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I I think the rooms in my books were amusing moments after I rang it to their ears that there is still a sea of words to stack to the available few spaces. I never fed it's hyena's belly about when I got sick, few months ago that always appear like I was just divorced from the beds that hosted me some few days after I chased life till death made a wink at me. I hung unto my neck what was dragged unto me, neglecting the joy in each day to pace along with time. My bright soul was the opposite of my log of a body, dead and boring couldn't fathom it anymore, I see it needed to get it freedom believing soaring for just a time to the skies is better than treading the path of my body that still lay in the pond of the dark. II I couldn't discern the dream, feeling I was in my pool of my slumber or blindfold that sheathed my eyes till a day, two, and three later when I couldn't carry my legs to call on the doctors for help. I could see my soul looming above my head as my armature body was moved around on a chair fixed on wheels. I was awakened by the fourth pierce of the needle fixed into my pale skin, I felt in me after hours of seeing it retire, the beautiful sunset with my eyes immersed in waters compounded by its lids, it perceives like I'm seeing the last of this red view, for the final time. III Each night I expended with moments then, accounts for 2020 days and more of my ex boring existence, I never believed I labeled best in the past diaries of my life. A pull to the future, I couldn't help but snip your tense line of rules alongside mine I already tore as I fell myself trapped by the walls of bliss, now and then, A decade and more. I find it amusing to see myself in an earth made of y'all peak, shattering heap streak of yours, again, again and again, till I can't await the sun dawn on tomorrow, to demolish the records I carved with my own hands, from my past, for myself, again and again. Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi is a Nigerian-based writer, poet, orator, and veterinary student University of Ibadan. He has been trying to pursue his passion for writing by writing multiple genres. He resides presently in Ibadan, Nigeria where He enjoys reading and writing indoors. He has his works published in magazines and issues outside Nigeria.

My Darling i woke up this forenoon as every thought of you walls around me i turn to the side of the bed in search the sweet wet bouquet of your essence to me, you are that first lotus flower the first that the creator behold and echoed; it is beautiful, the creation you saw the first sunrise of the earth the first night of creation you experienced and the colourless universe had seen it even the silence of the heart you existed my darling i woke up this forenoon the thought of has transcended the rooms the bedroom is echoing loneliness as i had hoped to be with you sooner you who has become like lettuce to me let these moments be memorable as i dance on this floor of echoing loneliness Perhaps Someday, I Will Find A Word To Mourn My Dead Ones' Death. That of my father's disappearance in my hometown like the widow's last coins lost. Maybe I should coin out a word, or I am yet to learn a metaphor with which I would mourn him better after the many years of his name that danced in the East-wind silently as a forgotten song. Or maybe, I should birth for him a lexicon from where his voice, that which went silent in the year 2013, will come back and retell the stories of his life as a father. It is just like what looks as outside his, but what it is, is that which is called brotherly hatred in the care-given undertone and my father walked into the obliviousness of the world; no return as what we used to know him for. Or should I forget about her, she whom I find comfort in her eyes, her voice and her love for an offspring echoes; Janet. She was love in everything she did till that fateful morning when the day became darkened, eyes red as it rained rivers as if, if I cry oceans, maybe the dead will be brought back to life again. She laid down on that bed, pointing to these pictures of Christ Jesus on the walls healing the sick, and she whispered to me; "Son, know thy God and creator, for it is as a duty even as you are becoming a father after your siblings". It was as with a voice muffled in pain in an emptied room she murmured those words to my ears; "Son, go to the school, get your result and return so we could discuss the future". But I came back meeting with a white casket, people gathered in tears and they all echoed in unison, here comes her son who will decide where his mother's remains shall be laid to rest out of this troubled world. This was how I lost my parents when they were yet to tell me about the future, of how to become a man. And the ocean emptied on the rooftop of my grandfather without a remnant. Perhaps, someday I would find a metaphor to carve out their space in the tablet of time and memory. John Chinaka Onyeche "Rememberajc" (he/his) is the author of; (Echoes Across The Atlantic), a husband, father and poet from Nigeria. He writes from the city of Port Harcourt Rivers State, Nigeria. He is currently a student of History and Diplomatic Studies at Ignatius Ajuru University Of Education Port Harcourt Rivers State. John Chinaka can be reached through the following means: Rememberajc.wordpress.com Facebook.com/jehovahisgood Twitter.com/apostlejohnchin Apostlejohnchinaka@gmail.com https://linktr.ee/Rememberajc

Pelvis I’m wiping Mrs. Carleton’s backside when she tells me she has a secret. ‘You won’t believe it,’ she says. I help her to stand, then flush the loo. Every part of Mrs. Carleton is failing. I imagine her bones – her hips and pelvis, all those joints that keep a person together – crumbling to nothing, and I suppose it won’t be long until she’s just that: nothing. I place her with care in her ergonomic armchair. Before I started this job, I thought only pens were ergonomic. Turns out lots of things are ergonomic. The walls of her living room are cream coloured. There are framed pictures of her family on the cabinet, and on the mantlepiece above the electric fire. I wonder how often they visit her; I’ve never seen them, but I suppose they know when I’m here, when to avoid me. I wouldn’t want to walk in on someone wiping Mum’s arse. ‘Sit down a minute,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to rush off straight away.’ I can hear the cistern filling up in the loo. I’m sure it’s faulty. I take a seat on the settee. ‘You’ve heard of Elvis?’ ‘Elvis Presley? Yeah, course.’ ‘He’s my baby daddy.’ I hadn’t expected a phrase like ‘baby daddy’ to come out of Mrs. Carlton’s mouth. A lively smile across her face. ‘My son Jeremy. Conceived, Las Vegas, Nevada.’ She breaks into one of her coughing fits. I’m up, trying to help her, but there’s not much I can do. I fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. She leaves it on the coffee table by her ergonomic armchair. ‘I’ve told him to come around tomorrow morning, about eight, so you can make up your mind.’ ‘Make up my mind?’ ‘About the resemblance,’ she says, her voice croaky. ‘He was very handsome.’ I take off my Sketchers and slump in front of the tele. I watch the regional news. More heatwave coverage, an item about our bid to be named the next city of culture, then sports. Popping holes into the lid of my microwavable lasagne, I wonder if I should say something to my manager about Mrs. Carleton. And say what? That she was pulling my leg? She got a bit confused and thought she’d laid Elvis? Brushing my teeth later on, her lively smile comes back to me. I imagine her laughing at me now, alone in her creamy living room, surrounded by pictures of family she rarely sees. Jeremy is there when I arrive. He stands when I come in. Jeremy is tall, dark, and - there’s no better word for it - handsome. I say good morning to mother and son, feeling terribly formal, old-fashioned, and stilted. I don’t look at her in case she’s smiling at me. In the back of my mind, I try to work out the age gap between Jeremy and me. ‘I’m the son.’ He shakes my hand. ‘Thanks for all this.’ ‘Oh, really,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing.’ ‘It is her job, don’t feel too sorry for her.’ We ignore her comment. I wonder if this eye contact between us – Jeremy and me – means anything. His suit is black. He’s an executive? Taking care of business. ‘I don’t know how you can wear something like that in this heat,’ I say. ‘Scorcher, isn’t it?’ When I say nothing else, Jeremy says he must be going, and before I know it, he’s out the door. ‘He stayed to see you. I told him you were very beautiful and I’m not sure he believed me, so I told him to see for himself this morning.’ ‘You’re right,’ I say, almost to myself, feeling heady. ‘He does have a look of Elvis.’ Tupelo There is Tupelo, Mississippi. But there is another Tupelo, somewhere in the Pacific ocean. On the second Tupelo, it’s Elvis’ sixty-fifth birthday. He lies back in his deck chair, on the beach, and buries his toes into the warm sand. This Tupelo sun sets, so does the sun over Tupelo, Mississippi. They’re red and round and have a pleasing curve to them, he thinks, as his mind wanders from the island to linger over the ocean. He shuts those tired eyes, lolls his head onto its side, so it touches the chair’s soft material, and he slowly brings to mind that teenage truck, which served him well on the interstate – which interstate? Decades gone. He feels well beaten, and now well rested. He gets up and crosses Tupelo. In the house on the west side of the island, he finds a white Gibson with a faux-marble scratchboard. He pulls the instrument down from the wall. It’s heavy. In a brief moment of panic, he wonders if he’ll remember the chords. The Unexploded Bomb Since the age of eleven, I have listened to Hancock’s Half Hour before bed. It’s reached the point where I can only sleep if I’ve listened to an episode. I have a playlist of the stories that send me to sleep the fastest. I have another playlist that seems to encourage dreaming. I see sometimes on social media that lucid dreaming, that sort of thing, is popular. I don’t go in for all that. If I find myself in Hancock’s flat, I stay perfectly still. I have no control over my movement, and I simply exist in his world for the night. The half-hour stretches to morning. I use ‘Sunday Afternoon at Home’ most often. This is the first episode I heard on cassette, aged eleven, just before Dad went away. It’s the one I return to on Sunday nights, when Monday looms. This is going through my head as we leave the taxi. I pay the driver, then follow Felicity to her front door. Felicity says she’ll send me the money for her half of the taxi, but I tell her don’t worry about it, just buy me a drink next time. ‘So, there’ll be a next time?’ She shows me into her home, a terrace house ten minutes from Market Street. ‘Drink?’ She boils the kettle. Her kitchen has just about enough room for said kettle, a fridge, and four hobs. She pours milk first, which is the way I make my tea at home. ‘Sugar?’ No, thanks. She hands me a TARDIS mug. It has an awkward novelty handle. We sit in the living room. The house is how I’d imagined it when she’d described it at the pub. We stay on the sofa a while, fumbling, breaking the tension that’s been building for the last two weeks. Felicity leads me upstairs to her bedroom, where the fumbling develops. Afterward, we’re lying next to each other in her box room. There’s barely enough space for the two of us. I tell her I’ve missed my bus. ‘Stay,’ she says. We talk but eventually it’s time for bed; Felicity has work in the morning, and so do I. ‘You’ve got to be up early for that bus.’ So, she turns off the bedside lamp and we try to sleep. I should be content; the pub was fun, the conversation flowed, she invited me back and gave me tea in a TARDIS mug. But, of course, I can’t sleep. I lie awake. My coat is downstairs in the hall – there’s no way I could creep out of the bedroom and get my earphones from my coat pocket, connect them to my phone, and listen to ‘Sunday Afternoon at Home’ or ‘The Unexploded Bomb’ without her noticing. I turn over and face the wall. It’s past midnight. I imagine the whole street asleep except me. ‘You awake?’ Her voice is startling, I thought she was dead to the world. Felicity turns. ‘There’s something you should know.’ My heart beats faster in anticipation. ‘I can trust you, can’t I?’ It’s such a direct question, I’m stunned. I want to say, of course, because I mean it, I do – and she can. Of course. ‘There’s something I do to get to sleep that’s a bit weird,’ she goes on, in darkness. ‘You know Dad’s Army?’ I make an affirmative hum. ‘I watch an episode before bed, have done since I was a kid. I’ve got them on my iPad. Even when I was a student, coming in after a night out, I’d put one on. Then, out like a light.’ There’s a pause. That’s not weird, I say. I’ve done something similar before to get to sleep. ‘Really? Can I turn on the light?’ I sit myself up against the headboard with Felicity. She gets her iPad from the bedside table, finds one of her favourite episodes to show me. We spend the next half-hour in bed with Captain Mainwaring, Pike, Frazer, Lance Corporal Jones, Wilson, and the rest. When it’s over, she puts the iPad back in its place, and switches off the light. Before I know it, sunlight is shining through the curtains and Felicity’s alarm is going off, waking us both. We have a quick breakfast. I spill milk over my top, the same top I wore last night, and she helps me clean myself, so I look acceptable for the bus. ‘Good as new,’ she says, smiling, hitting my chest with a damp tea towel. ‘Now, on your way. I’ll see you soon.’ When? ‘Whenever.’ And again, before I know it, I’m kneeling by my son’s bed, years later, telling him there’s nothing in his room to be scared of. Even with the landing light on, he feels uneasy and unable to sleep. Do you have to go? ‘I have to go to bed too, believe it or not,’ I say. But this won’t persuade him to sleep. His pale face is deadly serious. Talk to me. Tell me something. So, I cross my legs (my legs make a cracking sound) and think of a story to send him to sleep. ‘Here’s a story.’ I tell him about the vicar we had to tea, back when people had vicars round for tea, and how we went into the basement to find him a drink, because we had a basement when I was a child and kept bottles of wine there, and we found an unexploded bomb from the war. A bomb! I don’t know how, but I’m making him laugh with funny voices, gesticulations, and when the story’s up, he’s happy for me to leave him. I go downstairs. Felicity’s watching the news, which has just started, but she flicks off the TV when I come into the room, and we go to bed.

It was the brightness of it I saw first, red and yellow radiating stripes, forming and dissolving in front of my eyes as we galloped towards the sea. Always towards the push and the pull and the sparkle of the sea then. That was where Karol wanted to go, and where he wanted to go I went. Except that day. I pulled on his reins and we turned to the east, towards the colours and the billowing of the canvas and, as we got nearer, the sound of it. It was a kind of trumpeting that swelled and spiralled. I had never heard the like. We watched from two fields away but we saw no animals, just heard their calls as doors opened and closed in the ring of caravans that surrounded the Big Top and people in overalls moved back and forth, as purposeful and mysterious as the ants back home in the farmyard after rain. Karol lifted his nose, twitched his nostrils, snorted, his hot breath condensing in the cool of the morning. ‘Maybe there are horses in there too, boy,’ I said into the velvet of his ears. Maybe, I thought to myself, there are elephants and tigers too. Maybe there are painted clowns and men who can tie themselves in knots and featherweight women who can swing high in that Big Top. But I cast the maybes away, turned the big horse round and headed for home. I could smell the bacon from outside the house. Mother didn’t turn when I came in, just tightened her back. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said, though I wasn’t. ‘We saw the circus. In Mr. White’s field.’ She muttered something. Stupid girl, it sounded like, or maybe it was stupid man. ‘Eat,’ she said, waving her spatula at the bread. Focussed on the frying, for the men. I was supposed to have had my breakfast before they came in from the fields. To leave the space for them. ‘Please could I go to– ’ I started. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Just eat.’ I knew there was no point in asking again. I went to Mr. White’s field, on my own, on foot, after dark. I crouched under a tree and watched the people queuing at the gate. I watched them all go in. I listened as the Big Top swelled with a drum-roll and the roaring of the big cats and the cheering of the people. I listened till it was done and I kept on listening after that, my chest so full I thought I would burst. That night I dreamt of a circus parade coming through our town. I dreamt that I was in the parade, high on an elephant’s back, waving to the crowds, and that even my mother was there, smiling at me. Next morning as we rode out I told Karol, as I told him all my secrets. I told him we could turn and gallop to the east and join the circus. But he just whinnied and kept on track for the sea and I knew then that it was silly to think that a circus would take a cart-horse, never mind a farm girl like me. Cath Barton is an English writer living in Wales. She is the author of three novellas: The Plankton Collector (2018, New Welsh Review), Inthe Sweep of the Bay (2020, Louise Walters Books) shortlisted for Best Novella in the Saboteur Awards 2021, and Between the Virgin and the Sea (forthcoming, Novella Express, Leamington Books). Her short stories are published in The Lonely Crowd, Strix and a number of anthologies. Cath is also active in the online flash fiction community. https://cathbarton.com@CathBarton1

My palms sweat on the bottle of Bacardi, But it’s claustrophobia of my phone, Not the temperature of the room That my fingers cry for and from. No celebratory sips will be had at home, Because I spent last night in too many beds Nothing became of my pillow-wallowing, The honeyed-eyed dream-hopping, But that’s the fucking problem. My chest caves in at the checkout. An emerald rectangle incoming, Vicious in its flatness, its caution. The same lukewarm rejection text, But this time from a girl, someone Who knows my mania intimately— Not just because we share private parts Shaved into something soft and sortable, Diagnoses overwriting school history, But even the same lovers we scorched With aloofness, then a petulant, biting need, Swapping exes’ exes, a couple of “ironic Tic-Tac-hoes” Lowercase in all but loneliness, insomni-addic crushing. I busted it, faltered at the fault lines, Underlined my cheeks and care in red, Slipped it under my tongue like the runny gel tabs, Sunshine side-up with slush stashed up my nose, Pretending I’m prepared for the strange weather. Ha-ha-haing my advances, you wore a halo But it warbled under the steam of your brow. I wanted in on your heatwave, a cap for the storm But when we baby-stepped into the midnight shower, Fingers lily-locked, you were waving me away with a smile. I wandered down a gravel road, feeling every pinch of the earth, Each breathy gust of Mother Nature slamming into my breastbone. It’s bare-tooth anger that carried me along, that self-same shame, The velocity of my inaction, my miscalculation of a girl’s affection That only ached to ensnare and ingest the contents of my purse. La-La-Lipstick, melting chocolates, Oriental coins, and smelling salts— They all hold more promise than a same-sex, revenge-bound relapse. I knew that in the moment, but fixated upon the car Carrying a curlicue cheater into your driveway I’d cut his break lines before I begrudged you Instead, I admired the smoothness of your budding horns, The silverthorne-sharp sparkle in your creeping simper. Forever, I’ll recall the blinding pale pink of your hips, Crossed legs tapered into a V, nothing short of a Venus de Urbino in denim cut-offs and the throes of an Ativan Diet since the car accident no one died but a rutting wolf. These things happen, So said the paramedic The blood splatters on your bathroom tiles Looked more art-novena than ominous, A Rorschach test for star-crossed lovers It can’t be helped, So says my psychiatrist What I remember most is the roughness of your blankets, How closely we swaddled ourselves Apart, two Calla petals, Lethal only to those with claws My vines tickling the back of your neck The dewy tenderness of your brush-off Then the black of the dirt. Paige Johnson is editor-in-chief of Outcast Press, a transgressive fiction outlet with the short story collection In Filth It Shall Be Found out now and her debut, drug- and love-fueled poetry collection, '21 & Over, on the way. Find her at @KettyKat8 on Twitter, @OutcastPress on Instagram.

the history of our school is a history of love of lovers lowered through the night on ropes through dormitory windows swarming up drainpipes onto chaste dormitory landings to their partners in misfortune and young grief sometimes surprised sometimes cast out the history of our school reveals itself in necessary lies since the good of the school comes first even when the fault is great we make this a part of our life for who would live without rules in a world that hangs on structure where transgression and disaster are forever carved in stone one and the same the history of our school is about the naming of names the playing of roles the wearing of masks the love in the sip of a drink the scandal of teacher with student the student dead in his room the breaker of rules invited to leave the slick deceiver doing alright while student life runs on through the gamut and the gauntlet sing we joyful music at commencement time why did one work so grudgingly and with such bad grace let the gates be thrown aside for the student sufficiently polished to pass the bar of admission to rise and fall in earnest w v sutra composes his poetry on a horse farm in East Tennessee. His work has appeared in a number online journals and on his website, wvsutra.com

Oh, I tried to tell it slant but I guess I didn't tell it slant enough. Like any of the old fuckers I thought I was slippery and ambiguous and ambivalent. Like, when I truly loved someone you couldn't tell if I loved them or not. And when I was a kid and I rode my bike past Emily's house and-- what-- dreamed she'd look out of her window or something, my prepared statement was that I was going to the In and Out to buy some bubble gum. Has this son of a bitch ever hooked up with anyone ever? When I went back to school I had to trudge through three feet of snow on top of a dicey freeze ten blocks from the bus to Cafe Ventana where the barista and I always talked straight and without affect and then my aspect was impassive as I raised my hand in class without cease to ask outrageous and what I thought were brilliant questions but none of it profited at all because the damn cabal refused to let me in because of all my past sins against the academy.

to long to remember __ flavors of home__ from too long ago 1. A favorite breakfast food 2. A favorite pantry item 3. Another favorite pantry item 4. A favorite baked good 5. A favorite television show 6. A favorite candy 7. A favorite childhood book or character 8. A radio station from home / A comforting radio series 9. A favored cookbook 10. A favored picture book 11. A holiday meal. Positive connotation. 12. A holiday tradition. Positive connotation. Noun. Plural. 13. An evening ritual. Positive connotation. Noun. Plural. 14. The flavor of comfort. 15. A preferred fabric 16. A fabric that is associated with softness and warmth 17. A comforting sound of a kitchen 18. A joyful sound of the space outside your front door 19. The smell of peace / restorative sleep 20. A token of affection 21. The flavor, scent, or feel of love / sweet to remain unable to forget __flavors of home__ from not too long ago An unfavored or disliked breakfast food A disliked pantry item Another disliked pantry item A disliked baked good A disliked television show A disliked candy A disliked childhood character A radio station from a faraway city / An irritating radio series The name of a fast-food chain A disliked picture book A holiday mishap. Noun. Plural. An unpleasant holiday ritual. An unpleasant childhood ritual. The flavor of discomfort. A disliked fabric A fabric that is associated with harshness and coldness An irritating kitchen sound An irritating sound associated with the space outside your front door The smell of a nightmare A token of contempt / disdain The flavor / scent / feel of judgment __1__ sizzles on open griddles. eggs boil. voices scramble. temperatures turned up high. pantries stocked of __2__. __3__, too. scents of __4__. sounds of __5__. red licorice vines and __6__ fill bellies. ___7___ and __8__ fill minds. tousle. stir. simmer. savor. consume. __9__ and __10__. home is _11_ and _12_. blends of __13__ and __14__. layers of __15__ and bushels of __16__. music in motion. _17__ & _18_. motors in use. _19_ & _20_. mostly, _21__. on naming conventions :: of dolls, documents, & documentation i’ve always had a name but haven’t always known who i am. names (& naming conventions) have varied. through/of the years. baby.girl.she.her.one.trouble.that.then.hen.her.she.babe.doll. repetition in all corners. strings of letters mix & mingle. hair strung of chords & (mis)calculations. mirror images. memory muscles. music makers. guitar strings pluck. heart strings pull. letters condense then pool. sweetened of saccharine. seasoned of salt. soured of spoilt milk. a.b.c.d.f.g.z.y.w.x.v.i.o.u.m.e proper names rarely used. performative nuances regularly used. uniformly usurped. as moments turn to minutes i collect documents and documentation that bear (& bare) the peculiar practices of manners of address. Hey, Doll. i walk the avenue - a single track in a tangled maze of city blocks & consume Inhale. Conceal. Exhale. Reveal. Hey, Doll. the man in an orange construction hat & plaid overcoat calls between uneven breaths. his drill documents tasks & time. His stature a document of the times. all attention on me. eyes shutter. ears ring. nose wrinkles. neck hairs stand. all senses engaged (& enraged). his attention retired. to/on/of the hole. cracked concrete at booted feet. his call a dusty moment of a day in repetitive motion. fingers (mine), gloved and guarded, touch reddened lips. his call. received. collect. i do not accept. i (f)alter. soles on asphalt. souls stir. of the alphabet. bowls of noodle soup simmer. a.b.c.d.o.l love lingers long after landlines recede. Hi, Doll, the voice in my head whispers. with a regularity that bests the mickey mouse alarm clock on the bedside table. a gift from the voice, full of all five senses, that is no longer of the avenue, though the avenue remains of her. she’d greet me with the phrase each morning. no matter the weather. via all five senses. all attention on me. from brick front steps. over rotary phone wires. via solitary residences. of the avenue - a single track in a tangled maze of city blocks. i cannot name the sensation or the sentiment. though i consume via all five senses. i am unnamed & named. i am of the (named) avenue. i am me. on convention and (naming) conventions :: the plural uniquely singular i remember (being / when i was called) a girl with mean eyes by a man-boy with a mean tongue who waited and watched as all the girls ran to retrieve tennis balls (he was in charge and overindulged, we were his charges and under-resourced) on grassy courts a young’n with crazy hair by an elder with a crazy mind and a belief that the straighter one’s hair the purer one’s being a rare bird when i was two weeks over-stuffed, overdue, and committed to a natural delivery by an emergency room nurse with a penchant for iv fluids and pain killers nothing. when all i craved was noise. cracked. when all i craved was connection. the sun by my son. & my baby daughter giggled, pumped her chubby hand towards the brightly lit sky & uttered her first word mooooooooooooom. when all i craved was silence lucky by a lady who wore red, blue & yellow framed sunglasses and who drove too fast at a time i moved too slow and who nearly hit my red, blue, and yellow plastic big wheel (myself in the driver’s seat) with her big wheels (herself in the driver’s seat) a string of letters by prick a chick by a drunk honey by a bitter busybee who’d save me a seat on the train so that i could help her complete the morning crossword just in time for her to greet her morning co-workers with her completed grid. believer by a band of johavah’s witnesses at my screen door. a baby on my right. & left hip. once. twice. three times. when I craved conversation. single lady by the choir of married men who’d spend coffee breaks smoking cigarettes and sharing stories of pool games & nights in hotel pools a threat after retrieving a roll of butter rum lifesavers on a sidewalk outside a drug store and then stopped by a policeman dressed in a blue uniform and doused of rum a dumb blond (when i had brown hair) by a boy who i had just beaten in a 5th-grade math challenge why do i not remember ever being called _me_ on recollections of under-nourished & over-crafted worlds as dusk fades to dawn, flannel-clothed legs curl & mice scamper, minds seek refuge & refurbished residences. hammers knock. clocks tick. then tock. vines of red licorice & neon green sour patch kids twist then tangle. memory pulses then unfolds under the weight of the down blanket & the whisper of the baby’s soft coo. curiosity calls as eggs simmer then hatch in nearby diners. counter seats always open. on cycles of spin & spontaneous sleep. interrupted. bacon browns. coffee brews & mugs beckon. sleep suspended. memory both crafted & suspect. some shadows loom larger than others. those typically reserved for sleepless nights. kitchens open. not for experiences but experimentation. dreams haunt. A persistent fear A disfavored flavor An unmet wish A loss (curated, crafted, contained) the down blanket stretches. memory continues to pulse. continuously crafted for conspicuous consumption. tightly tangled pockets of fabric smother. fresh eggs crack. recollections spill then pool amidst unsuspecting suspects. Pencils up, heads down. You know the drill. By now, she says. Again. And again. Nights on repeat. Repetition neither new nor knowing. Ready. Set. Go. No, I whisper. You can do this, she says. Both she and I remain nameless. Legs wrestle in wars of solitary silence. Lead scratches on paper clear of blemish and error. Blemishes persist. Errors everywhere. I can but I won’t, I declare. Again. A whisper pulling the weight of choice. i will not write of _1__, nor __2__. i shall speak not of __3__ nor __4__. Not for experimentation. Not for experience. Dreams continue to haunt. The weight of the down blanket blurs time and space. The baby’s coo curls around the flannel-clothed legs. Legs weighted of lead & location toss & tangle. Mice scamper. Dawn declares victory over dusk. Coffee & consumption of soiled sleep continue to brew. i never got to ask/answer _why_ to the man with the kind eyes 1: i first noticed your eyes as you consumed from a rectangular plate of circular eggs. two. three. four. scrambled. we were strangers. young. no more than twenty. and new to the city. eight fresh eggs stuffed in a booth made for four. chatter & clatter everywhere. forks kissed knives. knees knocked frayed denim hems. you spoke no words. your eyes spoke volumes. i tracked a maze of green & grey specks under wire-rimmed spectacles. consumed reflections of strong-willed oceans, loyal evergreen firs, & tombs of green eggs & ham. 2: you moved from eggs to bacon to home fries & somehow knew i was homesick but not for home. do you know what this is, you asked with a smile as your fork stroked then stoked a mysterious mound housed in a small bowl to the right of your plate. 3: i shook my head (curls capped of lavender acrylic, wrists scented of lilac) & you smiled. wide. it’s magic, you replied. a mystery stash. then offered me a taste and scribbled then stacked your claim on my heart. no need to try. all chambers suddenly stocked. 4: sweet. not sour. you swiftly swept me off my thrifted boots & took me on a multi-year-long tour of & thru city limits. 5: a doctor of words (from suess to shakespeare, silverstein to stein) & birds (from park bench corners to high rise owls). city haunts (uptown & downtown), and alphabets (streets & noodles). i never knew how magic was made/stewed/stirred/stamped. until i met you. 6: you built a house of jellies - grape, cherry, blueberry - & asked for my help. tiny plastic bricks soft on the inside. with a sturdy exterior. sweet, too. from there, we built our life in the city. 7: you’d wait for me. outside the library. in the lobby. on the landing. in all kinds of weather. always with a single flower, hand-picked in a city criticized for its overabundance (& overindulgence) of capitalistic greens (dollars, yen, shekels) and underabundance of natural greens (dandelion, mustard, broccoli). (y)our eyes perpetually evergreen / in full bloom. 8: (y)our hands perpetually busy / in full bloom. interlocked, in denim pockets. slips of paper in overcoat sleeves. sweet notes. hearts.bunnies.flowers.stringsofxoxoxoxox.airplanes.mouse ears.birds.home 9: you spent nights mixing drinks. & tossing greens (collard & kale). i spent nights mixing/making dreams. & chasing weeds (first wild. then wilder) 10: you taught me to dream & then i (inadvertently) dreamed bigger. I wish i knew why. outgrew our garden of eden (wild violets everywhere) & never realized the jeans no longer fit. i do not know why. 11: after a fistful of years & overgrown weeds in full bloom, i returned from a day out & a night of dreaming. i pressed play on the rectangular answering machine. a gift. when you worried. i need some space, i had whispered. at a volume meant for two. only a moment. in the lieu. the light blinked three. four. five times. 12: call. please. are you okay? the voice on the tape – yours – urged. i caught myself wondering. the same. wished i could snip & trim. time. tangles. testimony. 13: you knew me better than anyone, your kind eyes always watching, yet your voice revealed no knowledge & i gave no warning. nothing was okay. though no one ever asked why. 14: when i asked for my belongings, you complied. always patient. always professional. always present. always perfect. you never asked why. 15: i retrieved the four bags. ours then mine. trash yet nothing trashed. overstuffed & underappreciated. a cab waited – all engines running. all meters tabulating -- outside. 16: only later, did i see sticky note. the letters W.H.Y. scribbled. in/of/by your hand On Why i don’t know why. i ask myself the same. with the same unsatisfying answers. i don’t know why. why does ___ & why does ___ i don’t know why W.H.Y. 12 (plus) reasons to always ask __why___ even as / when the __window__ closes/door shuts Dress up clothes comes in many designs (and with many destinies) Ties twist in knots along with stomachs Pepperoni & testimony come in rolls. Ready to be sliced & diced. Rec rooms store more than toys. Ex’s too. Trash and treasure share multiple letters. Even sticky notes fall & fade. Unopened letters linger in small pockets of air between here & there. Envelope seals are no match for broken hearts. ER (& cosmetic) bags hold more than hearts. Not only seals cry of pulses and patterns. Not all kisses are forever sealed. Not all sitcoms have happy endings. Not all unexpected endings are stained of sadness Tenants and testaments turn over/of/on the hour. i do not know why. still. i know why & try rhyme. eye & i, too. still. i’m glad we tried.

I live in a zoo. Not a public zoo, with displays of conservation efforts and the grim diminishing numbers of the animals in the wild. I live in a private zoo, owned and managed by my family. It’s a bit like the Durrells, but in Surbiton, and less amusing. Each morning I rise early to avoid the noise and smells of feeding time. I get ready for school in a silent house, the curtains all closed, eating quietly in the kitchen. Bowls are noisy and noise tends to wake the lighter-sleeping of the animals. Toast smells waft up the stairs. So I eat cold bread and Nutella. If I’m quick, I can leave the house alone and unencumbered. Occasionally an early-rising antelope tiptoes its way across the first floor landing, startling me as I emerge from the bathroom. Her gentle brown eyes widen and her ears prick up. Then with a single bound of alarm she is gone, back into her room. Tiny noises of disquiet are the only evidence of her presence. I arrive home after school and the meercat is there to meet me. We trudge our way up the path from the bus stop with nowhere else to go. I find the house silent and watchful. The only permanent resident is the guard dog. A bundle of energy and wistfulness, his legs are too short for the head that he carries, giving him a tendency to overbalance. He wins prizes for the ‘Dog the Judges Most Want to Take Home’. By day he naps illegally on the sofa but denies it when questioned. A warm patch and the twitch of an eyebrow are the only proof. The other animals are on loan to others during the day. For these hours I loaf. I eat inappropriate things and watch inappropriate tv. The guard dog watches me hungrily. He knows his time will come when the zoo shuts down for the night. He will prowl the grounds, sniffing out the discarded wrappers as his street-dog instincts compel him to. The bins will be overturned. He will blame it on the foxes. The time of silence is coming to an end. At five thirty the animals start to return. The first to arrive is the owl. He is reclusive and tightly wound. A lover of knowledge, but only factual, he devours entire encyclopaedias for fun. He fixes me with his baleful yellow eyes and asks ‘hoo?’ I like the owl. He perches. He keeps the rats down. He is no trouble. At night he takes up position in the living room, staring out at the world as it passes him by. He lives by a different set of parameters. He uses words like ‘parameters’, that owl. Next is the hedgehog. She is a quiet little thing. She keeps herself to herself, hoovering up the leftovers of everybody else’s grand meals. Grubs and insects see her through. She doesn’t like to come out into the light - it makes her nervous and then she curls into a prickly little ball. So best to put down some bread and milk. Whatever you do, don't mention the fleas and ticks she carries with her. She thinks they are what makes her special. The chimpanzee is not due until later. He’s more intelligent than the other animals. Sometimes they think this is not true but they would never admit it. There’s something about his walk. It is long and contained, taught and loose, both a promise and a threat. You can tell when he is about to arrive. The meerkat is always the first to notice. She feels the change in the air, hears a noise, two, that she has learned over years of careful listening. She has been waiting for an hour, perched on the edge of the sofa, a tasty morsel held inches from her face. Chewing is too loud, she might miss something. When her call goes up the animals scatter. The meerkat goes to ground, using dirt and dead leaves as a protective screen, her dull fur blending into the furniture. The owl has more pride. He waits for as long as he dares, his long talons gripping his perch, anchoring him there. He knows better than anyone it is a risky strategy. The chimp’s arms are long, his screams piercing, his bite poisonous. A few years ago, for some reason the owl stayed put, stood his ground, dug his heel spurs in and bit back. For years he had fought to maintain a sense of belonging in this place, but he couldn't pretend forever. He was banished to Siberia for a while for failing to get along with the other animals. The hedgehog and meerkat know better now. They missed the owl while he was gone. Apparently it did the owl good. Soothed his ruffled feathers. But the meerkat knew he wasn’t soothed, his wings were clipped. They took away his ability to fly. He was too bright after that to fight back. Instead he is biding his time until his flight feathers grow back. Then he will soar. Woe betide any rodents or rabbits he spots in the long grass. The chimp has the right of way in the house and he knows it. There’s no telling what might set him off. Perhaps he’s hungry, or frustrated. Perhaps a slow loris looked at him funny or the Gorilla in his day-time enclosure took up too much room. The chimp was not born in captivity but his parents, the keepers assumed, had rejected him. He had been found, a tropical animal, still in immaturity, wandering in a park in Kent. One zoo after another had taken him in and he had shown great promise but on reaching maturity a number of behavioural issues had seen him retired to our quaint little space in suburban London. I suppose because no one else would have him. The hedgehog and meerkat groom the chimp daily, in some kind of unknowing self-preservation. Fleas and matted fur would only incite one of his rages. But the daily effort is almost always self-defeating. The chimp, annoyed at the attention, snarls and bites, sending the amateur beauticians scattering. The hedgehog seems not to mind the verbal slaps and parries. She simply moves aside and continues on. Perhaps her spiny exterior protects her, or perhaps that is just the nature of the hedgehog. The meerkat usually flees as a first choice. She grooms as a reflex;a leftover from the instincts of a pack animal without a pack. Her tiny heart beats a million times a second in anticipation of rebuff. Sometimes I find her afterwards huddled in the kitchen. Her fur has come out in places. She will scratch and shred her nervousness out in bark and leaves and new and deeper burrows in which to hide. The animal you see the least is the tiger. Its very nature is to be silent in the shadows. It hides in darkness, the very brightness of its fur a camouflage to the eye. Nobody sees it in plain sight. Lions are the king of beasts. They advertise their very existence with flicking tails, winking eyes and a roar that can be heard three counties over. A tiger is silent. Occasionally it will cough or growl but when you look around there is nothing but shadows. The tiger makes sure nobody knows it exists. A tiger bite can tear through bone, skin, and sinew. It can rip your arm clean out of its socket. A tiger’s paw can crush a man’s head without any effort. But even a little swipe, the caress of claw against skin, leaves a welt which can become infected over time. . It festers and becomes stinking. The poison enters the bloodstream, rewriting chemistry, eating away at certainty, solemnity. A tiger bite can infect your very soul. We have only seen the tiger twice. Time has moved on. As predicted the owl unfurled his wings one night and took to flight. He is seen occasionally, in misty skies, soaring on the updrafts. He flies alone. He likes it that way, I presume, although it is hard to ask him as he swoops past. When it is attempted he turns his soup-plate eyes on me and says “hoo?” I left the zoo a while ago too. So the hedgehog and chimp are all that’s visible of our erstwhile menagerie. She is still fiercely determined to stay and strangely immune. He continues to rattle his bars and throw shit at anyone who comes near. They take care of one another, in some strange symbiotic way. The meerkat hasn’t been seen in a while. Her trembling legs took her deep down into a burrow. It was dark and reassuring down there and she declined to emerge. I asked her a few times if she would like to come out and play but her chattering teeth were her only reply. I’ll go back for her one day. When the time is right. She’s safe for now, underground. Her fur is all gone, scratched away by her nervous paws, and she has managed to convince the keepers that she is just a naked mole rat. Eventually her false teeth may give her away. Hopefully by then she’ll have found a new disguise. When I visit I still watch for the tiger. It lurks, unseen and unacknowledged. Sometimes I wonder if the keepers even remember that it’s there. When I visit I have wrist guards and amulets and have bought juju beads from a variety of vendors. So far they seem to be working. Perhaps he is getting weak. One day even the meerkat may take him down.

I thought this poem would be easy to write But fitting it into a prescribed form Proves difficult. I start to wonder If I have made a mistake, fingers chilled, Battling with a blank screen. Outside the beech tree Stands skeletal and naked in the frosty morning. Night’s velvet darkness washed away by morning, Night’s womanly spell of black inks and stars that write Of something other, evaporate softly, left behind. Trees Creep out of the inky shadows, reassembling form, Appearing and disappearing. Sharp ice-chilled Grass, the crunch a wonder Underfoot. Emptying the compost, I wonder, If I might swim this morning In the lake, wash away the last warmth of bed, the chilled Water, leaving the night behind, to write A new story, a new day, fresh clay to form A new world, a bright new day. Outside the tree. Winter left the green dress of the old beech tree At her feet, brown crumpled leaves, she stands, a skeleton, a wonder, An elderly clock marking the year’s seasonal form Veiling and unveiling her green skirt, revealing her bones. January morning She stands, a woman exposed. Write Something of the magic, of the morning shaking off night’s chill. The news of the murder of another young woman is chilling. Life cut short, industry felling our trees, The rage against women and nature, a rage that is written In endless acts of violence, against women, against nature, I wonder In the morning light of a January day, early morning, women mourning, If we can ever leave that behind, ever imagine a new form, The third millennium barely born and yet to take form Bones of the 20th century crushed in the dark bloody earth chill In history’s winter of our own making. The new millennium, a new morning, Gnawed roots buried into the before, they tell us of the great world tree, Battles of bored and tiresome giants, a sorry wonder, Perhaps I am losing the simplicity of what I wanted to write, About a January morning and the simple form of a naked beech tree. Still and bare in the chill of the winter nights’ shadow, I wonder, This morning, whether things can ever be put right. This sistina was written on 13th January 2022 as the Irish news announced the death of another young Irish woman. Her name was Ashling Murphy, a 23 year old teacher, who was murdered while out for a run along the canal in Tullamore, Co Offaly. The Sestina began as a piece about writing about a tree but I couldn’t get this girl’s death out of my mind. Anne Crossey is a painter and writer living in West Cork, Ireland. She recently received a Bursary from the Northern Ireland Arts Council and the Irish Writer's Center.

You reminded me death is a part of life itself even as we live. Winter has always been my favorite, February feels free somehow, full of ancients’ magic for its calm, its stunned beauty even in death. I keep hearing you knock, knock, knocking on my dreams, death opening the door toward life, it’s all too much. Talk less, listen to the breath shifting snowdrifts silencing, the way snow will, anger with nowhere to go. Echoes bounce off ice like laser beams, lives lived, lives fragmenting life. You said yourself all things must pass like you, an emptiness, loss of light, another shifting phase of the new blue moon hovering, haunting, but true. You pass on your traits, memories and mercy to a fistful of your own blood we all wish we carried for another chance, the do-overs. For you, out of you, tired of you, deep go the blues. They come again and again, no time or space, but a long, long, long way to go. I’m surprised by how much I need you, not knowing, but knowing you. A dream scene knocks again, one I’ve had before or I think I have. I want to tell you about the impact, blue waves sliding up the shore. But you reminded me with a word, a glance, a blunt warning to handle with care, the love so sad for this song, this tongue of the gods, a charged mystical one, not a dirty word, even when many were said. Duality splits in half again, and I’m not alone anymore. The fears death bring remind us of all those years ago when your tears met your mouth. When I was younger, I used to want everything and fast. Slow down to imagine what is life when we finally see the answer’s at the end, the art of dying, having both and knowing both feels right, no longer rattled, afraid. If not for you, I may not remember the way. Even patient, it’s taken me longer to find the inner light than the darkness, but to my surprise, it’s been here all along, as you knew. I am shoveling snow into my grief-filled heart to share a bit more of you since I can only run so far for so long, blanketing all that anger with February-fabricated calm, beauty, something close to peace. So I can try, I can imagine heading for the light, and I want to thank you for the reminder. Andrea Taylor is a Columbus, Ohio-based writer whose work is forthcoming or published in Rejection Letters, Roi Faineant Press, Allegory Ridge, and others; she can be found on the web andreataylorbooks.com and Twitter @minadre

She pulls on her running shoes and slips unnoticed out the back door, down the rain-slicked path, and through the garden gate where she pauses and expels long, angry breaths. The sounds from a football match drift through their open living room window, and she imagines him settled into his armchair, their latest argument already forgotten. It’s been going on for months now: the endless bickering and sniping at each other. Some days, their words are barbed comments that scratch and nick; other days, like today, they are heavy blows that wound deeply. Combined, they leave scars that have taken their toll on her. She turns her face up towards the gentle mizzling rain, willing it to cool her anger and dissolve her problems. She needs to be away, to put distance between them. She sets off running. Her pace is slow at first as she picks her way past puddles and dodges dog-walkers. Today’s words echo in her mind, propelling her forward, fuelling her momentum. “You’re too selfish to change.” Her feet pound the pavement. “You’re not cut out for motherhood: your body clearly knows that even if you don’t!” She passes the houses on the edge of the village and heads up the track through the ancient evergreens. Over the stream leading up onto the hillside, side-stepping rocks and stones along the path. She roughly wipes the tears away as she pushes on along the snaking hairpins that lead ever upwards, her muscles protesting and her lungs burning with the urgency and speed of this run. It usually takes a few minutes, a mile or so to settle in, and she tells herself it won’t be long before she hits that sweet spot, before the mechanics of her body are synchronised, and everything will run on autopilot. This has always been her release, and today she needs it to override the soreness of her heart, the dull ache in her abdomen, the feeling of impossibility in her marriage. She needs to feel the strength and power of her body, to focus on what it can do; not what it can’t. As the scent of pine trees fills her lungs, she realises the anger is lessening with each exhalation. Glorious, heady endorphins flood her bloodstream. Fuelled by her own strength now, she continues up the hill for miles until she reaches the ridge where she finally pauses to rest on a rock. Birdsong stills her, and her breathing slows and returns to normal. Up here, his words hurt less. He says he doesn’t resent her. She almost laughs at his stupid insensitivity, his coldness, the seemingly endless arguing, the crushing disappointments that come each month. Up here on the ridge, clarity descends. Maybe she won’t be a mother, but she’s reached the point where she doesn’t want to be his wife either. She pushes off the rock, and sets off, ready for change.