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We wouldn’t be able to undo it if we kissed. That is lust to me -  Something to covet. Even if : You never told anyone I would know, we would know. A decoy To command inclination Sharing breath like ancients. Methanobrevibacter oralis, that old microbe The place where you form words  Close it in language impotency.   Where you eat Where you vomit Where you tell me you don’t love me It would mean something.  Bird Ugly He came home today with Bird Ugly One eye big One eye small This is how he sees the world. It’s beautiful, I say As I try to display it on the bookshelf. I turn him profile  This poster painted Papier mache Primary school object That is my mistake. I show one eye to the world I forget the beauty of both Of difference. Tunnel Vision You’ve made a home for the ghosts, Living in lost peripheral vision. All the things once known: A dead mother who stands in the corner of the room Twenty five years after her death. Nothing is at the end of the tunnel There are no goals to meet  No holidays to book, nothing new   What is no longer behind you is beside you Everything is balanced These ghosts -  They walk with you. The Changing Shape of Me   I am amorphous. I wake unbloated. Changing shape. Expanding. Decreasing. Bigger, smaller. Stretching skin. Thick or thin. Big or small, round as a ball. Wear black to look small. Don’t take up too much space. Don’t wear horizontal stripes Don’t rub self love in their face. That top hides a multitude of sins. Pass the scissors. Cut the label out. Charlotte Cosgrove is a writer and lecturer from Liverpool. She has published two collections of poetry and is the editor of Rough Diamond poetry journal.

The Return Dr. Harris is driving. I sit beside him, watching the streets I am told I’ve driven through a hundred times—houses, strip malls, traffic lights—but none of it feels familiar. This whole process has been… strange. Frustrating. At home, I pass photos of myself—smiling, surrounded by people I don’t recognize—and I don’t feel like the person in them. Sometimes I catch flashes—quick, disjointed things that vanish before I can hold them. I remember walking across a college campus—trees, buildings, footsteps echoing.  Or maybe I dreamed it.  I can’t name the school. I don’t know what I was studying. Dr. Harris explained it all—the accident, the amnesia, the false memories—but it always sounds like he’s describing someone else’s life. Not mine. I trust him—mostly—but sometimes it feels like he knows more than I’ve told him, naming fears I haven’t said out loud, even voicing things I hadn’t yet let myself think. Perhaps that is what all good therapists do. I asked my parents once if we’d known him before. They said no. They did mention that he went to my high school. Years ago. My parents say Dr. Harris is the right one for me. But when they think I’m not listening, I hear it in their voices. The tension. The worry. How long…? What if he doesn’t…? Should we…? “We just want him back ,” they say. Not me. Him. I keep wondering what happens if I never remember. Am I someone new now? And if I do remember… does that make this version of me disappear? I don’t know which one I want to be. I glance at Dr. Harris.  The silence in the car suddenly feels oppressive.  I try to say something—anything—to break it. “How am I this confused?” I ask. “About everything?” He answers without glancing over. “It’s part of the process. Part of what we’re working through.” A beat. “We’re here.” I hesitate. “Are we going in?” “Principal Keller’s expecting you,” he says, motioning toward the gate. “Just head through there.” I pause. “You’re not coming?” He shifts slightly, eyes on the street ahead. “You don’t need me there,” he says. “It’s best this way.” He grips the wheel a little tighter but doesn’t say anything else. I open the door and step out. I glance back. He’s still in the car—hands on the wheel. Like just being here puts him on edge. What’s up with him today? *** Dr. Harris remembers the old campus: long corridors, open soccer fields, tall trees. The layout had been open, loosely structured—easy to move through, easy to slip away from. It gave kids room to push limits, to take risks. He thinks of the halls, the bell, the heat. Laughter. Voices filed away long ago—until now.  He shuts it down. Not now,  he tells himself. His chest tightens—and stays tight. He tells himself some people get second chances. Not everyone. Not always. He blinks. The present returns. The new campus is something else—manicured lawns, evenly spaced trees, gleaming glass façades. It looks imported—from somewhere colder, wealthier. High walls surround the entire compound. You can barely see inside.  He finds himself wondering: What are they trying to keep out? Or in? He imagines a dress code. Pressed collars. Probably sweaters. He’d said as much to his sister, the last time he saw her at her place. Her twins go there now—enrolled at the same school he can barely stand to look at. She didn’t hesitate. “You never see us—and when you do, it’s just to criticize.” “Maybe you should look at your own choices first.” “More structure might’ve helped you too, you know.” A pause. “Sorry, Daniel. That was harsh.” “It’s all right,” he said. He left not long after. He exhales slowly, careful not to let it register. Getting Sam’s parents to agree hadn’t been easy. They asked endless questions, like they were working off a list—trying to sound brave, measured, but not quite managing it. But it was the mother, her voice suddenly tight and brittle, who asked the question at the end: What if he doesn’t come back? What if this doesn’t work? He told them this was their best shot. But memory’s fragile. Nothing’s certain. Sam seems ready for this—whatever comes. But his parents… he’s not so sure. Maybe it’s not just Sam they want back. Maybe it’s before. Back when bad things didn’t just… happen. But they can. And they do. He thought about saying it. Decided not to. Still, he kept pressing—not just for Sam, and not just for his parents. For him too. The School I reach the gate. The guard waves me through without asking anything. I head toward the main building. Inside, a group of kids—nine, maybe ten—race down the hallway, shouting and laughing. There’s something about the sound, the rhythm in their laughter. “Where’s the school store?” The question spills out before I know I’m going to ask it. One kid points. “End of the hall, to the left. Same place it’s always been.” He squints. “Why’re you going there?” I shrug. As I turn away, I hear a whisper—just loud enough to catch. “Weird.” “What?” I snap—too fast. Another kid grins. “It’s just that… that place is weird.” But something about the way he says it—the half-smile, the shrug—I almost laugh. I reach the store, enter, and turn left toward a door with a sign that says Uniforms . I stop for a moment. Like I’ve been here before. Then I push it open. A boy sits behind the counter. An older man—his back to me—is stacking shirts on a shelf. The boy looks up. “Can I help you?” “I think I’m here for uniforms.” The older man turns. His eyes light up. “Hey, kid. Look at you.” He sets down the shirts like they suddenly don’t matter. He grins like he knows me. “How’ve you been? What can we help you with?” His happiness is weirdly contagious.  I feel it too—just a little. I keep looking at his face, hoping something will click. But I can’t tell. “Yeah,” I say. “I was going to see the principal, but… I wanted to check on the uniforms instead.” “That’s fine,” he says. “But I think it’d be better if you see the principal first.” “Yeah. You’re right.” “Come back after,” he adds. “Or whenever. I’d be glad to help.” I want to stay. But I step into the hallway anyway. Something shifts.  The color of the walls. The echo of footsteps. Running late for class. I’ve done this. I think.  Their faces flash through my mind—blurry but bright, sudden. The blond one. The tall one. The joker. My friends.  A warmth moves through me—quiet, sudden. But it feels fragile. I reach for their names, their voices—but I can’t find them. I want to see them again, so I head toward the 12th-grade classrooms. I stop at the first one. I peek through the door. Students fill the seats. I spot a blond kid near the window—he looks familiar. “Mike!” I say, before I even think. He looks up, confused. Nudges the person next to him. A quiet laugh. He’s not Mike. Not even close. Why did I think he was? I freeze.  What was I thinking? What are they saying? I step back. I shouldn’t be here. I head toward the principal’s office. I feel the floor shift sideways beneath me. I reach for the handle—more to steady myself than to open the door—and pause. God, I hope everyone forgets that. Or maybe that I do. Then I open it. A woman at the reception desk looks up and smiles. “Hi,” I say. “My name is Samuel Becket. I’m… here to see the principal.” Her smile widens. “Of course, Sam. We’ve been expecting you.” Another woman appears—older, sharp-featured, her hair pulled back tight—but her voice surprises me, softer than I expected. “Hello, Sam,” she says. “Please, come in.” We sit, and she takes her time arranging the desk—phone turned face down, folder centered, pen lined up beside it—like she needs everything just right before she speaks. “How are you doing?” she asks. “I don’t know… I guess I’m a little confused. That’s kind of why I’m here. Dr. Harris says I went to school here but never graduated. It feels familiar… but I don’t remember it well.” “Okay. Let’s take a look—maybe this will help clear things up,” she says gently, opening the folder and sliding a photo across the desk. It’s me. And my friends. Mike—the blond one. Jimmy—the tall one. Manuel—the joker. We’re in our jerseys, soaked with sweat. Shouting, mid-jump. And I feel it: the heat, the cling of the jersey, the smell of grass. Someone kicked me—hard. I hit the ground, furious. I rub my leg now, without thinking. “That’s the day we won the state championship,” I say. She hesitates. “That was the championship game, yes.” She looks at me. “You all played your hearts out. But it wasn’t a win that day. Still—no one who saw it will forget that game. We were all proud.” “But we’re all smiling.” “It was your last game. You celebrated anyway.” I nod. But something inside me tightens. How do I know what to trust? She reaches into the folder again. “This is your graduating class.” I take the photo and start scanning. Mike. Jimmy. Manuel. Claire. But not me. My stomach tightens. I press my thumb into the glossy paper, hoping—stupidly—that something might change. Nothing. Principal Keller watches me for a moment. Then softly: “You were part of this place, Sam. We missed you at graduation.” I just stare at the space where I’m not. “I should finish high school.” “Yes,” she says, smiling. “Just a few steps left.” I hesitate. “But… why didn’t I graduate?” Her smile fades—just slightly. “You know what?” she says, soft. “Daniel is waiting for you. Dr. Harris, I mean.” I nod. “Thank you, Principal Keller.” “It’s good to see you, Sam.” She pauses. Her voice catches, just a little. “Really good.” “And say hi to your parents,” she says quickly as I’m stepping outside. My parents. They make me feel safe—always there, always ready to help. I appreciate their attention, but sometimes it feels like they think I’ll break. Like they’re waiting for me to come back—to be who I was before. But I’ve been here the whole time. I take the long way back. The path outside feels clearer than the one through the building. I’ve walked it before. With a girl—Andrea? Her arm brushed mine. She laughed. I want it to be true. The vending machines—buzzing, faintly glowing. Manuel snatched the Coke from my hand before I could open it. “You’re too slow,” he said, already drinking. I shoved him. Hard. He nearly dropped it—then cracked up, head thrown back. For a second, the anger rises—hot, sudden—then fades, like it was never mine to hold. The Road I reach the car.  Dr. Harris is behind the wheel, window down, his arm resting against the frame. He glances over as I open the door. “How did it go?” “You were right,” I say. “I’m starting to remember.” Something in his posture shifts—just slightly. “That’s good,” he says. “Want to head to the park? Eat there?” I nod. “Yeah. That’s the plan. My mom packed sandwiches.” Heller Park isn’t far. We should be there soon. We pull onto the street and drive in silence for a few minutes. Then Dr. Harris starts asking questions—steady, clinical. Like this is routine. “When did the school start to feel familiar?” “What were you doing when you remembered your friends?” “Do the memories feel like yours… or like they belong to someone else?” He asks them one by one. Calm. Measured. And for once, I don’t feel lost answering. I tell him about the uniform store. “Yes. Jimmy used to work there. You, Manuel, and Mike would stop by all the time. You loved making up stories about the old school—scaring the little kids while they waited to get measured. Mr. Olivera said it was like the four of you ran the place.”  He pauses, then adds quietly, “I always liked Mr. Olivera. He used to tease me that I was too loud, talked too much… but he was always asking me to stop by anyway. And I did. Until I couldn’t.” I turn toward him, surprised. “Really? Tell me more.” “I don’t remember much more, Sam,” he says, voice soft. “And honestly… I’m not sure I want to.” I think of asking something else—but stop myself. He slows down—but not like someone being cautious. Like someone deciding whether to keep going. Then, just barely, his foot presses down again. The car creeps forward. That’s when I realize—we’ve been driving too long. The road narrows. Trees press in, blocking the sunlight. Something about it feels off. The seatbelt feels tighter. Up ahead, the road forks. One side is blocked—orange cones, a DETOUR sign leaning to one side. The trees. The curve. It all comes back—before I know why. My chest tightens. I grip the seat. Someone’s yelling. Tires screeching. Then silence. The car slows. I glance over. Dr. Harris’s knuckles are pale. He looks… off. Unfocused. Distressed. “What’s wrong?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “This is where the accident happened,” he says. “You and your friends were lucky.” He pauses. “It’s not always like that.” He says it like it hurts. We both exhale—quiet, almost at the same time. Back there he looked… scared. Not just for me. Now the car is quiet. We’re both here, but it feels like we’ve each gone somewhere else. The Park We pull into the park. Dr. Harris parks beneath a tree. Everything feels quieter here. “Let’s go sit on one of the benches,” he says. We find one in the shade and sit. “Can you tell me what happened?” I know he’s told me before. But this time, it feels like the story is mine. Dr. Harris watches me for a moment before speaking. “You and your friends were on that road. Something went wrong.” The sound comes back first. Engine. Whiplash. Pain. Then Nothing.  My heart races. “It was me,” I whisper. “I was going too fast.” The words spill out—sharp, reckless. And I feel it: the weight of what I did, what I almost did. “It was an accident,” he says—his voice is sharper than before, too fast. I flinch. He notices. Then, softer: “Maybe it was the road. Or the speed. But it’s done now.” He shakes his head, gently. “You hit your head. Coma for weeks. Post-Traumatic Amnesia.” “They said the car overturned several times. It was the trees that finally stopped it” A pause. “We were hoping the school might jog something.” He glances over at me. “Looks like it did. Accidents happen, Sam. Your friends made it through. And you will, too.” He leans back slightly, arms behind him on the bench. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if my friends had been hurt,” I say. I feel it again. The almost. Not just what happened—but what didn’t. Silence. I glance over. Dr. Harris looks pale—like someone pulled the ground out from under him. “What’s the matter?” I ask. He’s quiet for a moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is different—thinner, rougher, like it costs him something. “I had an accident there too.” I sit up. “When?” “When I was your age.” “And what happened?” A long pause. Then his voice shifts—firmer, controlled. Back to normal. “I don’t want this to be about me,” he says. “Come on,” I say. “Tell me.” He shakes his head. “That’s all there is to it.” But he does not look at me. He reaches for the lunch bag and hands me a sandwich. I’ve been open with him—more than with anyone. I know there’s more. He’s just not saying it. I’m tired of being talked around. Why can’t anyone just say what they mean? I unwrap my sandwich and take a bite—slow, automatic. He finishes his in three bites, like it’s something to get through. He reaches for another one. Unwraps it—just as a car pulls in fast, tires catching on the gravel. My parents. They are already out of the car. My dad reaches me first. “We called you! You didn’t answer. We were worried.” “I told you—we were going to the park.” “Why didn’t you answer?” “You know I always put my phone on silent when I’m with Dr. Harris.” “You were supposed to be back by now.” “The road was blocked.” His jaw tightens. “You went through that road? Why would you do that?” His voice rises—angry and afraid at the same time. His hands move fast—frustrated, sharp. Like when the ref made a bad call. Then I realize—he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Dr. Harris. I feel the blood rush to my head. “Why are you talking like I’m not here?” I say. “I am  here. I’ve been here the whole time.” “Why can’t you see that?” I pause. “I’m not something you need to fix.” I look at my parents. They’re out of breath, faces flushed, stunned—and suddenly I see it: they look older than I remember. Fragile. Like they’re the ones who might break. I turn to Dr. Harris. He’s calm. Silent. “He knows what happened,” Dr. Harris says. His voice is firm—maybe too firm. He finally looks up. “I told you he could handle it.” For a second, he says nothing, then, “He’s remembering.” “Mike, Jimmy, and Manuel. I remember them,” I say. I almost laugh. “Can’t believe those assholes left for college without me.”  “I need to finish high school. I need to catch up with them.” My parents freeze. They glance at each other. I can’t tell if they’re about to laugh or cry. My mom actually laughs—sharp and surprised. But her hands are still clenched, like she does not believe it yet. “You’ll catch up with them soon enough,” she says. “You can give them hell when you do.” The tension softens. Not gone, but loosening. Like everyone’s remembering how to breathe. My dad turns to Dr. Harris. “Sam needs to get to physical therapy. Is it okay if we take him now? I will call you later.” “Yeah, anytime.”  I reach for the lunch bag, but he stops me. “Leave it, Sam. I’ll bring it back next time I see you.” As I walk away with my parents, I start telling them how we used to scare little kids at Mr. Olivera’s. “Of course we know,” my mom says—like it’s something she’s been holding onto for both of us. My dad turns to me. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “When we couldn’t reach you today, we panicked. We drove by the school, but you were already gone. So we came here.” “After the accident… seeing you in the hospital, in a coma—we didn’t know if you’d wake up. It was the hardest thing we’ve ever been through. And now, we just can’t help but worry all the time.” “It’s ok, Dad.” I place my hand over his. My mom rests her hand on my back—gentle, steady. As I climb into the car, I glance back at Dr. Harris—still sitting on the bench. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he looks like someone who needs help too. He watches us go. *** Dr. Harris tells himself today was a turning point. They’ve suffered enough. This should be the start of something better. Taking Sam down that road was a risk—especially without telling his parents. But it worked. Sam didn’t just remember—he faced it. He remains on the bench, unmoving. I don’t know what I would’ve done if my friends had been hurt. And then—without warning—the memories arrive. Peter and Juan. He sees them here again—this park, these benches. Juan shoving his arm. Peter laughing. Daniel, don’t be a chicken. Ask the girl out. He hadn’t said their names in years. The road comes back—too fast, too narrow, the curve coming up too soon, and then the feeling that everything had tipped, as if the world had spun sideways and couldn’t be put back. He remembers thinking he could handle it. That he was in control. He closes his eyes. Tries to keep it out. But it’s not the crash that stays with him. It’s Sam’s voice. I’m not something you need to fix. The words hit too hard. His breath stutters. Hands tremble. It was an accident.   You didn’t mean to hurt anyone.   It’s done now. That should be enough. It should be. But it isn’t. He glances at his phone. Missed calls. One after another. He doesn’t check them. Just sits. Still watching. Still waiting. The benches in the park stay empty. Luis Chamorro is a writer from Nicaragua, now living in Miami. His fiction and nonfiction explore memory, identity, and the emotional texture of both personal and professional fracture, often blending emotional realism with philosophical inquiry. He holds degrees in Engineering and Business Administration from the University of Texas at Austin and Carnegie Mellon University. Before turning to writing, he led international operations in the coffee industry. The Detour is his first submitted short story.

Half Past a Monkey’s Ass Well it’s half-past a monkey’s ass (or a quarter- past a nightmare) and my skull is a glass jar full of fireflies and all the clouds in the next county over are aflame and the wind is stirring things up a little and there’s a wolf with a wounded bird in its mouth and a dead tree on a hill with nothing but phantom limbs and the frogs are tapping out some kind of Morse Code to each other and there’s an old beer bottle sitting on a fence- post (for who knows how many years) upon which a lone dragonfly is perched trying to tune in his tiny radio. Dark Summer Winds (Tanka) The sky belongs to the bats and crickets at night, but the dark summer  winds smelling of mimosa      and rain belong to the trees.

Alice knew they didn’t want her there, but she didn’t let go of Mark’s hand. Their parents had gone to ask the ICU nurse to make her leave. She’d come to donate blood. They didn’t want it. Mark was still unconscious. She couldn’t stop looking at him. She hadn’t seen him since Dad threw her out of the house years ago. He must have gotten that motorcycle he’d always wanted. The road rash was bad. Mark’s eyes fluttered open, and she squeezed his hand. “Hey, I’m here,” she whispered. She wondered if he’d recognize her with her long hair. With laugh lines. His bloodied lips moved, and she leaned in. These would be the first words he said to her since she came out. Since she decided to live as his sister instead of his brother. His voice was hoarse in the shell of her ear. “Go… away.” Adrienne Rex is an aspiring author from Houston, Texas. Her stories take after their author, meaning they’re usually imaginative and offbeat. When she’s not making her daydreams pay rent (otherwise known as writing), she’s drawing, reading, or being dragged around by her dog on what may charitably be called a walk. Her work has been published by the Moonstone Arts Center, Gabby and Min’s Literary Review, and Dug Up Magazine.

Our Possible Lives Born into what we are, with no recourse or recompense. Who could have imagined such a time and  such a place? Everything so sad and hollow,   nebulous hours, skies full of ash. A mess of things behind, a mess of things ahead. Our possible lives drift about like  bits of conversations overheard on a bus, the dead blooming like weeds in overgrown fields. An indifferent wind blows each moment through the days and the years and we never did  end up doing  much of anything. A Dog Or a Wave I wasn’t born to be immortal, never had it in me to hustle that way. Let my poems be sputtering  torches in the void. Should someone find one on their journey,   may it lighten their way long enough to allow  them to continue just a little while more, like a smile from a dog or a wave from someone you actually want to see. Reminder: Hey you dumbass wretched half-baked saints, you slapdash sinners,  you feckless dupes  selling your garbage pail souls to a lesser demon’s lackey the first chance you get, you wackos still dreaming of beauty in the face  of the machinations of the dull and monstrous kings who bleed you like  the dumb animals you are, you 5 time suicides, you muses to the damned, you elegant weirdos, you fucking mooks, you losers dreaming of victory, too close  to the sun with your paper bag wings, you knuckleheaded fools forever rushing in where angels  wouldn’t dare — listen, there’s no time left  for your bullshit  or mine. We’re already gone, and the void  offers no rewards for our best intentions. Eternity is a long time not to exist, so quit fucking around. Take your grubby little fingers, plunge them into the fierce and bitter heart of yourself and eat. The People Who've Been to Hell and Back  The people who've been to hell and back, you know it right away, even if they're too polite to talk about it. You can hear it in their voices and smell it on their jackets. There’s a look in their eyes that makes you nervous. Get a few drinks in them and they’ll loosen up a bit, tell you  how Dante only saw the guest rooms and never set foot in the  dirty parts of town. The people who've been to hell and back will not suffer bad poetry or good intentions. They have great fashion sense and the best record collections. They find the beauty and the terror in all the places you never thought to look. They'll tell you hell is just like  the most terrible things you've dreamed only you don't wake up. They can see all your secrets as if they were branded in light upon your skin. They could tell you your fate like a cheap vaudeville trick, reveal your final destination  in great and unwarranted detail, but by the time they got around to it you’d be already there.

Cold I used to be a tree leaves of ambition now I cannot find  myself in sudden  snow. Yes, I would  melt in your hands a gray towel to soak up. What washed away washed me ashore, cold sand scratching  skin. My body yearns  in dry winter air. E & K 4EVA It’s the running office joke.                                                     And maybe it’s cool. It’s high school. Both of you laugh silently  at the mouth of the hallway.                               I never would have known  them behind me if not for the muscles  whispering when he flexed in his black shirt,  leaning against a board full of push                               pins, and the printer having ceased– finally– it's endless work. Houseboat Sleeping on a houseboat– the world     a soft           earthquake, what creaks if not the heart this worn on marina water        ropes tugging at your limits. Climb the ladder to the wheel and pretend to steer this stupid thing in the only way it was never meant to work. How Good We Have It     I turn the shower knob clockwise and fly open the curtains. I shiver even though the world burns beyond my walls. No one in the mirror. An empty plastic bottle of Listerine (a puddle of nuclear winter-blue at the bottom). Half-open toiletry bag, though I have not vacationed in years. Inside, a travel toothbrush. Cheap plastic. Did you know we eat a credit card a week? And so, this is what my body knows. Filled to gills with the promise of money, money itself being its own shaky promise. Power? Freedom? When  I step out of the tub, dripping pieces of me that are not me, having soaked in a week of being alive in a borrowed and now mechanical but breathing  body, artificial as I am, inessential,  keeping the past alive with LASIK eyes, a genuine VIN– the wet bottoms  of my feet collect accumulated fur  of my animal in a midcentury rug, a shedding body that has become part of another one. Therapy A tree of marbles, faded– fruit, or poisonberry, with  its long and tired branches carrying the weight  it never knows, sags  in front of the new and bustling market in the center of the city. Breathes in the fumes of passing cars. Me, too,  and the lanternflies, on a  road to feeling meaning.  O, to have an insect graze  my leg before the sun  does the same– I want  to arm wrestle the emotions I can’t hold on to, where  our elbows lock on a surface  that is not temporary, palms sweaty with each other. Put me  in a tournament where I make it to the final match– against joy, the highest seed– and win.  If the necessary muscles  are sore the next morning, weak and wise and hopeful–  the wind reminding me,  the strong tree bending– I’ll take the rematch.  Each time. For as long  as it takes. Free Boba Tea at the blood bank without your sister the weight room  without your strength at North Market  without money the soft spheres in this tea go down  easy which is unlike  me January 2023 if anyone asks I'm at the bar to fight winter depression a clear straw  indicates intention water flowing however I can get it just as sun emits light that satiates I'll dance eventually to the best  of my ability handing back black  straws to whoever asks in the lingering holiday lights that spell a start to a year that was never new being one continual floodgate of all existence pouring into my hands into my can I'm dancing the beluga James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In  (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in ITERANT, Stirring , and The Indianapolis Review . He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee . ( jamescroaljackson.com )

When enough affection has been given to an object, it develops its own lifeforce. It acquires a personality and develops loyalties and preferences just like any other living creature. Have you ever threatened a computer or sacrificed blood during a repair project? The device works afterwards, doesn’t it? Taking the soul of a starship is a serious endeavor. The end of their lives is not the same as a mortal death. They do not have heart attacks. They do not die in their sleep. They are not taken down by predators as part of the Great Circle of Life. And when a starship dies, she does not die alone. The heart of a starship is not the engine as one might think. Just like each starship design is different, so is the location of her soul. The Sabrina  was birthed from the affections of her favorite engineer, who often combed through her interior wiring to patch a shorted circuit. He dreamed of special modifications just for her when he crawled into his bunk at night, and although his bunk no longer existed, torn out long ago and replaced with a seating area for passengers, his affections were strongest there. Following a polite exchange, I interjected myself between two lovers perched upon the bench and knelt beneath the seat. It took only a few tender words to coax the Sabrina  to follow me into the Great Unknown. The lovers, enamored with one another, did not see me depart, nor did anyone else, and the abandoned shell of the Sabrina  continued on its course to Antares. She would never reach her destination.

October I enter with my season in candlelight  Three burgundy kisses , westward  From a splintered jar  Seeping into oceans  Goodnight is cried , Damp lights assume prophets , Recoiling in the flustered breath of desperate inquiry  Those who have lingered with soft oath  And shape with delicate rebellion  Taste temptation in tragedy , For only with eyes and lips daring  Does laughter dissolve trespassed , A poured world into the mouths of mystery  Dawn is pale  Your lips will echo , Tragedy can be golden  If the season carries the night slow.  Hourglass We are held to the wind  And stiffened where frames croon heedful ,  Timber dressed furtive  And gardens enchanting light ,  I am tired ,  And though bones gnaw their secrets  As chandeliers bleed through velvet ,  I remain effectual to the brushes of this polished brick ,  Sands rest gradual , Measured ribbons of centuries ,  Yet still the avenue inhales me ,  Passing me through in a silhouette of espoused haste , The thread of infancy  Borrowed lengthwise ,  Figures dissolving into sudden dust and gilt  Cruel , as by splintered step in glass , Haste and its time  Ticking wax that falls fading from the lacquered oak  We may dream into its portrait  And bruise with its frame  To dare pursue its gilded vanishing.   A Costume of Lavender With lavender through the railroad  He sits with demons  And the clamorous abode of aching wheels through the day  “Summer, I thought you'd never come”  As jars begin to clink from the swallowing rust ,  His chapel is the residue of midnight in a green chapel , All beginnings can change the world  When crows are your witness  And the stillness from spring echoes as a furnace  Of acquired drowning rain ,  And all your flowers are birthed in tunnels  As souls of lending light  With quivering petals ,  A station  He moves to the stem and purple ,  Only to breathe.  Fainting Lights There is a shadow ,  The rose                  Its vine  Please forgive me my dear. Darren Lynch, aged 25, from Dublin, Ireland, is a writer whose work attempts to delve into the corners of the modern mind. Experience, imagination, and fascination are the keystones that help shape the poems he offers to his readers. From a very young age, Darren was immensely inspired by the poets that came from the same small island as him. From Oscar Wilde and W.B. Yeats to James Joyce and Eavan Boland. His inspiration was drawn from the poetic atmosphere they planted within the soil of Ireland. Darren is currently finalising his first chapbook of poetry titled ‘The Neighbourhood of Madness’ which is the culmination of poems written on his travels through the rest of Europe. Each poem within this maze has been delivered with the purpose of finding breath. A vessel, if you will, to carry the reader into a space of nothing but pure thought. As such, Darren has received multiple publications, which can be found through his Linktree and Instagram below. As always, Darren is happy to be in the same space as fellow writers, so please do not hesitate to contact him if you find his work enjoyable or even puzzling. To finish with a quote from Oscar Wilde ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ Stay Groovy. Instagram: @darrrenlynch Linktree : @ https://linktr.ee/darrenlynch23

Cleanliness Sensitivity in good care always orderly and neat all these are next to godliness   Contentment A handful, used like a bountiful little or abundance, no difference anything possessed is enough Discipline Squeezing the body’s comfort adding lime to its sweet candy to achieve a profitable goal Author’s note: A Senryu is a three-line unrhymed Japanese poetic form structurally similar to haiku but treating human nature, usually in a satiric or ironic vein. Whereas haiku focuses on nature, senryu is concerned with human nature and its foibles.

The receptionist turns up just before I leave. Helpful. Calm. A little weary, like she’s just been woken by the air raid sirens too. She points me in the direction of the shelter, but lingers. Maybe thinking about the hotel dog. Maybe that I am overreacting. Maybe about the war. She notices my trembling hands, and her eyes soften with kindness. Or pity. I wander down the street. Find a building — half-lit, eerie. A cross between a communist obelisk and a Lexus showroom. Neither of which is inviting. I hesitate. But air raid sirens change the calculation — and the fear of social ineptitude temporarily takes a back seat. - - - - - Slouched in the lobby, sitting. Could be asleep. Bearish, stocky, wrapped in a plasticky raincoat. I feel better seeing him, at first. But when I ask if this is the shelter, he barely looks at me. Shrugs. Grunts. Not exactly reassuring. Probably my fault for relying on an app instead of learning Ukrainian. Second man turns up. Could be the villain in a '90s Bruce Willis movie. Thinner, but strong. Tough in a way that had nothing to do with size. Could be a bouncer, a taxi driver, a soldier, a gangster. But he was none of those. He was here. He speaks bluntly, even though I can’t understand him. There is, initially, no softness to him whatsoever. A woman turns up. The bear wrapped in plastic laughs — dull, blunt. Almost, look at this idiot . No one else is amused. Not even him. She walks over briskly. Yes? I pause. Am I at the shelter? Yes. She immediately walks away. After a beat, I follow. I hear them behind me. Both of them. The hairs on my neck stand up, and my attention shifts from potential bombs to a more immediate sense of danger. - - - - - We walk downstairs. Into dilapidation. Thick concrete walls, peeling paint, red and green in parts, raw elsewhere. Pockmarks throughout. Some larger cavities, where sections are missing. The aesthetics don’t extend to actual weakness. The building feels strong, solid. The cold advances — floor, to wall, to air, to skin. The woman opens a thick metal door and disappears. I go to follow, and the ursine man breaks through the sound of shuffling footsteps with a gruff NO  — a verbal parallel to the walls. He motions to a dark hallway. Between them and darkness, my mind scrambles for options, finds none. Moving into the dark, expecting to lose a passport, cash, more. Laminated signs appear, blu-tacked to the wall. Small words in Cyrillic, large words in English. NO PHOTOS . We turn left, towards trickles of fluorescent light, and hallway gives way to hallway. One wall lined with heavy wooden benches, each draped with a blanket. Thick wool, mostly blue, red flecks, scratchy. The space is empty except for the seats, the signs, and us. - - - - - The ursine man walks away, and the air feels different. Softer. The Die Hard villain stays. He offers his hand. We trade charades. He mimes, he speaks, he pauses to check that I'm still nodding, understanding. Assumptions, fears give way to shame, curiosity. It's hard. 300 languages here. Deutsch. American. Français. I speak Français. No English.  He draws 3 0 0 on the wall with his finger again and again for me. He mimes writing in an invisible notepad, his hand as paper. I offer my phone, and he shakes his head, refusing it. Americans , slightly derisively — his request misunderstood. I'm Australian! , feeling braver, or safer — attempting a smile, expecting to be excused of my faux pas. Americans , undaunted, unimpressed, uninterested. Not a misunderstanding, but a correction. I accept my new, unwanted nationality, and we return to charades. He acts for me, silently. His knee is injured. His elbow is injured. His heart is injured. It's unclear if the pain is physical, or emotional, or both. He leans on a heater for a while, then slowly wanders off. I hear his voice in the distance, talking, out of sight. - - - - - The shelter slowly fills. First, a middle-aged woman with a cat in a carrier. Then, a man in his thirties, focused on his phone. Another woman, with a young girl. She plays games on an iPad and soft dings of success emanate from the speaker. The hotel receptionist is absent. No one is talking anymore. Occasionally, the iPad sings. Sounds of waiting cover the silence. Shuffling feet. Readjusting coats. Breathing. Other than that, it’s quiet. Very cold, I think. Hard to tell whether the shaking is nervousness or temperature. - - - - - A man in a black coat arrives, walking fast. He approaches the woman and child, slows. Hands the woman a power bank. Crouches, touches the girl's leg. Speaks softly, gently. A quiet snort of laughter. Their voices mingle with echoing footsteps. We go back to waiting. Max Hedley is an Australian uncomfortable with, and curious about, the state of the world. Social media links are https://esquivalience.org https://www.instagram.com/esquivalience/

She keeps setting a fourth plate at the table. No one comments anymore. Her mother clears it like clockwork. Her father eats in silence. Her sister rolls her eyes but never removes it. Even the dog sits by that chair, tail still. It started a year ago. After the accident. After the quiet ambulance. After the unlit candle at the funeral. She set the plate the next morning, and the chair exhaled, not a creak, but something deeper. Like memory stretching. At  first, she tried to explain. “It just feels wrong,” she said. “Like someone might still come home.” Eventually, she stopped speaking. She only placed the plate, warmed it with breath, and set a fork to the right. Sometimes, she wonders if the plate is less for him and more for herself. That the ritual is not a memory, but a tether. Something that reminds her she hasn’t drifted too far from who she was before the silence arrived. Sometimes, a curl of steam escapes. Not from food, just breath, like winter mornings when the air admits something sacred. Once, she caught her father staring at the plate. His eyes weren’t sad. Just curious. As if trying to remember a face he never wanted to forget. There are days she swears she hears breathing at that seat. A quiet inhale, measured and steady, timed with her own. Once, she reached out. Her hand passed through nothing but came back warm. Each night, she washes the plate, dries it with the same towel, and places it in the same cupboard. Each morning, she takes it out again. One morning, the chair had shifted ever so slightly. Not pulled out, not moved with intent, just... different. As if someone had tried to sit and changed their mind. She didn’t mention it, but that day, her hands trembled while pouring the tea. The world moves on like a polite machine. Teachers talk about deadlines. Strangers hold open doors. Sunlight bends differently in winter, but the chair waits. She doesn't believe in ghosts. Only habits. Only warmth that lingers too long. Only the way grief builds a home in your bones and calls it memory. When the light touches the fourth plate just right, she smiles. As if someone’s laughing with her. As if the world never ended at all. Nehal Sharma is a Jaipur-based writer. Writing is how she lives inside her own curiosity, turning observation into reflection and reflection into story. She runs the blog “Mythology Meets Reality,” where she tries to make sense of it all without pretending it makes sense.

Set me down inside a diner scene—in a film, a novel, on TV—and I’m bound to settle into whatever story you’re telling.  My back intuits the vinyl of the booth; my small breath quickens to mingle with the sighs aspiring from warmed coffee; surrounding chatter about new storefront churches, high-school basketball and the weather becomes the weather I know.  David Lynch, that great, mad American filmmaker, touched the truth when he said, “There’s a safety in thinking in a diner. You can have your coffee or your milkshake, and you can go off into strange dark areas, and always come back to the safety of the diner.”  Lynch always meant what he said.  From a wide canon of curious moments, the sun-stabbed diner scene in his noir Mulholland Drive —and its strange afterword—still passes viewers’ lips 25 years later. Cherished moments from his TV masterpiece Twin Peaks  nestle into the warm, wood-paneled world of the Double R Diner.  (I’d die to visit the real thing, still a working cafe in North Bend, Washington; though rumors say the pie is itself a tourist trap, nowhere near as good as Dale Cooper and the Bookhouse Boys claimed.)  Plenty of my favorite artists understand this safety Lynch identifies, this sacredness. In his Coffee and Cigarettes, filmmaker   Jim Jarmusch pillowed diners with reverent black-and-white, escorted us to table with the likes of Iggy Pop and Tom Waits, translated the dialogue of weary, knowing nods.   And while After Dark is considered a “lesser” work, legendary Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami made me a disciple for life by visiting a Tokyo Denny’s on its early pages. First leading us there at 11:56 p.m., Murakami reveals the personality of the place by night; “everything about the restaurant is anonymous and interchangeable.”  Yet roles are performed and routines observed in diners like Murakami’s; touch is transferred, from fingertips to ceramic coffee mugs, then to forehead temples. This nearly blank and transposable slate, these modest gestures, bend toward twinned meaning. There’s the inherent meaning of being anywhere at all and the meaning to come if and when another person joins us in our rituals.  In the diner, where we comb a menu of choices yet so often stick to the usual , this want for meaning becomes softer yet more sure. This is why patrons make sad eyes at waitresses here and would-be philosophers lean back to unburden themselves of deep-down wisdom before loosing a low whistle and waving a hand as if to say It all matters. Or maybe it doesn’t.  Here we enjoy our meandering conversations, punctuated with silence and shrugs and non-sequiturs, conversations which call up details no one needs to remember even as they breach the questions everyone is asking.  Insecure party hosts and seasoned silence-fillers love to pose some variation of a worn-out quiz: Tell me the people, living or dead, you would invite to a dinner like this one.  To me, the supremely more interesting question is who would you take with you into the diner?  Two fellows come to mind. I reach backward more than 50 years, then nearly 500 for very different men who almost share a name. Into the East Coast and the middle of the 20th century, I call up the Beat prince, Jack Kerouac. Facing the heart of 16th-century Spain, I ask one more favor from St. John of the Cross.  For all the strangeness of these invitations, we three intersect—minds and souls, now embodied—at the night.  Kerouac wrote so many different nights: nights on the road and tucked into your hometown; nights of much wine and much song; nights of consolation and without conclusion; nights when you touch something or someone miraculous without caring whether they will fade to stardust in your palm.  Mattering most, the ways Kerouac treated night as a three-dimensional possibility. In the company of childhood friends or would-be lovers, whether moving your body through the tangles of New York City or to the edge of a shy New England creek, Kerouac’s belief came through. We might be different people inside the night and on the night’s other side. This faith keeps him like a patron saint on my shoulder.  I picked up St. John of the Cross’ Dark Night of the Soul at a time I would read any night-bearing word. His lyrical writ, enduring some 450 years, tests the night as metaphor for the Godward life, a place and a condition of co-equal darkness and light. In his night, we know the blessing of emptiness. Strange comfort permeates the souls which feel themselves turning over, being restored to a more austere happiness in God. Here, even desperation and doubt count as blessings, drawing us up into inevitable holy love. We endure the night for the sake of eternity growing within us.  John’s commitment to the image impresses me. While he still treats night as something to be overcome, his surprising tenderness with these dark hours keeps me coming back. The more evident saint, he is no lesser mystery. I reach for them to indulge the questions I keep asking. Must night be a metaphor for where we meet God or may we actually meet God there? Is night a good unto itself? Am I right to tour these late hours, naming lights whose brightness passes all understanding? Or am I deceived, too faithless to wait for the sunrise? In his story collection The Coast of Chicago, Stuart Dybek writes of “an all-night diner to which, sooner or later, insomniacs find their way.” “In winter, when snow drifts over curbs, they cross the trampled intersections until they come upon footprints that perfectly fit their shoes and lead them there. On nights like this in summer, the diner’s lighted corner draws them to its otherwise dark neighborhood like moths.” This is where I propose we meet.  One man at a time eases into a back booth, and even in the easing, our dissimilarities grow obvious. From his wise-cornered eyes, John looks around perplexed, perhaps even offended, at shifting stacks of hot cakes. Jack sinks into the place like a man who knows the contemplative appeal of a steak-and-eggs platter.    Seated and thus smaller, John carries the charisma of a sage still, as if the very particles around him are charged with the electricity of God. Jack lights a cigarette, huffs and puffs and coughs a blue joke, speaks of a couple saxophonists nobody but him knows.  Before the coffee delivered and plates of biscuits, John performs the sign of the cross as if to consecrate the body and blood of Christ. Waiting for his new friend’s hands to fall into rest, Jack offers some weak but not unkind wordplay about this true man of the cross. I am not embarrassed by him. For each way Jack mildly irritates me, he enunciates a dozen things I forget to thank God for; Jack teaches me to number the trees, notice the hearts burning within strangers, to slacken my grip and extend my hands in front of me as if I might perforate the night, become one with its glories. I want Jack’s voice in my ear, at the table.  My whole life, I have played the translator. Growing up, I served groups of misunderstanding friends and still go between adults whose values live closer than they might appear. So I don’t mind translating now; the labor causes me to listen ever closer to these saints and their words.  Already, I hear the consonance as coffee comes. Coffee keeps us common. The diner does its magic. In this place, time both stills and, as Murakami wrote, reflects “deeper stage(s) of night,” darkness softening and sharpening just outside our window. Eventually we speak the same language.  Realizing this without needing to comment, we breathe lighter, talk louder. Sometimes we even roar. Rare moments resemble a better, truer rendering of 2 a.m. dorm-room conversations where you talk about everything and nothing at once.  Jack tells stories, and inside them, hums themes neither John or I know as if to ring our bells. John’s eyes twinkle as he uncovers a punchline that cuts the centuries.  And I keep the center, sliding questions back across the table. Somewhere in a second or third hour of conversation, we turn the night inside-out. Jack and I occasionally stick out our chests, flip John’s words around like a prod:  You really  think a soul can come to see “penances are its pleasures; fasts its joys; and its consolations are to make use of the sacraments and to occupy itself in Divine things?” We lace the question mark with exclamation points. John really does. His conviction begets intimacy. He talks, and Jack and I listen with intention, murmur what sounds like “amens.” Once, I swear to God, Jack mutters “when you put it like that ...” under his breath.  My friends never quite achieve a shared understanding of the word “sensual.” I lose count of how many times John speaks of purgation, and how many times Jack swallows the term like his coffee’s ground-speckled dregs.  Jack tips ash in the tray and John subdivides sentences, pausing sometimes to gaze at the ceiling as if waiting for divine permission to keep speaking.  Our words finger sides of the same coin, even if we stop short of spending the silver. Night is for traveling through, John asserts. Jack agrees, though for him the motion is its own prize. We all believe God, or some God-force, bids us come, whistling our way through and waiting for us at the sidewalk’s end.  We all want the same things from the night: to meet our created selves and transcend them somehow; to stumble into proof of love; to know light enough to keep us walking toward that great and indissoluble force. Reaching the longer lulls, my friends—to their credit—seem willing to live within them. In this quiet accord, this acceptance, I know why we gather.  Sitting with Jack to my right and John across the table, hands drawing remnant warmth from mugs our waitress long abandoned, I am free to reject false choices, to broker two visions of the night and however many more the night may abide. The night is big enough to harmonize.  For a kid who grew up with the metaphor alone, freedom attends the notion of living with the metaphor and in the physical night without fear. Contra John, I believe my desires will deepen rather than flatline there. Only night will tell.  I pick up the check as Jack offers genuine thanks and John’s downcast gaze speaks a humble word. Stepping into the night, really early morning—into the myth of it, its dimensions both known and beyond speech—I am already losing my friends’ words. They leave me their texts to retrace, but there is something truer at work.  In diners, the impression of the conversation, that which we carry away, means as much as the conversation itself. This is the usual, and it is not.  I carry away gratitude for a person’s own saints, for their momentary guidance and unintended consequences of their unintended prayers.  Of course, I carry gratitude for the night itself, more sacred than I believed before we sat for coffee and communion. Blessed is the night, and blessed are those who will be found therein.  Aarik Danielsen is a writer, journalist and librarian living in Missouri. His work is forthcoming or appears in Pleiades, Image Journal, Split Lip, Rain Taxi, Tinderbox Poetry Journal  and more. He sometimes teaches at his alma mater, the Missouri School of Journalism. More often, he travels I-29 to and from Nebraska, where his partner resides.