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You can taste the starved love Rubbing the sleepy genocide eyes Of tiny children With history pinned inside Their orphaned clothes They scan the puffy gray skies For beet soup and boiled dumplings As if they and their families know To never stop Flashing the blue and yellow Flag as they foot-race soccer balls Into bombed-out schools Tomorrow these un-sheltered people speak once more: We fight For freedom and for peace We fight Against rape and slavery and holocaust Hate May be unguided weapons Lighting our grandmothers’ dresses on fire Hate May be guns and tanks Spraying the oppressor’s blood at our muddy ankles But as long as we have breath From noses made clear by sunflowers As long as we can walk Or crawl Like baptized nightingales swinging bandaged arms And as long as fear is a prison train We must liberate With the muscular African shadow of Mandela We will survive We will win We will survive We will win A note from RF: Kevin Powell is a prolific poet with 16 books out to date. You can find out more about him on his website kevinpowell.net and give him a follow on Twitter @kevin_powell

On September 26th, 1687, a Venetian mortar round fired from the Hill of Philopappos hit the Parthenon in Athens, Greece. This caused the gunpowder stored inside by the Ottoman-Turks to ignite and demolished a majority of the ancient structure. Sylvie wasn’t exactly sure why this perfectly useless information ran through her head as she stared down Ms. Carole Burns. Thick burgundy eyeglasses reflected back at her, showing the white of a glistening iMac screen that separated the blazer-clad editorial assistant from herself. Sylvia was sitting in her own blazer, albeit hers was much cheaper (it was Amazon-bought) than the nicely patterned maroon one that Ms. Burns wore. Carole? No—Sylvie had made it to the second round of interviews, but she didn’t think that meant she was on a first-name basis. Though, Ms. Burns had called her Sylvia. “Hi, Sylvia,” she had said, warmly, shaking her hand moments prior—but it was better safe than sorry. Wait—Carole/Ms. Burns had asked her a question. “So, why are you interested in working for Loom House Publishing?” The Parthenon had been a casualty of the Siege of the Acropolis, an event that occurred during the Morean War. It was also called the Sixth Ottoman-Venetian War, which itself was a part of a wider conflict called the “Great Turkish War,” fought between the Republic of Venice and the Ottoman Empire from 1684 to 1699. Sylvie tried hard not to look like a fish, or a cow, or any animal that wasn’t a very intelligent human person who really wanted to land this job. “I’m familiar with many of Loom House’s publications,” she said, and was relieved that she didn’t stutter this time. “I read The Weeping Sky by E. B. Gardner over the summer, and I really enjoyed it. I want to help publish more books like that.” Ms. Burns nodded absently and typed something up out of Sylvie’s view. Sylvie pressed her lips into a smile—a smile, not a grimace—and waited (im)patiently for the next question. “Oh, I love that book. It’s great to hear you know about our branch in London, and their publications.” Ms. Burns finally flicked her eyes away from the screen, smiling again. Sylvie felt her stomach drop—she hadn’t known The Weeping Sky had been published by their London branch. Did she mess up? Why was Ms. Burns still smiling? “Yes. I’ve never been to London,” Sylvie chuckled politely. “I hope to visit someday.” She was dangerously off topic. She needed Ms. Burns to redirect the conversation back to the job that Sylvie was applying for. Please. Pretty please. After a few more clicks of French-manicured nails on the keyboard, Ms. Burns looked at her again. Sylvie readied herself. “Of course. So, why do you think you’re a good fit for the…” a patient pause as Ms. Burns read something on her iMac, “adult trade editorial intern position?” Otto Wilhelm Königsmarck had led the Venetian forces in besieging the Acropolis of Athens, which had been peacefully occupied by the Ottoman-Turks since the fifteenth century. Sylvie didn’t know who had led the Ottoman party during the defense…but that hadn’t been assigned for her humanities class. Which she had taken three years ago. No—all she could think about was the Parthenon and its white marble pillars, and the gunpowder detonating inside. Had the Venetians been to blame, or the Ottomans? “Well, I interned for the Felicity Harburrow Literary Agency when I was a sophomore at Beverley University,” said Sylvie. She did her best to keep eye-contact with Ms. Burns, but she also remembered to blink. Blink, blink. “I really enjoyed my time there. I learned a lot about how to read through slush piles,” that was a keyword, “and agent-author correspondences.” That earned another smile from Ms. Burns. Sylvie had been playing the Felicity Harburrow card for four years now, as she had continued to use it even after she graduated. She’d been lucky to get it in the first place—her mom’s friend from college worked there and had gotten her the job. It hadn’t been the only publishing company she’d ever interned for, but it was the one that had the biggest name. It was the first entry she listed on her résumé ever since. There was a piece of white modern art above Ms. Burns’s head, framed on either side by cases of books published by Loom House. It was marbled, like real marble, and Sylvie’s thoughts once again turned to the Parthenon. And marble debris. Jesus fucking Christ, this isn’t the time, thought Sylvie. Her face must have twisted, because the smile Ms. Burns’s face quickly faded away, and she silently read something else on her iMac. “That’s great to hear,” Ms. Burns finally said, lacing her hands together on the desk in front of her. “So…what do you think your greatest strengths are?” Prior to its destruction, the Parthenon had been converted into a mosque by the Ottomans, though much of its original sculptures and reliefs had remained. It could be argued that the Ottomans even improved the structure, constructing a tower and removing the Christian imagery that had remained since the sixth century. Sylvie stalled. “Excuse me?” Ms. Burns smiled kindly. Or coldly? Either way, she repeated, slower this time, “What are your greatest strengths?” Oh, that was an easy one. Regardless of whether or not she believed it, Sylvie recited, “I’m very passionate about my interests. I crochet a lot, which taught me to be very organized and to manage my time wisely.” So on and so forth, question after question, and Sylvie did her best to fend off the disruptive thoughts about the Parthenon in 1687. But as each question was asked, and as Sylvie answered, she felt her frustration gaining steadily. Though she thought it was mostly due to herself for her failures, she couldn’t help but feel the monotony of the situation she was in. She’d been here many times before. Ms. Burns’s velvety-colored lip gloss cracked as she smiled this time. “So, do you have any final questions for me?” she asked. “Yes,” said Sylvie, her mind suddenly clear. The question had nagged at her all the way up the office building’s stainless-steel elevator: they hadn’t listed any compensation alongside the job description on Loom House’s website. It might be reckless to ask about it as her first question, but she felt unusually daring right now. Somewhere from within the conglomerate of pressure at the back of Sylvie’s mind, she saw the pale specter of unpaid rent notices sitting on her paint-chipped kitchen table, and the mass of red numbers following a dollar sign at the bottom of a hastily filled spreadsheet. “Is there any compensation for this internship?” she asked. Ms. Burns had been looking at her iMac, but at Sylvie’s query her gaze darted back to her. Sylvie couldn’t help but think that the burgundy glasses made her eyes look wider than they were. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t catch that.” When the mortar shell fired by the Venetians hit the Parthenon with a “miraculous shot” on September 26th, three hundred people are claimed to have died in the resulting destruction. The roof of the structure was said to have fallen on some, while others died from their wounds, unable to receive medical care due to lack of supplies from the Venetian’s besieging. Sylvie felt shaky—her hands were cold and clammy in her lap. “Will there be any, uh, compensation for the internship?” she repeated. Ms. Burns perked up. “Oh! We do offer college credit, if you’re currently enrolled at an institution. We would just need to see your academic transcript.” Sylvie scrunched up her eyebrows, trying to look pitiful. Something turned over in her gut as she did so. “Unfortunately, I’m not a student right now. Will there be any…um, financial compensation?” Ms. Burns mimicked her expression, scrunching up her own eyebrows and tilting her well-groomed head to the side. If she were outside the situation, Sylvie thought it would be comical, seeing two grown women in a nice corporate office making pouty faces at each other. Like children. “Unfortunately, due to how the industry is right now, we can’t offer a salary or stipends,” cooed Ms. Burns. Sylvie’s hands were white-knuckled as she held them together on her lap. She felt the urge to bite the inside of her cheek, to keep away the pressure that had been steadily pooling at the base of her skull. She took a deep breath. It didn’t help much. “But, after you complete your time with us, we can offer a recommendation letter. Many who have interned with us have said it was a rewarding experience, just on its own.” Prior to that day in 1687, the Parthenon hadn’t been considered a ruin. Sure, it had been sacked by Heruli pirates in 276, made into a Christian church in 484, and had much of its pagan iconography destroyed in the siege of Constantinople in 1204. But it’s that day in 1687, when the roof was blown out, and the front façade collapsed, that many academics point to as “ruinous.” Before she knew what she was doing, Sylvie was standing up, hastily gathering her purse and heather gray jacket from where she’d draped them on the seat behind her. She’d made a mistake, though she only saw the fuzzy outline of it right now. She had to leave. Ms. Burns scooched her chair back in response, but Sylvie’s hand was already on the cool metal of the office door before it occurred to her that she should say something. “I’m sorry, Ms. Burns, thank you for the interview,” she said, opening the door with a rough tug, “But I really—I have to go.” Sylvie mangled her face into a smile, hoping for something. Shock was quickly hidden by vacant pleasantry on Ms. Burns’s face. “Of course! We’ll—um, be in touch,” she offered. Probably not. “Thank you!” And Sylvie was out the door. Her pointed-toe heels clicked on the marble as she walked through the lobby of Loom House’s office building. She made a beeline for the revolving door, not even registering the secretary who threw a polite smile in her direction as she exited. Outside, the air was warm and heavy with exhaust, and in her professional attire Sylvie began to sweat. The street was busy and loud, with taxis rolling up to the curb and expelling people just like herself in suits, blazers, and slacks. Sylvie turned around. In front of her, the façade of Loom House Publishing stood, ruled by a tall, arched door framed by squarish off-white pillars with rolling ionic tops. It came to her slowly—maybe the façade had reminded her of the Parthenon, and that was where all of this started. But she knew, like most things built in New York City at the turn of the century, that the pillars were likely made of concrete, and not marble. Ever the Greeks’ shadow. She tried to imagine how the concrete pillars would collapse, if hit by a Venetian mortar round. If they would fall in complete pieces, or if they would just be obliterated on impact. Either way, the image was comical to her, and with a snort she walked away and down the block. The entrance to the subway was a dark hole rimmed on either side by green metal bars. Sylvie’s heart crept into her throat as she walked down the steps. She knew what awaited her: the unpaid rent notices on her old kitchen table, and the ever-looming debt of living. Note from the author: “Ruins” originates from my feelings after undergoing the interview process for a handful of literary agencies and publishing houses, and is meant to encapsulate the frustrations and anxieties that I know I and my contemporaries have surrounding unpaid internships, debt, and corporations overall. This is paired with some very intriguing information on how the Parthenon in Athens, Greece, became a ruin. Elizabeth Roos is a senior English (creative writing) major at SUNY Geneseo. She is originally from Clifton Park, New York, and volunteers at a birds of prey center in her free time. Though she specializes in fantasy and science fiction, she has been developing her skills writing literary short fiction, and her work has been published in MiNT Magazine, The Lamron, and The Allegheny Review. Her interests can be summarized as, in short, words and birds.

One night while we slept Dreaming of forests And inhabited attics And circuses Impossible spaces Tilting platforms Sad, beautiful strangers A dark meteorite Weary of travel Came crashing Through our roof, A guided missile Steered by God's unwavering hand We slept on Restless in the heat And found it the next morning Set deep in crushed floorboards, Kitsch flowers and vines Blackened on the wall The people came. It seemed routine to them A house with a space rock Lodged in the hallway They brought equipment Paperwork. Finding it could not be lifted They shook their heads, Finally bemused, they left And did not return It became furniture And we awkwardly stepped past it As we went about our days, Sometimes it whispered And crackled in the night Once a faint face formed Briefly On its tarry surface Looking far into the distance. * Years later I wake to find myself Sleepwalking, A pale ghost Haunting our little house And suddenly afraid I call you Hear my thin voice Die in the night air Like a spark Never to be heeded again I know then that I stand before the visitor Suddenly huge, impossibly dark, terrifying The long and secret process of becoming, finally complete Its whisper has become certain and clear "This is the dream", It says, "This is the nightmare" J.S. Doherty is a writer, musician, and technologist from Belfast, Northern Ireland, where he balances a hectic home life with a range of creative projects and regular visits to the ocean. He is currently working on a collection of new poems due to be completed in 2023.

Lizzie and I were the only two ‘girls’ on the Snake Mountain Hotshots that year, 1997. Our supervisor Bob would only hire two for a twenty-person crew and he even told me once that he hired two so that they could be friends. Fortunately, Lizzie and I were friends, or became friends. I dont think thats always the case w/two women—I talked to other women on other crews—that can set up some kind of dynamic where the women compete w/each other to be accepted by the menfolk. It was both of our first time on a hotshot crew, an elite wildland firefighting crew that travels all over the west—where the big fires were, that/s where we went. She/d done one season on a regular hand crew in Tahoe, I/d been on an engine in Sedona, then helitack for two in the Grand Canyon. I think both of us wanted to test ourselves, prove ourselves. Much to Bob/s annoyance, I was one of the better sawyers that year—meaning I could handle a chainsaw—so I got to be on the third saw team. I was actually relieved when Lizzie asked to be my swamper. I wasnt looking forward to being on a saw team w/some dude—even the safe ones would always mansplain cutting to me. Lizzie wasnt in the best upper body shape, but I wasnt either compared to our lead sawyer Trace, who looked like a grizzly bear. But swamping is more about stamina, moving slash the sawyer cuts away from the fireline. Which is hard work. The hardest job on the whole crew really, especially since saw team members each carried an extra chain and saw kit w/tools and extra parts in our packs. I wasnt quite sure I could handle cutting all day but I wasnt gonna say no and be a pussy when Trace offered. Fortunately third saw is usually for clean up—making sure any ladder fuels in the black are cut and cutting any logs or downed trees into rounds—which takes time but isnt as much arm work—Lizzie did some of that, just so I could get a break and she always took care of gassing and oiling the saw when I emptied a tank, so I could pound some water. One of Lizzies goals was to really learn how to run a chainsaw on her own and if I have one minor claim to fame its that she learned it from me that summer. Lizzie showed up to work the first day in jeans black t-shirt and fire boots—she liked Whites, I liked Nicks—and w/brown dreadlocks pulled back in a big Alien tail. A big wooden cross necklace drooped down so low it kind of hung between her boobs. As far as I know, she always wore it—tucked in on fires or outside when not. Even, you know, during other times. Lizzie wasnt a total conservative—I mean, she was on a hotshot crew for gods sake—she never swore but didnt mind if other people did, like me, or the whole rest of the crew, all the time. She didnt smoke or chew but did drink. I did all three—Skoal Wintergreen was my fave and kept me going on a long day, which gave the guys endless amusement—they/d offer me their chew just to see a girl put a pinch in. They laughed and laughed all summer. But Lizzie was what my mom called a Jesus freak. She/d been homeschooled up by Mt. Shasta (the town) and from what she told me her parents were old school live-off-the-land hippies when most people by the seventies had given that up. I think she went to some summer camp somewhere and discovered Jesus—not like w/a vision or anything, not even as a Jesus=God kind of way, just talked about him as a person or a teacher and loved that and read the Bible on her own. She told me, —My parents didnt understand it, but didnt stop me. They always just wanted me to learn whatever I was curious about. They thought it was a phase. Her dad was a woodworker, made furniture Amish-style or something—no nails, just grooves and glue—and taught her how to work a bandsaw and lathe. And how to whittle. She was carving little wood animals since I was six. The way she described it to me was after her ‘come to Jesus moment’ of how ‘cool’ Jesus was, she whittled a small carving of him and gave it to a girl she liked at camp. —She was so happy that I thought maybe I could make more and make more people happy and, you know, spread Jesus’ message. That could be my purpose in life. I decided I/d do 10,000 carvings in wood. That will just take my life. The process, the whittling, the carving, is also a way for me to return to Jesus, think about him, to focus myself every day. I did the math w/ her one time when we were in fire camp laying on our sleeping bags waiting for the dudes to stop belching and farting and go to sleep. —Lizzie, if you do one carving a day, that/ll be like twenty-six years to do 10,000. If you do one every other day that/ll be fifty-two years! She laughed. —I never even thought about that! —How many have you done? —She didnt hesitate. —Two thousand and seven. She was twenty-two that year. —Lizzie, you/re behind! You/ll have to do two a day sometimes to catch up! She/d been laughing the whole time. —I know! The problem is that sometimes they/re big! Sometimes they take a few days. —You mean they/re not all just little whittles? —Ha! Little whittles. I like that! No but seriously, I just look for wood, I look at wood, and see the Jesus in it. It could be a tree. —You cut down trees to carve Jesus in them?! —No! Of course not! I just carve out his face and prayer hands in a living tree. Like, reveal the features I already see. I did tons of those up at Humbolt around campus and the woods out back. But I do want to do big ones! Have you ever seen the totem poles native tribes do up in Canada? I/d like to do something like that. Except Jesus. So thats how she got her nickname. A lot of us had them on the crew, like Dingo, Snake and Maui. Mine was Vasquez, because of the character in the Aliens movie. Which, I was cool w/. Vasquez rocks. At first Lizzie was Jesus Lizzie, then it just seemed natural to make it Jesus Lizard. Strangely, they never shortened it to Lizard—she was always Jesus Lizard. Even over the radio: —Maui, Chase. Send Jesus Lizard over here. And she was ok w/ the name. If I/d been interviewed for the documentary thats what I wouldve told them about. I know thats what they would have ended up calling it, not Carving Jesus. Lizzie even did one of her tree carvings out back of our barracks. The guys got to be in the brand new barracks buildings, but the two of us were in an old trailer together right on the edge of the compound up against Forest Service land. It/s still there as far as I know, though I wonder if anybody ever found it. Most of her Jesuses (Jesi?) are of a bearded man w/ hands together at his heart, and that one was—she did it in a ponderosa pine, stripping the bark away around eye level, finding knots and cracks and making them the facial features or the hands, using her knife or chisels and ‘gouges’ w/ a mallet. It really did look like the face of Jesus (or a bearded man) was there, like she/d just peeled away the outer surface of the tree and unhidden Jesus. She didnt usually like to make crucifixes, though the one she wore she had made. —I dont know, thats not his main message. He didnt die for our sins. He died because he was healing people for free, offering his knowledge for free. Mostly, at least at that point, on the road, she did smaller whittles. She always had a big lockblade knife on her, and a piece of wood. On down times, if we were in mop-up mode on a fire, she/d get them out and whittle while we talked. Sometimes it was annoying when I/d be trying to take a nap, but if thats the most annoying she ever was I/d say she was doing ok. What the rest of the crew thought of her was mixed. A lot of the guys didnt like ‘girls’ on a crew period. If she had just been a hippie tho, I think she would have gotten a lot more meanness—to the point of harassment—but the Jesus thing threw them—they didnt know what the hell. She made a Jesus carving for each and every one of them, regardless if they were raving assholes or not. Some of them, a few, kept them all summer and would even pull them out of their red bags on the buggy to show her. —Hey Jesus Lizard! I still got your Jesus! She would always smile. Like, really smile. —Right on! I/m glad Jesus is still w/ you. There were of course bets on who could bang one of us. I had my informants, some of the safer guys like Roberto and Joseph who would give me the scoop. And, you know, what girl can resist being around eighteen buff dudes? Lizzie was the cute one, they all wanted her, but the odds were good, even for me. Towards the end of the season, when we/d been gone to Idaho for two three week stints—r+r in Boise and back up to the panhandle for the biggest fire in North America, ever—we came back to northern California, to our station and all headed to the one bar in town, The Timberline. I was playing pool, pacing myself on the alcohol so I could concentrate and beat everyone (my dad had a pool table in our garage in Salem—the one skill he taught me) so I was not blackout drunk like everyone else. I do remember that every time I saw Jesus Lizard she had a shot glass in her hand and I know neither one of us bought a drink all night. I got a little distracted w/Trace putting his hand on my thigh and whispering sweet nothings in my ear like, —I’m gonna destroy that pussy. What girl can resist a line like that? We all got 86ed—or else the bar was just closing, I forget, so a bunch of us piled in Trace and Maui/s pickups and ended up at Lizzie and I/s trailer. Trace didnt really give me time to collect myself—or even ponder the fact that he had a girlfriend—and had me in my room, w/Lizzie and the other guys right on the other side of the door in the living room. My pussy was indeed destroyed, as I think everyone on the compound could hear. Afterwards, or during, Trace said, —I/ve been waiting to do that all summer. I said, —Me too. He passed out. I got up and took a shower, then checked the living room. No one there. But there were definitely voices coming from Lizzie/s room down the hall. Male voices. Multiple male voices. If I/d been any more sober I might have—should have—checked on her. But, instead I went back and put my head on Trace/s chest and fell asleep. In the morning after the awkwardness of Trace leaving w/o much conversation, I was sipping tea on the couch (the only thing my stomach could handle) when Jesus Lizard came out. Smiling. —Lizzie, are you ok? She kept smiling. —Yeah. Why? —I just...did you....like... She giggled. —Yeah. Did you? Actually I know you did. I heard you. —Yeah but did you...like...w/ all of them? Her face got red. —I mean, yeah? —Do you remember? —Mostly? —Are you ok w/ that? She shrugged. —Sure. We stared at each other. I said, —Ok. Wow. How many? She looked at the floor. —Um...I dont know. I nodded. —Ok. Wow. After that, for the rest of the season, which was like six more weeks, down into Big Sur and Orange County, the dynamic shifted. Not that they had ever took Jesus Lizard seriously but, before, she had been kind of the crazy little sister. That they all wanted to bang. After the banging, they became more rude to her, ignoring her or yelling extra harsh. Not everybody, not overhead or the safe guys, they treated her the same, mostly. But the assholes were just bigger assholes. Surprise. I think at first she was surprised, then hurt, and she would lose her smile at those points. Thankfully by the time we were in central and southern Cali, we were running four saw teams, cutting all the time through forests of manzanita brush (and poison ok) so she and I just spent most of the time by ourselves. She still carved little Jesus dudes—even gave me a rare crucified Jesus out of manzanita, which I still actually have up on my bedroom wall, the one arms cracked off and I glued it back. I call it ‘Cracked Jesus.’ On the Big Sur Fire we were inland, in the forest, in the redwoods actually, but in mop-up mode holding a line we hadnt cut and there was this ponderosa pine stump, waist high. Normally a sawyer low-stumps all her trees, but this one got left or lost. Lizzie got back her regular energy, crouching down examining it. —Do we have to lowstump it? —Well if we dont someone will. Do you want to do it? —I want to carve it. I can see Jesus in it. Look: these knots are the eyes, this is the nose and prayer hands would be here. And I could see it. —So this Jesus is buried halfway in the ground? She laughed. —Yes! Rising back from Hell! Can I use the saw? Will you make sure I dont kill myself? —Sure. Just watch the kickback, especially if you try to cut w/ the tip. Dont do that. That became her first Chainsaw Jesus: Rough, but definitely him, w/ a long nose and beard and the two hands. Mostly what she did was trim the back side of the stump, carving the wood away from the Jesus. We didnt tell anybody about it but Joseph commented on it in the buggy later after we/d hiked out, that it was a good Jesus. Still maybe out there somewhere in the woods east of Big Sur, if some other crew didnt cut him down later. By the time the season ended, we were all done and we left the morning we got back (hotshot tradition: to leave early on the last day). Lizzie and I exchanged parents’ phone numbers and addresses and hugged, knowing neither of us would be back the next summer. She never fought fires again. I went back to helitack—helirappel actually—up in McCall, Idaho. And now she/s actually done. 10,000. Some people dont believe her, but I do. I had seen some news features on her throughout the years, especially more recently as she was getting closer. The documentary about her is still up on Netflix. She still has the dreadlocks, now silver. And, she wears long flowing skirts, or overalls when she/s working on one of her bigger chainsaw sculptures, which go for tens of thousands of dollars now. She lives in Sisters, Oregon and has a wife and two daughters. When she/s asked in the documentary if she/ll keep carving Jesuses after 10,000 she says, —I dont know what else to do. I still believe in ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ That/s still worth reminding people about. Her daughters have whittled their own Jesus carvings, though they seem more excited about the little wooden animals they made. Born in Puerto Rico, John Yohe has worked as a wildland firefighter, wilderness ranger and fire lookout. Best of the Net nominee x2. Notable Essay List for Best American Essays 2022 and 2023. @thejohnyohe www.johnyohe.weebly.

As I heft the suitcase onto the station’s tarmac The rivers of her tears are pooling in the corners of my eyes Grant Shimmin is a South African-born poet of Manx ancestry who has lived in New Zealand for 22 years. A career journalist, he is passionate about human relationships, family, inclusion and the natural world.

not quite It’s not snowing, but it’s not not snowing either. Up by the Georgia border, we’d call anything wet and white “snow,” but out here they have words for not-quite: graupel, sleet, wintry mix. Out here you can hear ice break a tree’s bones. My mother used to call any day the air got below freezing, like a boast, like nobody could believe Floridians had it in them. She’d drive all the way out here but who would watch the dogs for two weeks? When she texts now, there are not-quite words for love: stay warm, stay dry, stay safe. aims But I don’t always want to be this force of nature— your Bay of Fundy high tide, night and day, relentless until I’m rendered moot. Let me creep along the shore as some other creature— your broken clamshell, piece of sea glass, this jellyfish finding your bare foot. dinnertime we sit at the dining room table with a bucket of fresh names, scooped straight from the shore, still briny and wriggling. “how will i know which one is right,” you ask, plucking out all of the mythological swimmers, chucking diana. the pot rumbled behind us. “i think you just know,” i shrugged, “but if i had my way i’d be a victoria.” you sighed, squinting at a hundred half-chewed variations of kayleigh, eyes where their legs ought to be. “hold on: what about these,” i said, holding a few olden sturdy ones. “not mary—" “hold on, marrryy”—i chucked them in the boiling water until their shells turned vamp red. the decades and silent letters sloughed away in the stock. “sometimes it’s just there,” i said before squeezing a lemon wedge and sucking on the largest one’s head. i handed you the supple body, every letter where it ought to be, sudden pink flesh. KJ Shepherd lives in Austin, Texas.

Maybe we’re satellites Sending signals to each other But never touching Ramona Gore is currently a Cinema and History major at Binghamton University, minoring in Asian and Asian American Studies. Since middle school, she has kept a notebook where she stores snippets of her own unique poems. Her work has been published in Duck Duck Mongoose Magazine and Idle Ink.

~Venice, February 2002 Empty-eyed, paper-mache bird heads stare through windows, hang with beaks turned down toward the street. Red, purple, jewels and feathered masks line dark walls. A rainbow of plumage covers holes, nails, and centuries old stains that resist layers of paint. Cat eyes, bird eyes, hollowed out, lined with jewels reflect the single bulb above them. In the street, orange and yellow sunset reaches across gondolas, resting on the sea, tied, waiting for tourists and drivers. They rock against one another, knocking on the concrete wall, count the seconds till darkness.I hold my breath on the Bridge of Sighs, wait to hear the moans of prisoners echo between walls and the sound of waves hitting boats that carry the damned. I only hear heels, sharp and thin, striking brick walkways. The sun has set. Shadows stand tall against street lights. A lone waiter sits and smokes in front of a window filled with streamers. Alone in Plaza de San Marco, I grasp the blessed, blue rosary from the basilica. Four horses, replicas of the stolen Quadriga, hover over the edge above me, only the sound of my breath fills the space. From the corner, a clown, painted white and red with black lines that jut from his eyes. His suit, purple and blue with bells. He skips across the plaza, pirouettes, and covers me with showers of confetti.

Neon t-shirt of Tweety Bird scowling Does it look like I care? because you don’t spare anyone’s feelings. Sheer leopard print blouses because you are feisty, sassy, and wild! Windbreaker of Winnie-the-Pooh, elbow-deep in honey because relatable much? Big girls gotta eat. F.R.I.E.N.D.S. graphic t-shirt because, like Fat Monica, you dance with donuts, too! Pandering sentiment about girl power in glittery cursive font because keep your head up, girly! The future is female. Distressed AC/DC tank top because you don’t mind their objectification of women. Sloppy off-the-shoulder Caution: may contain wine! because alcohol dependency is quirky when it’s you. Garfield thinking I’m up. What more do you want? because you are one lazy piece of shit. Cowl-neck sweaters and chunky knit scarves because your double-chin should really be a secret. The poncho: available in black, brown, and charcoal because the pinnacle of beauty is a repurposed tarp. Justine Defever resides in Michigan and is an Associate Professor of English at Cleary University. Her poetry has been recently featured in Sad Girls Club Literary Blog, Silent Spark Press, You Might Need to Hear This, and Quarter Press. Justine completed a residency in Edinburgh, Scotland while finishing an MFA in Creative Writing at Arcadia University. Read more of her work at justinedefever.com.

There is too much. There is not enough. If there is an in-between, I don't possess the scale to calibrate that balance. I am what I own, and what I own owns me. Not long before she died, my mama said to me, "You are a really nice person." The wonder in her voice, as if recounting a recent revelation, unwomaned me. Still, there's nowhere to be but where you are when you're there. And, let it be known that I was there and fully present. I owned and was owned till the earth scorched beneath my feet. I loved and was loved until my heart left my body and lay in the sick bed next to hers. I was not found wanting. In the end, I was not found wanting. Kelli Simpson is a poet and former teacher based in Norman, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared in Lamplit Underground, Green Ink Poetry, One Art Poetry Journal, The MockingHeart Review, Remington Review, and elsewhere.

Dear Dead Brother #5 (Passed on June 16, 2004) Last night, my partner and her dog slept on me The closer I get to real love Livelier become my internal freakouts Our father put up with so much Our mother put up with so much The years passed, and it never looked happy – These cold January nights dead brother My partner says she wants to move to Russia after the war There are still wars dead brother I escape into entertainment, cartoons and documentaries I want there to be love, I really like this person, And her dog The dog, small, wearing a coat posed for a photo. The dog sits on my lap, slowly he slumps, Then falls asleep on me – During the day I spend my time in a cubicle Two monitors, endless litigation – Defendant’s Motion to Save His Own Mind – Defendant’s Motion to Cure His Sinus Problem – Mostly I copy and paste, rename things, The dog spends his days in a small cage, Because he rummages and likes to pee on the floor – I feel bad for the dog, but some feel bad for me – A long time ago, I dated a woman from Europe That has, what seems to be, a supply of money That never depletes. On her Instagram, she scuba dives Off the Barbary Coast – the pictures are beautiful – I assume to her I’m just like the dog – There is a piece of knowledge that eludes me Incredible desire to be young and play hide and go seek To get a thrill out of jumping over something, When was there time to play baseball? A piece of knowledge Like Schrödinger's cat The ends of the earth The red mountain is millions of years old I am standing next to it The dog looks at me, wanting love My partner looks at me, wanting love I don’t care when poets mention death anymore – Nothing is as scary as one’s own potential – Trying to forget the first 20 years of my life – All those years still haunt me The loneliness, the survival mechanisms Moods that hurt and won’t end Dead brother, I was once a dishwasher At a steakhouse in Ohio, shortly after you died – The plates would come, I sat them on a tray And pushed them through a large metal machine That shot water at them After the rush was over, we would clean up, We would eat the remaining steak soup Many nights that was my dinner Later in Las Vegas, I worked as bagboy And ate two eggs and bacon, wrapped in a tortilla So far from our gnocchi and rigatonis Now my boss gives me million-dollar cases – Now someone wants me to love them Now a dog sleeps on my lap When I work, my earbuds play Coltrane and Bach The sounds of distorted guitars no longer inspire me – The 90s are a million miles away – I feel disgusted with the 90s, Why did they even happen? There is a piece of knowledge that eludes me I believe the mind and body are one This oneness eludes me as well Even dogs seem to be beyond my grasp lately Noah Cicero was born in 1980 in a small town in Northeast, Ohio. In 2003 his first book came out, The Human War, which has been translated into several languages. He has published books of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, many have been translated. His poetry book Bipolar Cowboy was shortlisted for Goodreads Best Poetry of 2015, which has a new edition from Girl Noise Press. He has recently been published in Maudlin House and Sage Cigarettes. Noah Cicero has given speeches regarding literature in Peru, Chile, South Korea, and Mexico. He attended Youngstown State University for Political Science and the College of Southern Nevada for Paralegal Studies.  He currently lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has lived in South Korea teaching ESL, various parts of Oregon and Grand Canyon, Arizona. He hikes every Sunday in the mountains and desert. He has been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon four times.

The late Trinidadian author’s ghost has lately been observed hovering around the merry colored-creations of several well-meaning white authors. “We’re just fed up. He shows up every time we have a character named Radhika or Yasmeen and tries to make out with them,” said Marianne K., author of I Said No. “More than once I’ve thought of informing law enforcement,” she said, adding that “There has to be a safe environment to write!” Academics familiar with the works of VS Naipaul, known for his seminal novels, House for Mr Biswas and A Bend in the River, have expressed reservations at his ghost’s erratic behavior. They fear his after-life shenanigans will come back to hurt their careers. They have husbands to feed, children to send to Coachella, they said. John Harris John, bestselling author of Innocent Girl, has been a particularly serious victim of this in his new novel Sensitive Girl. “I have a scene where Amina, the ‘sensitive’ girl in the story, invites the boy John from her MFA class for her birthday and makes biryani for everyone,” John said, “They discuss the particulars of this strange and tasteful food—this is based on my own MFA days, so it’s 100% authentic—and he asks her about the difference between Kacchi and Tehari. I figured it’s a good way of educating my readers on the many colorful variations in the food of other cultures, y’know, but Mr Naipaul’s ghost saw fit to barge in right away. ‘It’s rice, you idiot. Eat the fucking rice,” he kept berating my character. And since the character, John, is loosely based on me, it felt like he was berating me.” John Harris John has since been too afraid to go back to his writing. He is not alone. The Nobel Laureate’s ghost has been a nuisance to the wider, white writing community. To combat this issue, John, Marianne, and their cohorts have decided to organize a séance. “We have quite an exciting night planned,” They said, “Holding hands, we’ll try to banish his evil spirit from our realm with recitations from Maya Angelou’s poetry.” When asked what they plan to do if the method does not work, Marianne said, “We’ll have no other way than to call the cops on him then. It’s a matter of our safety at this point.” As the event drew closer, the authors gathered around the cul-de-sac, exchanging stories of the assaults they had to undergo from Naipaul’s ghost. “He came up to Rajiv, a supporting character I wrote to complement Rachel’s workplace, and I swear he grabbed his hair in a fist, and shouted: ‘POC? More like piece of shit!’—Can you imagine what I had to go through? I spent hours on twitter stalking Indian guys to research him!” Said one fellow writer to his colleague. The day grows damp. Huddled in a circle, a candle draining out in full force in the middle, the chants start to envelop the room. Visions of friendly allies at Bengali aqiqahs and Tamil weddings dominate the imagery, baiting the infamous scourge to rise up to the occasion and fall prey to their trap, for these saviors, valuable contributors of several online magazines, are the true fighters, willing to go any lengths on twitter—the real Area of Darkness—to preserve their beloved, pristine multiculturalism. Shahriar Shaams lives in Dhaka, Bangladesh. Shahriar’s essays and stories have previously appeared in the journals Singapore Unbound, Third Lane, Six Seasons Review and Jamini, and in the literary pages of the Dhaka Tribune and The Daily Star.