to create a pattern But we can’t fall in. You cry for your dearest Thinking about him Creates tension in your mind And your screams reverberate. I take your elegant hand And look deeply into the eyes of fire I tell you that you must confess and lose the rage Or the world we’ve built will sadly fail. Every moment aches for tenderness Your bones are tentative, and your voice crackles, I’m losing you to inner conflicts, Even when your photogenic face keeps its shape, And your skin stays soft. We are the forgotten You knew that We ran away For a momentous future Now I fear you’re becoming undone. The lick of paint on the car The red and blue The rust has been abolished there, Though, there’s still rust on your mind, And a deep hatred for the world.

Love Me Some Coyote (After 'Coyote Dream II' by Karen Pierce Gonzalez) Coyote is a friend of mine, at least, he told me he was, but how can you trust a creature who shows up everywhere? In coastal North Carolina, after Hurricane Floyd and my father's death, a big rangy canine began wandering the area and once looked in the window directly at me. It was skinny and rough-coated; I worried it hadn't had enough to eat. That storm was bad but then I realized, oh, Coyote. He always knows how to take care of himself. He was just saying hello, and goodbye. “She Adorned, Without Speech” I am the seasons: Summer Winter Fall Spring The Time of Deep Terror I am music all music, the keys, the staves, the notes, the time signatures I am weather oh how it blows the wind, rains, sleets, snows I feel none of it I am trees, root bark branch leaves needles oh I am... I am ...help, I cannot see myself what am I? Can you tell me? Sin and failure exaltation and glory all have abandoned me, blessed blood in the veins I think I still have. I can barely see I have no mirror. Are you there? Kyla Houbolt occupies Catawba territory in Gastonia, NC. Her first two chapbooks, Dawn's Fool and Tuned were published in 2020, and Tuned is soon to be released in a digital version. More about them, and her individually published pieces online can be found on her Linktree, https://linktr.ee/luaz_poet. A full length collection, Mapless, is forthcoming from Rare Swan Press. Kyla is on Twitter @luaz_poet.

Grab a pen, write this down. Ink it before you forget. Nonsense is: The things people shout when they know they are wrong. The things people scream when they know you are right. Anything politicians utter. Anytime. Ever. More than half the things written on a local Facebook page All attempts to capture the colours of a broken heart. The concept of complete unconditional love. The texture of shattered dreams, taped over at the cracks. Sentences that start with ‘Never’ ‘Always’ or ‘Should’ The reasons you do. The reasons you don’t. Every single thing you are convinced that you know. Rachel Canwell is a writer and teacher living in Cumbria. Her debut flash collection ‘Oh I do like to be’ will be published by Alien Buddha in July 2022.. Her short fiction has been published in Sledgehammer Lit, Pigeon Review, Reflex Press, Selcouth Station and The Birdseed amongst others. She is currently working on her first novel. Website - https://bookbound.blog/writing/ Twitter - @bookbound2019

I am barefoot and hungry on the forest fringe of a black and white dream over-exposed shadows film my skin as I squeeze out of a tightly thatched family portrait tearing my nightgown to shreds A word from the author: Forthcoming chapbooks: True North (Origami Poetry Project), Coyote in the basket of my ribs (Alabaster Leaves).

Each Step Each Step The Ancient Ones step through me. Each step, So fresh No step was ever taken. Purity Two dozen Purity Roses. The aroma embraces them Like an aura. Frederick hands them to Katherine, Five years ago. Now she stares at his picture While sipping watery ice tea. And talking with their daughter Whom they never had. Something New and Hopeful Pushed off the Mountain. By the fierce wind. Joey chased his kite, Grabbed it, Hid it behind the rocks. Joey stood up to the wind, Protecting his kite From all comers. As the last gust exhausted, Joey’s kite rose To the permanence of their Bond Flying through the sky. Understanding I do not expect you to understand. Very few people can see the clear blue in a field of bluegrass. Or the blue - way back - behind a girl’s eyes When her teenage man goes off to war. Mother made blackberry cobbler That Last night before Tom went off to war. What we got back 4 years and 3 days later Was a man with no arms and legs Who opens his mouth to be fed. Eventually Eventually in meditation One sees the blank wall. Not a vehicle for something, Just a blank wall. Then you are home. You, a person, get up From Meditation, Drive the kids to school, And wash the dishes. The Study of Ego The Ego Is a Blackbird Perched In a Pitch Black Room Pecking at itself In a Mirror. A Study of Blackbird * … the way the blackbird quickly and curiously darts his head to one side at one angle, then quicker than quick to the other side at a slightly different angle; he is sitting here on the thick cable that goes taut at 45 degrees as though it is securing something. the bobbing and weaving of his head shows off the high sheen of his feathers. how very much his coat of sheen has to offer the world. Footnote * I saw this blackbird while I was walking along First Street between Hedding Street and Mission Street... I was walking along North First from Mission Street toward Hedding Street, San Jose, California. Sunday, November 18, 2012 As As morning breaks too late, I am always here Passing through the fiber of every being, every space, every note of music, every rock, every pail of goat's milk. At this moment here in the Sous Valley, Morocco they are blessing weddings with the scent of orange. Endnotes 1. Goat Industry in Morocco … https://www.iga-goatworld.com/blog/country-report-the-goat-industry-in-morocco … … … … retrieved on Mon, July 12, 2021 … … … 2. Goat Milk in Morocco … https://tinyurl.com/3npny427 … … … retrieved on Mon, July 12, 2021 … … … 3. MOROCCO’S SOUSS VALLEY: WHERE GOATS GROW ON TREES … … https://thevalemagazine.com/2020/01/15/morocco-tree-climbing-goats/ .. … … … retrieved on Mon, July 12, 2021 … … …

This is the inventory of what I now have: One set monogrammed sheets, stored under the bed. One set, once-washed, petal pink sheets, on the bed. Two bars, French triple-milled soap of lavender and olive leaf. One guest soap, still in its paper. A long white nightgown. A black slip. The bathrobe which belongs to Sunday, the silk robe which waits for an evening. Set of four wine glasses, three in the cupboard. Set of four linen placemats with a red stripe. Set of four solid red cloth napkins. A stack of small bowls for nuts, or oils, or the tails of shrimp. A ceramic swan waiting to hold flowers. A vase which holds the pairs of unlit beeswax tapers. A drawer of framed photographs, overturned. The blueberry bush he planted. The ruby I wear on my ring finger in place of the diamond which rests in a box. Kel Warren is a writer in New England.

The Music Teacher For Negar Ighani We stood in a circle, patted our chests and thighs, sang and jumped then clapped. We rained, jumped once more in tune, until lightning struck. She asked us to hold hands and the rain grew slower under our toes. We felt like raindrops falling from the sky, like droplets lying deep within the sea. This was her idea of God. We’d told her we didn’t believe in one. What was it others believed in? We never spoke of it again, with anyone. *** We stand in a circle and jump, higher than before. Lightning strikes. We hesitate. We hope to hear her voice. The Missing Spice I am telling her about a recipe I read somewhere, she’s cleaning the oven, stirring the rice while hearing me mention garam masala. Suddenly, she is kneeling on the ground, shuffling through all the spices, rattling, and the rice starts pouring out and then, we are sitting at the table eating a delicious meal followed by a dessert, and it’s all over, so is the recipe I was telling her about and I’m heading home with the garam masala in a little bag, thinking I’ll be making butter chicken tomorrow and if she asked me that. I don’t remember if I replied. Maybe I should invite her over. For the new year? My birthday? Or next year. Sarvin Parviz is a writer from Tehran. Growing up, she was passionate about opera and pursued classical training in Italy. There, she was introduced to micro-fiction and left the music world to enjoy creating characters through words. She earned her BA in Literary Fiction and became increasingly fascinated by languages. This fall, she will be studying Creative Writing at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.

TW: Domestic Abuse She dipped the plastic pot into the water trough and heaved it out, pouring it on herself. Soft ripples streamed down her agonizing body while her lips parted with the one name she wanted to mouth, "Lokesh." She waited before saying his name in a hushed tone, like how she had chanted God's names in the prayer room. She counted on her toes as the name spilled out of her mouth, wincing every time the water tugged at the raw skin near her ankles. It was the ankles yesterday that the buckle of the belt scraped out the skin and tasted blood. It had been her arm last week when the firewood came thrashing at her skin, shedding it off the glow and softness and leaving it with ruptures, gashes, and bruises. She counted twenty-five, waiting for the water to gurgle and drown her muffled voice and start again when the door thundered, "You donkey. Are you going to spend the whole day there?" Athe, her mother-in-law shrieked. She didn't respond. She hoped for the magic to work. She offered a silent prayer, and she also sought forgiveness before she stepped out. Athe had told her on the wedding day, "You can't call your husband by name. Saying his name shortens his lifespan." Athe had not given her an alternative. So, she never called Lokesh by his name. A large bucket of dirty clothes beckoned her that noon. She hauled the bucket to the backyard, where the washing stone glistened in the afternoon sun. Sarees, shirts, and dhotis had to be scrubbed, beaten on the stone, and rinsed. She labored through the heap, one after the other, beads of sweat licking her cheeks and forehead. She wet her lips, but her throat groaned for water. She dragged her feet to the clay pot at the end of the kitchen when she heard whispers. It was Athe's voice that roared over the other faint voices. She caught some words, gas, movie, lock, and laughter. She didn't want to interrupt them or attract any attention that came in dagger-like words and sharp objects. She tiptoed to the backyard to continue washing and say the name in sync with the scouring and swabbing. "We are stepping out to watch a movie," Athe called out that evening. She hurried out of the kitchen and saw her father-in-law, Athe, and her husband Lokesh dressed in sharp clothes. "We will be late," her husband added. "Let me get some water," Athe told no one in particular and scurried to the kitchen. They always locked her inside when they went out. She was alone, and a sly grin escaped her lips. "Lokesh," she said his name aloud. The walls, the chairs, and the air could hear her voice and feel her heartbeats without care. "Lokesh," her voice raised over her usual quiet tone. The name bounced off the walls. She opened her arms and twirled without care. "Lokesh, Lokesh, Lokesh…" she sniggered. "Lokesh," she attacked him, gritting her teeth. "Lokesh," she spat with a devilish grin that soothed her sore body. "I am going to say your name as many times as possible," her voice laced with anger, but laughter escaped the corners of her lips. It was her escape, her liberation, her freedom from pain, sorrow, and misery. His name filled her mouth like rice cakes, and she chewed his name without a pause, her eyes glaring, mocking, and sneering at his large picture hanging over the wall. She decided to celebrate her freedom by making a cup of coffee with three spoons of sugar, a luxury she never enjoyed. She picked up the matchbox to light the stove when her eyes darted at the knobs. She was certain she had turned them off. A cold realization washed over her and her body shrunk. A slow stream of urine slid off her legs. She pushed open the window and sank to the floor with her back to the wall. Her feet felt cold, and she hugged her knees, shedding quiet tears. She must have slept in the growing darkness of the kitchen when she heard the banging on the door. She staggered to her feet and pulled at the window. "Who's that?" she called out. They were from the neighborhood, and two policemen stood at the far end. Some had their palm to their mouth. "There has been an accident," an elderly man called out. "It is bad," someone else said. She didn't need to hear further. She stared at her feet, relief washing over her. The Universe worked in mysterious ways. It kept score and always set things right. But she didn't know that. She finally smiled - of relief. Saying the name had saved her.

Gold Watch Fever In progress, anonymous dog-eared milksop employees pigeonhole discreet chagrin so as to excavate spine-tingling conformity and thus imitate harmony for the sake of a pension, a handshake, and a gold watch. Corporate Restructuring There are times when secret sensations ignite impending fissures. Personal passions aside, the disruption of the norm and ingrained routine shatters into doubt particles followed by gossip, then defection and finally personal examination. The standard response is to deflect. Then there are those few who ignore the perceived moment and know that there are opportunities in chaos.

Crossings after moon river (the frank ocean cover) a friend whom I love dearly once told me: it’s never about them, it’s about you don’t believe in absolutes and I don’t believe that there is no us, just two slumped scarecrows stuck in place still somehow chasing after our ends echoes of somedays don’t quite cross rivers, but you know this, my daylight moon, this is no breakfast at tiffany's - wherever you’re going, I’m going away. Blank In 6th grade I made my very first American Friend, which meant that unlike the first-second-or-third generation Miami Cubans I had become so accustomed to in the 2 years I’d been in the U.S., she was a blonde, blue-eyed, family-arrived-on-the-Mayflower, American. The first time I went to her house, we had green beans, mashed potatoes, pork, and some light-brown goop for lunch. As her mother set a plate before me, I anxiously whispered to American Friend: “Did your mom forget the rice?” I was raised right and couldn’t bring myself to inquire about what I would, years later, learn was gravy. My good manners had limits though, and I simply couldn’t stay quiet about the rice, I mean, who eats a meal without rice? She laughed, assuming I was joking, and dug in, smothering her pork in the brown stuff. After the incredibly disappointing lunch that left me pining for rice, beans, and a banana, American Friend directed me to their dishwasher, another concept that was entirely foreign to me (“So you leave your dirty plates inside this thing for a few days and let the machine wash it? It doesn’t smell? The plates don’t break inside?” / “Wait you’ve never seen a dishwasher before? Do they like, not have electricity in Brazil or something?”). I tuned out her questions, which were no longer foreign to me after two years, and instead focused on her refrigerator - we definitely had those in Brazil. Baby pictures of her and her older sister, a red, white, and blue magnet with the Pledge of Allegiance printed nearly illegibly, and a photo of her parents in their uniforms (her mother was a firefighter, her father a cop - so American it hurt). What interested me though, were those little word magnets that you can use to put together silly sentences. These dotted the fridge with phrases like I am bear, boy is yuck, and cool egg. On the right side of the fridge, below a “I Survived Everglades National Park” magnet with a huge gator on it, someone had put together something different, less silly: I dreamed of my home and as my love flew I cried joy I tried to stitch those words together as my friend babbled about the benefits of a dishwasher - dreamed of my home All that came up was home Leticia Priebe Rocha received her bachelor’s from Tufts University, where she was awarded the 2020 Academy of American Poets University & College Poetry Prize. Born in São Paulo, Brazil, she immigrated to Miami, FL at the age of 9 and currently resides in the Greater Boston area. Her work has been published in Rattle, Apricity Press, Arkana, and elsewhere.

Anna, a woman in her 80s. An aging hippie, a Gloria Steinem-esque look but not an exact copy. ANNA: Whenever I travel, give speeches, talk to people—which isn’t that often anymore, I’ll say, I’m veering into obsolete for most people, except other women my age of course, but they’re becoming obsolete too—there’s one question everyone loves to ask— Are things worse than they used to be? I’m asked this question over and over again. And no matter what approach I take, no matter what I say—and I’ve answered this question I think a different way every time—they’re never satisfied with my answer. Back in my heyday, I wrote one of the leading texts on feminist theory. And, it was the 70s, yes, so we were asking different questions back then. And we made strides together—undeniable strides forward. Are things worse? I don’t know. They’re certainly not better. They’re just different, I suppose. Roe v. Wade is gone again. Black women are losing their sons every day to gun violence. Children are being shot in classrooms. The planet’s going to shit. More often than not, I read the news and think, I have seen the worst. But that was before I met Melody. Melody was more than a woman: she was an experiment. The details of her past were gritted so tight between her teeth that I never got them out. When I saw her on my doorstep that night, I thought: victim. it wasn’t the first time. It was like a scene from a tired historical drama: the young woman desperately knocking on the aging feminist’s door, thunderclap, bolt of lightning, her hair matted down around her skull, her eyes bright and pleading. Only now, if she’s being honest with herself, the feminist isn’t aging, she’s aged, and unprepared for the survivor the universe has carried to the steps of her apartment. She was clearly pregnant—again, not the first time this had happened. I never knew how they got my address, it was always an unnamed friend-of-a-friend, always under the cloak of night, eyes shifting, hands nervous, belly swollen to varying degrees of fertility. Sometimes it was an abortion. Sometimes it was just a safe place to stay. And once, it was dropping the infant at the orphanage myself, barely a day old, because the young woman said if she handed the baby to a stranger and walked out the door, she thought her heart would give out. How odd and beautiful it was that she did not consider me a stranger. I ushered Melody inside, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, sat her down by the fireplace. She had been on the road for months, she told me, trying different doctors and different abortionists, but none of them would operate on her. The question: Why? hovered in the air, but instead I offered her dry clothes and assured her that she was safe here. As I turned the corner into the hallway, I heard a sharp gasp and rushed back into the living room. Melody had just had a contraction. She told me they had been happening for hours, which is why she needed to find a place to stay tonight. Can I take you to the hospital? I asked. No. A doctor won’t understand them, she said. Them? Is it twins? But before she could answer, she was wailing with pain again. I was determined not to show it, but I was frightened. I had attended several births—my friends were all hippies, you know, so when they started having babies they wanted to give birth in a hot tub with harp music playing and a circle of chanting women welcoming their baby into the world. It’s all downhill from there for the baby, if you ask me. Sets their expectation pretty damn high. But anyways, that was different than me, alone in my apartment with this strange girl— woman—forty years later. This was more than just holding hands and singing kumbaya. This could, ostensibly, mean life and death. I wrapped Melody’s arm around my shoulder and ushered her to the bathroom. I filled the tub with a few inches of warm water while she undressed, then helped her lower herself into the basin. The contractions were coming faster now, each one contorting Melody’s face into a tapestry of pain. I couldn’t believe she had made it to my apartment like this. And with every bout, a wincing cry escaped her dry lips over and over again: They’re coming. Oh God, they’re coming. My fear for Melody began to give way to fear of Melody. I couldn’t help it. At one point, I had the fleeting thought of what if my time is up? What if this is some demon sent to usher me to the fiery pits for having sex before marriage and taking women to clinics? But then I remembered that Jews don’t believe in Hell, and my mother and father and Rabbi Isaacson raised me to be a good girl, so I squared my shoulders and went into the kitchen to get more ice for Melody’s forehead. When I returned, there was a tangible difference in the air—a stillness that wasn’t there before. And a smell—earthen, deep, and probing. Melody had a look on her face that I will never forget. It was the face of a woman who has seen the other side of hurt and will never go back. The face of a body that has transcended pain. I could hardly look at her, this young girl, woman, experiment, victim, survivor—who was I to look at her? I never had children. It wasn’t a choice for me. That’s just life, I guess. A head began to crown at the opening. I knelt down and clutched her hand. Vaginal fluids floated stagnant in the bathwater. Melody let out a maternal cry that still echoes across the bathroom tiles to this day. Push! I cried, and readied my hands, a net of flesh, to catch the baby. Melody pushed, and pushed, and out of her womb, slick with internal matter, came ten rabbits. I caught each one. I wrapped them in my towels. Their skin was blush pink, not that different than a human baby, but there was no doubt that these were not human. Melody took a deep breath. Her body slouched against the side of the porcelain. I didn’t know what to say to her, this girl, this thing, this woman. Finally, I managed get out: You can stay as long as you want. To recover. No, she said. I’ve gotta get going. She began to hoist herself out of the tub. Her strength seemed to have returned. It was uncanny. Are you sure? I— If I could at least trouble you for some dry clothes… Of course, I said, still shaking from what I had seen. I opened my closet in a daze. I could hear Melody, back in the bathroom, draining the water in the bathtub. And softly, ever so softly that I thought I was imagining it, I heard the whimper of the baby animals, crying out for their mother’s warmth. But their mother was slipping on a pair of my old baggy jeans, pushing her head through a turtleneck, shaking out her umbrella… Are you really leaving? I asked. Yes, I think it’s best, Melody said. And…the— I didn’t know what to call them. The rabbits? Keep them. She put her rain slicker back on. Suddenly, she looked very childish. I could picture her on the streets of my hometown, splashing in puddles, wishing for rainbows. Then she added: It’s not their fault they had to be born. She thanked me, and then she was gone. If it weren’t for the rabbits still nestled in my towels on the bathroom floor, I would have been certain I dreamed her. That night, I got my period for the first time in six years. I have never bled since. For the first time, the smell of my menstrual blood made me gag. There were notes of sick sweetness I had never noticed before, like artificial flowers excessively perfumed. The smell was rank and deep, heavy, cloying. For the first time, I realized my body was dying. The rabbits are now fully grown. I gave one to my niece’s daughter, but the other nine still live with me. I have never named them. Every time I try to…I don’t know. I just can’t. So are things worse than they used to be? They’re not better, I know that for sure. I don’t know what happened to Melody, who did that to her or why or how, but I know that we live in a world where a woman gave birth to live rabbits in my bathtub. And we live in a world where no one will believe me, even though I know what happened that night was real and true. So I don’t know how to answer your question. I guess I don’t know. End. Sarah Groustra (she/her) is a writer from Brookline, MA and a recent graduate of Kenyon College. Her writing has previously appeared in or is forthcoming in Funicular Magazine, HIKA, Lilith Magazine, Boats Against the Current, Moon Cola Zine, Spires Literary Magazine, and Fish Barrel Review, and her plays have been workshopped or produced by Playdate Theatre, the Parsnip Ship, and B Street Theatre Company. You can find her on Twitter @ladypoachedegg and at sarahgroustra.com.