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Eternal bless Your heart is like a big bank’s vault full of eternal fine wine be thankful for whoever cracked it open Now, you can pour from it to everyone. Judicial body A thought comes and another goes one shares my truth one lies under oath others are mere hearsay my mind claims to be the judge “is there an eye witness in this courtroom? do we have a verdict?” i ask my mind doesn’t know it has no clue I like to call my body to the stand tell us what you know with a subtle pause and a steady tone the body says this music from across the street moves cells in my heart brings memories that itch my lungs these feelings tell a story full of contrasts with a sad ending a happy ending open ended so i sit and listen to all endings the relief the chills the tightness in my chest the flow the ease in walking this way this body gets the final say.

I got a message from you last night. It said you felt a lot of crazy ways that I didn’t know you felt, and it said a lot more than that. It said awful things about me when I’m naked and it told me not to ever talk to you again. I figured not to worry and that we could talk about it over dinner. Who can say! Work life was trying today. There were many mini meetings concerning other meetings we’d already met in most of this week. One guy tells you this and another says that—and before you know it, everything is a total wash. Whole day down the drain. It’s half a wonder we can even get the lunch order down. I landed those vouchers to that thing you want to do this summer—I know! You don’t want to talk about it because it’s not the real thing, even though you and I both know that a mostly simulated vacation is better than no vacation at all. I’ll bet when it’s said and done, you’ll be glad you went virtual this year. Not only will we save tokens on the dollar, but you’ll hardly notice the difference because the quality is so good. Who can say! I got a call from the school again. Our three youngest, if it can be believed, appeared to glitch at several points throughout the day. They are screeching terrible dial-up internet sounds at me and clamoring that they didn’t. They are barking ones and zeroes and I can’t say for sure if they’re even the ones I dropped off at the bus port this morning. I’ll say this: I’d rather unadopt them to wherever they came from than spend another three days waiting in line at truancy court. The cops called, too. Said they have CCTV footage of grandpa holding up the credit union. Said they’d be willing to clear and reverse the charges, as the footage shows an abnormal number of fingers and teeth. Still unsure, though, as grandpa did take all three sets of dentures and one and a half pairs of skin tone gloves out with him today. Who can say! Please get the mail when you get home, the box is overflowing. I’ve been brought up on twenty-three dashcam litigations this week and I don’t have time to file for more appeals, what with more and more videos of me speeding in residential areas and doing e-brake slides in school zones. Just bring in the mail and shred what you can. I can’t respond to notices I don’t get. I just read on the news billboard that the president just declared war on Angola. Said we intercepted six cruise missiles and sent twelve back. Instituted a draft, if it can be believed. Unsure of the status. I’ll either be home after traffic time or reporting to boot camp. If it’s the latter, I’ll be sure to write. Who can say! By the way, I’m bringing home milk. I know, I know—they say it’s bad again, but when it’s reported wholesome and clean tomorrow, I want to be ready. What really does a body good is preparation. Who can say! I got your funeral notice. I’ll try and squeeze it in, but with all the scheduled meetings at work next week, I just don’t know if I’ll be able to attend. Once you’ve been duped into several spousal sendoffs, you become sort of a cynic. I’ll wait until you’re gray and cold to the touch, because I know caskets don’t sell themselves. I also know I can’t afford another thirty-thousand credit whoopsie. Those bastards at Interment Zone can be a real bother with their viral marketing. Listen, I’m signing off. I’ve got a lot of sleep to catch up on during commute hour. I’ve been up for days just trying to decide which of my faces is mine. Mirrors seem to lie to me, anymore. Everything seems to lie. If you don’t trust in the veracity of this message, I won’t blame you. The letterhead alone can’t make you sleep at night. My blood signature could have easily been synthesized. I want to make you believe me, but in the long run, who can say! I’ll see you at home, or I won’t because I’m at war. Don’t wait up. Mostly love, -Me William M. McIntosh is a writer of drivel and collector of rejection letters. He loves literature, film and any other kind of art he can get his grubby little fingers on. His work has been published by Maudlin House, The /tƐmz/ Review, The Yard: Crime Blog, and Night Picnic Press. He doesn’t tweet, but if he did it would be @moonliteciabata. You can find links to his work at www.wmmcintosh.com. He is based in Cincinnati.

When I first received the call, I thought it was a scam. Who would believe that Her Late Majesty the Queen had left behind not just a few, but hundreds of corgis, and that out of all the people in the world I had been selected to take care of one? The person on the other end of the phone, who had a lovely midlands accent mind you, explained that the British Government would cover all expenses. While she was explaining, all I could think of were the current austerity measures. I wondered how they could have all this extra money to throw around when there’s talk of not being able to fund basic healthcare. “You did fill out form 48f-Zed,” the person on the phone said. “And you checked the Queen’s Corgi Fund Box, yes?” I vaguely recall filling out something for the SPCA during the pandemic, but I thought at the time that if the only way I was going to get out of lockdown was if I had a dog, I was going to sign and tick whatever form was placed in front of me. I kept waiting for the request for my banking information and my social security number. That did not happen. Instead, a very nice gentleman from the British consulate arrived at my door with the corgi. An actual corgi, complete with papers certifying that her name was Cindy, that she was in fact the great granddaughter of Oxo, an especially beloved dog who was known for how firmly she gripped her chew toys. There were all manner of supplies, including a special basket for Cindy to sleep in, and there was even a crew to install a system of hooks, pulleys and ropes to suspend the basket just a few inches off the ground. Apparently, this was the system they used in Buckingham Palace to allow the dogs to rock to sleep, away from any drafts. When I looked in Cindy’s eyes I thought I saw a glimpse of indescribable sadness, a grief that was as personal as a nation’s mourning was public. “It’s going to be ok,” I told her; I gave her a Bonio dog biscuit and a rub on the head. “She likes you,” the gentleman from the consulate observed. “On behalf of His Royal Majesty we extend a nation’s thanks for your service.” After some time filling out forms, I was finally left alone with my dog, my corgi, Cindy. I thought of putting on her custom leash and introducing her to the neighborhood, but Cindy had other plans. She made an adorable little leap into her basket and promptly went to sleep. “Sweet dreams, Cindy,” I whispered, and then went to the kitchen to fill her water bowl in case she woke up feeling thirsty. Care packages began arriving over the next few days. Normal dog stuff at first, but then came a new voice activated laptop and a special collar with instructions to charge it before putting it around Cindy’s neck. “Oh, thank heavens,” Cindy sighed after I slipped it on. “Be a dear and set my laptop up in the office. I’ll be working there for a while. Will you need to be compensated for renting a workspace for yourself?” I stared at Cindy in shock while she wagged her tail waiting for me to do what she told me. “Chop chop,” she said. “Labour isn’t going to lose the next election by itself, you know.” I meekly did what Cindy told me to do. She told me I was free to do as I liked, but that she would prefer it if I returned in three hours to give her her walk. I decided to give myself a walk. I called the consulate. They reminded me of the various forms I’d filled out. I came home and found every parking space in use, with my house full of corgis and political operatives, all doing heavy phone work. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and there was a coffee urn set up on a folding table with a pile of dirty paper bowls. One of the dogs looked up at me and his collar spoke up. “Cindy, is this one yours?” “Oscar, why don’t you be a dear and go to the backyard?” Cindy said. “I think you’ll enjoy meeting new friends.” In the yard were a whole bunch of people, all looking a little embarrassed. One of them said, “I’m Jean. You must be Oscar. You have a lovely backyard.” “Which one is yours?” I responded. “Teflon. Apparently he’s very good at fundraising. Would you like a gin and tonic? Bruce here brought a couple thermoses worth to help pass the time.” “I’m good,” I said. “But, and pardon me for asking, why are we letting a bunch of corgis manipulate parliamentary elections?” “You filled out the forms, didn’t you?” Jean asked. “Did you read them?” Bruce, a little bit wobbling, said. “I bet all those operatives helping them out in your house sure did.” “What His Majesty does not know will not hurt Him,” replied one of the corgis, coming back from doing some normal non-political dog business in the yard, part of a pack of three. “And you all are being handsomely compensated.” I stared at the rest of the people in my yard, wondering if any of them would volunteer to pick up after the dogs. Nobody took the hint. “And,” another one of the Corgis retorted, “it’s not as if His Majesty’s idiotic Jack Russell Terriers are not doing exactly the same work, just on the other side.” “So it balances out,” the first Corgi observed, as if that made it right. “As long as everyone continues to work as dogs, that is,” corrected the last, most philosophical corgi. “Could one of you pick up some kibble? We’re beginning to run low on snacks.” I went inside to look for a plastic bag. Hugh Behm-Steinberg’s prose can be found in X-Ray, The Pinch, Joyland, Heavy Feather Review and The Offing. His short story "Taylor Swift" won the Barthelme Prize from Gulf Coast, and his story "Goodwill" was picked as one of the Wigleaf Top Fifty Very Short Fictions. A collection of prose poems and microfiction, Animal Children, was published by Nomadic/Black Lawrence Press. He teaches writing and literature at California College of the Arts.

Winter Wonderland There’s a mechanical Mrs. Claus and Santa, each with a small light for their candles as if they were at a front porch ready to carol whoever opened the door to them, as if that is what we ever did, opened up— Mom bought them on clearance from Gemco, the year she had work at Helen Grace Chocolates, let us have the fresh toffee bars, strawberries she’d just dipped, the three-layered truffles she made better than anyone. It was the year they knocked her off the bus stop bench, all the money and the government check, all of the days in the sweets shop, long nights at Sav-on, where she’d put some stuffed elephants on layaway for us, all of it running off down Via Wanda Avenue, Mom screaming for help and nobody coming. She just stopped, walked back home, didn’t cry, just said we’d better pray as hard as we could because she couldn’t anymore. People don’t believe me. About the nurses who took up donations, brought us board games and Christmas dinner. About my brother Sam and his friend begging the tree lot to give us some almost dead thing nobody was gonna buy. About why I listen to Christmas music sometimes six months out of the year, same songs from the 80s, Larry Groce on the Disney Christmas album, was singing “Winter Wonderland” on one of Mom’s only lucky nights. Belief. It all seems too perfect, they say. Too Hallmark. How it all comes together, like they missed the part of Mom’s scraped knees, the year we let ourselves in, ate only candy she snuck us after a long day gone. What’s hard to believe? The Mirror Stage God, she loved to talk about Lacan. If you hear someone say dialectic, you had better buckle up cause here comes some shit about the body and recognition, like she ever cared about a body outside of the conceptual form, not the body bodies she dismissed as idiots who didn’t catch her lessons, couldn’t see themselves as toddlers too stupid to notice what they are watching is their alien selves waving back, row upon row, an other, another, other. J.D. Isip’s full-length poetry collections include Kissing the Wound (Moon Tide Press, 2023) and Pocketing Feathers (Sadie Girl Press, 2015). His third collection, tentatively titled I Wasn’t Finished, will be released by Moon Tide Press at the end of 2024 or early 2025. J.D. teaches at Collin College in Plano, Texas, where he lives with his dogs, Ivy and Bucky.

Time has passed away, just like the dead dandelions that drift upon a breeze. It floats above our fallen dreams like some specter from film noir. You hold out your hand, but all feeling is lost. Numbness sets in. We bury the mantel clock as a symbol of all things forgotten. Once we knew how to sing. Our voices now crack like lightning. A sharp, raspy requiem pours out. Youth is undervalued, we play with it so carelessly. All that is left is a faded photograph, of who we once were. Burial over, we stand up, brushing the dirt from our knees, and say goodbye to time. Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 16 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: The Phoenix; Eclipse Lit, Carolina Muse, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, The Closed Eye Open, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review. *(a complete list of publications is available upon request)

CW: Eating Disorder I slid into his DMs with a burning fire at the tips of my fingers. I rushed to type a message that would remain vague, yet not so vague to signal we were similar. I wanted him to notice me. I wanted him to know that I knew what he was talking about. I wanted to hear back from him, as though his words would lift a weight off my hunched body. *** At 11, I was already taller than most boys in my school. Every month that passed, I grew a few inches taller, bringing my plump figure and baby face closer to the grey skies of my hometown. In a crowd of indistinct, small pre-teens, I was an easy target: the mannerisms in my voice and hands did little to help. I seemed to grow faster than everyone else. Somehow, my body wanted to stand out, while my mind desperately sought to hide. The curvature of my spine is but the compromise between body and mind. To the skies, I preferred the tarred school grounds and the laces on my shoes. Head down, I tried to blend in as much as possible. Your nails are so pink, you got nail polish on or what? what brand are your shoes? don’t look when we’re changing! have you even kissed her yet? why do you always hang out with these girls? why aren’t you showering after PE? My head down, I tried to disappear. I failed. Food quickly became my savior. Not only did it provide mental comfort, it also added shielding layers to my fragile body. For a while, I thought I was protected from their blows, but in reality, I had turned into memory foam. Each insult landed against my skin with force. Each blow buried itself deep inside me. Unable to push back to my initial form, for years I carried their violence and my excesses. *** When he replied to thank me for my kind words, I realized I had not revealed enough. My words were indeed supportive and expressed sympathy, but they weren’t enough to engage in the meaningful conversation I had so hoped for. I could have replied to clarify. I could have said Hey, I’ve been through it too. It’s so rare for men to share that it felt quite liberating to read your story. I could have written my story then to an audience of one, to someone who would understand exactly what it means to hate one’s body and oneself so hard that only binging and purging offers peace and solace. He knows how good it feels to be full to the brim, to extend the borders of one’s stomach to breaking point. He knows how good it feels to have control for once. To finally decide that enough is enough and you can fight back. You can expel all the pain; let it all out. And, empty you’ve never been so full of yourself and happy. I would have told him that the so-called perfect body and its many iterations on social media don’t affect me as much as they affect him. Somehow, I have enough self-awareness to know that I would never be satisfied. That only a scalpel could really bring me contentment. I want a full-body lift. I want staples and stitches. I want to be so tight that living tears me apart. *** Outside of PE, I enjoyed running. Far from everyone’s gaze I would move my legs swiftly and elongate my strides to experience that millisecond when both feet are off the ground, when your heart fills with joy and possibilities, when the gravity of life dissipates. I ran fast so that life would not leave me behind. I ran fast to save my life and hers. M. was standing in front of a precipice at the local park and the thought of losing her terrified me. M. is my everything. Tired of dealing with P.’s drinking problem and his violence, M. wanted to put an end to these inconsolable years, to make one with the void. But she heard my tearful plea. She stayed and held my hand. As she finally sat on the bench next to me, she wiped off my tears and hers. There I vowed to always keep the void far away from her, whatever the cost. *** I started dieting during senior year of high school. On my way to class, I changed itineraries to stay away from temptation. Buttery and flaky pastries fresh out of the bakery’s oven were both a distant memory and a close reminder of the past I needed to erase. I stopped eating junk food, said goodbye to take-out, and began a new relationship with my stationary bike. Before dinner, I would work out for an hour and take stock of my slow but real progress. By the time I went to college, my body shape had become more pleasant and acceptable. People looked at me differently, and, for once, living was not so painful. Yet, something was still brewing inside me. When I left home and moved abroad after college, I experienced new depths of solitude. M. was a quick flight away from me, yet far enough that her absence dug a well in my heart and stomach. For some time before my departure, I had tried to help a friend dealing with a severe eating disorder. It seems I picked up cues along the way. I do not blame them for my slip up. I realized that whatever advice or support I was providing them, I needed it for myself first. Alone in my bedroom, the only support I found lay in grocery bags and junk food. I would sneak out of the house, rush to the store, and pile on all the bread, butter, cookies, cheese, and soda I could afford on my meager salary. I would sit on the bed, turn on the TV to muffle the sounds of my binging and ingest days’ worth of food to my heart’s content. Comedies were never as funny as when I was full and on the verge of exploding. I could not contain the irrational rush of ecstasy taking over my body. I was the last one laughing until the time came to rid myself of this burden. After all, I couldn’t ruin my past diet efforts by keeping it all in, by bottling up the food and the feelings. Purging became the way out, out of the overwhelming sadness and my inability to belong in the world. My gastric efforts yielded a greater weight loss. My skin getting closer to the bone, I was renewed. And, so long as I kept swallowing the sea and the land between M. and I, I could protect her. Every day, I swallowed the world to be on that bench once again, close to her, away from the precipice. *** I slid into his DMs with the exhilarating confidence that my secret would be safe, that the world around me wouldn’t change, and that no one would look at me differently. I don’t have the courage to come out of the pantry and lay out my truth for all to judge or pity. Would everyone pay closer attention to the content of my plate? Would they be suspicious of my visits to the toilet? Would they feel sorry because they never noticed anything? Would they be kinder, more hypocritical? Would they trust me when I say it’s in my past? One thing is for sure, I don’t like change or losing control. Once the story breaks out, it is no longer my own: my narrative is up for grabs, for interpretation and appropriation. Living with my disorder, I have mastered the art of secrecy and deception. Am I ready to be exposed? *** From kindergarten I remember well the story of a mouse who rode a bicycle around the toilet bowl. This funny little creature – competing in a championship – lived life on the edge. The risk of falling and the treacherous, slippery surface added tension to the story. I cheered for her with passion as M. or I turned a new page. Today, I find myself on that same bike, my feet locked in the pedals. On that same enameled surface, I hope to complete a lap, just one, without falling in. I’m now competing against myself. But who will read my story? Who will cheer for me if I don’t tell anyone I need support? Who will help me turn a new page and make it to the finish line if I don’t tell anyone that this book is too heavy for me to handle alone? *** According to the National Eating Disorder Association, “in the United States alone, eating disorders will affect 10 million males at some point in their lives.” I am literally one in a million. My suffering may be singular, but I am not alone in that race. That same study also notes that a significant majority of teenage boys want to bulk up because the muscular body is the ideal body. I wonder why bulking up was never an option for me. I could have increased my muscle mass and, perhaps, my peers’ respect along the way. I suppose it was never actually an option for a boy like me. I would always stand out, so I chose thinness to try to disappear. As Édouard Louis’ queer narrator writes in The End of Eddy, the crime is not so much to engage in marginal sexual acts – as many straight men do – but to be marginal and to look like it. I found myself doubly marginalized growing up in a society where homosexuality wasn’t quite accepted just yet and where bisexuality was considered worse. At 15, I sat quietly around the table at my grandma’s house while the adults talked about gay acquaintances or cousins. They all agreed that they were acceptable people, not so deviant after all. Bisexuals, however, were not to be trusted. If you can’t make up your mind, there’s something wrong with you. You don’t choose to be gay, but bisexuality is a sick choice. What was I supposed to think as a young man who had always felt desire and lust for both the women and men leads on my favorite television shows? I couldn’t like both, so I had to pick one. By default, like many, I hid the extent of my desires and focused on women with more or less success. It is nevertheless hard to succeed when you’re hiding half of what makes you, you, and, even more so, when everyone is convinced that they know you better than you know yourself. Like binging and purging, men and women go hand in hand in the realm of my satisfaction. *** I slid into his DMs and wrote to him in the present tense because the past is never distant enough to not be a threat. I typed a message vague enough to retain control while the ground was slowly slipping beneath my feet. I slid into his DMs to give myself some space to explore and redefine the contours of my body. *** I write in the present because I am scared to animate the past and unearth a hunger like no other.

Bidets and such Friends warn me, one of the hardest parts of travelling overseas is the unusual toilet configurations. To be prepared, I practice in the shower. I squat over the drain and imagine narrow streets with exotic smells. Crossing oceans is perilous. The birds look different, sound different, act different. In Türkiye, I'm warned, the pipes are so narrow toilet paper goes in a little bin lest it clog. This is why bidets are so important. I bend over under the stream of shower water. My loves will fly across the world without so much as a hotel booking. But for me, planning is vital. Tomorrow I'll fill a backpack with UHT milks and take the stairs up and down to teach my knees. I read consumer warnings that airlines will increase the fares if you search for a flight too frequently. They put a price on preparedness because it is so valuable. I sew a secret pocket into my jeans to hide my secret second back up travel card. I've read that, in Finland, people sit naked in hot saunas. I think there is a nudist beach somewhere here but first, maybe next month, I will try to visit a gym and strip off my swimmers in the humid changeroom and only hide in the cubicles a little. Hot but not heavy Hot showers give me acne, apparently. The vloggers are unequivocal: they're bad for the environment; they probably cause cancer; I'm growing mould on the bathroom walls; and I just don't care. Leon the Supermarket Lobster may have been spared a toasty demise but I want to be boiled. I want that whistle scream, too high for human hearing, when steamy worry and stress escape my glowing red skin. I want to submerge in bubbling brine. No more scrabbling in the muck and mud chewing on worms and my own shed skin. No more being dragged aboard a boat in Maine for a notch and a photo op and a fish. No more sad green-gilled woman. Passing through heat I become the ideal. Astaxanthin makes me brilliant cherry red. Boil me like a questionably immortal crustacean. Boil me like Patrick Stewart in a bathtub. Bump it up one more degree, just boil me, baby. A binding not affected by moisture or blood Crying in a taxi again. I think, maybe I'm allergic to alcohol. Or maybe just those chemicals they put in wine. Preservatives. Most adhesives require proper ventilation. I’m so sensitive these days, my eyes are so itchy. Or maybe I'm just crying because I love you so much you gorgeous babe, you beautiful soul, you friend of my heart. Both our hearts are broken and mended a thousand thousand times. I’ve heard cyanoacrylate was invented across the ocean in a wartime jungle for closing wounds. It burns at the raw flesh, and these fumes sting my watering eyes. There we go, the cut is sealed. The good news is, you don't need to come back to have any stitches removed, but I'd like to see you again in a fortnight just to check on how it's healing. And if you notice any heat, or redness, or inflammation, call me straight away. We can try whiskey next time—I think maybe I might be less allergic to spirits, if I just drink it neat. Tara Willoughby lives in Canberra with her spouse and their cockatiels, Pooface and Porridge. She has too many houseplants and years of education, and not nearly enough books. Her work has previously appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Cicerone Journal, The Bookends Review, Melbourne Culture Corner, and others.

On the most prolonged day of the year, a line of five-year olds stand sea-facing. They used to call it jumping rock: a plume of ancient lava pierces the sea at the edge of the bay. Here the currents can rake an ill-timed jumper over customs, polishing limbs until one resembles a small roasted stone, a lump of oyster. Parents would suffer the most, yoked to the shore by tradition. The bravest child yells a warrior’s cry into the arms of the sky. He recalls the survivors’ advice from the older boys all year and last night. The bravest parents attempt conversations: today’s weather, the mid-tides. The bravest child bypasses the wet ledge of rocks below, now baptized, now smiling. White teeth and white wash. One by one, parents fall to their knees in disbelief or gratefulness. At least that’s what the elder twin, Caleb, had envisioned would happen today. He would leave his sister to figure things out, but she, the smallest of the fives, stood farthest from the cliff. Caleb’s grandfather would have to wait. He didn’t like waiting. Caleb imagined the trajectories: running and clutching her before take off. Maybe an underhand toss? Maybe his grandfather might like him more? Caleb thought he had accepted the fact that he wasn’t his grandfather’s favorite. He demanded his sister’s arms and swung her around and around and around until his world became hers, and he is sitting in Grandfather’s lap, tracing his scar from forehead, over his paperthin eyelid, its path blocked at the border of his nose. It is his shoulders Grandfather covers at night with his own blanket. It is his plate Grandfather fills with berries and bananas from his morning walk and prayers at Grandmother’s grave. He whips Cora around and around, ready to be rid of her, of himself, this invisible war. His fury weaves between sea and sky, rocks and white caps, he doesn’t know what he’s aiming for. Gravity loses its name. She lands, not so gracefully, in the sea. Half fish, half manta ray—Cora makes her way inland. One by one, the rest follow, trusting that mother sky and father ocean will love them, too. Caleb spins and spins. With each child, he releases his shame, his grandfather’s rejection, his quiet resentment toward his twin. He reminds them to release their hold on him, too. They resemble brown ants pinned against white clouds. They are wooden spears cast by their gods. They emerge as fungi and penicillin, satellite and synapses, things he will learn about so far in his future. One by one, they beeline and bob toward shore, vinyl green like coconuts. He is the last one on the cliff of five years olds. He marks the spot farthest from the cliff, where his sister previously stood. Caleb allows himself a long runway toward acceptance and sprints with knees and elbows, even though the shores will be empty, all the parents closing their petals on their child, shuffling them home. No one wants to be next to the last parent waiting on shore. Caleb will find his grandfather and Cora back home, Cora retelling her flight, how the sky rained five year olds and the lands will be fruitful for another year. Grandfather will be patient and listen to her story two or three times over, sitting at her height, tucked in, all elbows and knees. Shareen K. Murayama is the author of two poetry books Housebreak (Bad Betty Press, 2022) and Hey Girl, Are You in the Experimental Group (Harbor Editions, 2022). She’s a Japanese American, Okinawan American poet and educator, a Pushcart Prize nominee, as well as Best Small Fictions & Best of the Net nominee. Recently featured in Poets & Writers Debut 5 Over 50 Authors, she lives in Honolulu and supports the #litcommunity @AmBusyPoeming.

thistle hurt spied a thistle in my pasture she cuts, i’ve bled some same as before, you’re just as lovely and unwelcome grayscale how they find me she says, like a habit i can’t break so she chameleons softens, smiling her colors bleed perennial but if by relapse or relenting should they run dry she’ll be reminded to go and find some more J. R. Wilkerson is a resident of Northern Virginia by way of Lawrenceburg, Missouri.

Fall but one time I took a leaf that followed me home from 5th grade and I kept it in a pie dish that was never meant for pie but apple on top it displayed orphaned paper of new fall, and old cold. Dropping degrees and keep it high, don’t let it touch the ground dusted with cherry pits that never quite break down with the coffee grounds, diligently planted where only one day says we should trim, cut back to summers as a child— Calvin and Hobbes and clover soup I made with lemonade And stared up through leaf skins And wished this moment would never Senesce, never fall but abscission is unavoidable in New England, and pie tins aren’t waiting to carry us into dust. Window sent Sap flow (frozen) interrupted, cool freeze lungs one after one after one splashing, echoing, fading away into growls of diesel. A shovel flies past—but the earth is dead or sleeping. A heartbeat falters without a balm to treat it. One after one after one goes past, doesn’t look, doesn’t grow. No green no blood no gel in February streets soaked in salt. One after one after Three-four-five sentinels waiting, buried, enclosed, silenced, naked in the snow. Bound up in living coffins they wait, sympathizing with each tremor as it passes. One after one after the sun fades behind winter skies. They continue, dead dying the dead rock dying dying world. One after Again, in the closed-off field, sap waits for spring. Marisca Pichette is a queer author based in Western Massachusetts, on Pocumtuck and Abenaki land. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Fireside Magazine, Room Magazine, Flash Fiction Online, Fantasy Magazine, Necessary Fiction, and Plenitude Magazine, among others. She is the winner of the 2022 F(r)iction Spring Literary Contest and has been nominated for the Pushcart, Utopia, and Dwarf Stars Awards. Their debut poetry collection, Rivers in Your Skin, Sirens in Your Hair, is out now from Android Press. Find them on Twitter as @MariscaPichette and Instagram as @marisca_write.

for Sinéad O'Connor “This disgusting world broke her and kept on breaking her.” -Shirley Manson Yellowjackets are social wasps feed their young the meat of insects some, the same shape as them. chewing on raw hide, crunchy thorax sweet, juicy abdomen partially ingesting before regurgitating for their larvae amassing, grinding, perfecting. yellowjackets inhabit large colonies, tiered combs buried underground in tree stumps, hollow logs earth dwellers who never sleep. workers live for weeks while the queen survives for months dominating, impregnated an endless cycle of birthing, feeding, eating. yellowjackets once I stepped on a nest in the ground two dozen mincing my flesh burrowing the pork of my heel their stingers prodding sharp as barbed wire. even years later my skin could still recall the sensation of them feasting, slicing, gnawing. yellowjackets voracious consumers nettling little cannibals like high school girls or heads of companies, CEOs. it feels at times as if the whole world is one big swarm pecking at fleshy tissue and muscle for gossip, stories, failure, meat meat meat in memoriam for Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor Chelsea Catherine won the Mary C Mohr award for nonfiction through the Southern Indiana Review and their second book, Summer of the Cicadas, won the Quill Prose Award from Red Hen Press. In 2022, they spent a month in Alaska at the Alderworks Artists Retreat. They are part of a cohort of ValleyCreates artist grantees in Western Massachusetts, and their work can be found in Hobart, Passengers Journal, The Florida Review, and others.

Sandbar, Person Lake We spent a day in sand between the bottom and the Further shore, dragging tanned feet, swaying in the Sigh of the waves. Listen up the yard where the men Throw horseshoes. Hear their determined faces. We Are backward swimming bugs underneath an easy dock borrowing each other's kisses. Sandbar, the sun Sets wide. The earth wobbles. Eventually fireflies. Bookworms Our sorrow grows in groups. We’re best between smudged pages, Four leaf clovers pressed into sentences, placeholders of recycled Pulp, fortunes, black and white polaroids with dates on our edges. We’re best on soft, cushioned chairs, heads back, eyes advancing, Our eager, adventurous legs thrown over arms. Tim Moder is a poet writing in northern Wisconsin. His poetry has appeared in Sinking City Review, River Mouth Review,