Issue 23

May 2025

Photo by Megan Sciarrino

Beatin’ Around the Azalea

Cut the great, big dead part out 
of the azalea before 
it becomes a blooming blemish 
in a gushing, flushing flood of fuchsia.

It’s the step before my front door, 
and I’m not putting myself out there

on my porch 
a la heart-on-my-sleeve
all star-shaped pimple patch
and such.

I’m a grown woman, 
for crying the frick out loud
in the silence of my own home. 

If you think you’re getting to me, 
face the flawless facade, 
cuz there’s nothing to find
and feelings to hide. 

I mean, 
it’s not like you’re coming

inside.

Megan Sciarrino

My Daughter Is A Barnacle

Sea slick and opulent, clinging
to the edge of me, suctioning
every surface. A daughter 
is a parasite until she becomes 
the sun. Suddenly it’s symbiotic— 
the bond between barnacle and boat.
Sticky is the stuff of miracles,
the kind of clasp that won’t
wash off. The ocean bares
her salty teeth. We hold on
tight.

Jillian Stacia

This Poem is for the People

who want to keep me small.
I won’t apologize for how I’ve
changed and grown
I won’t say sorry for reading smut or saying fuck
or caring about people who are different than me.

I am ready to be free

even if that means you no longer 
understand
me

I’ve spent too much of my life tucked in
 a picture-perfect box
But now? I’m stepping out.
Even if you beg and plead and 
clutch your pearls,
wondering if I’ll make it to heaven.

I’m good with God, thanks for asking.

Taylor Epperson

When You Asked If I Believe In Ghosts

I responded with a joke
evading the question
the truth is 
I don't know
and thinking about it for very long
sort of creeps me out
I don't know about ghosts
but I'm certain of the invisible
force that fills our halls 
enveloping us like a fog
at times so intense I think I could 
reach out and grab it
hold it in my fist
this love
between you and me
is more than a vapor
and after all this time
it still takes up all the air in the room

Amy Grass

My Daughter Asks About the Future

And because I can’t tell her anything
for certain, I tell her about riding

in the front of my grandfather’s boat—
how two of us could fit up there snugly,

sunscreened knees knocking together,
eyes squeezed shut, mouths open 

toward the wind, like we were trying to taste
everything we were rushing toward,

like we were waiting for the words 
to a song we had never heard. 

Krista Drechsel

In Which I Envy Ease

I peer high into the sky 
on a blisteringly bright,

Albany day, eyes tearing
behind dark sunglasses

as stark, dark pelicans 
swirl in tight circles. 

Closer to the ground, 
smaller birds hustle—

flapping hard without
a thermal to coast on. 

I am a small bird, 
flapping hard—

but I long to be
like a pelican

Rebecca Marie

Sales Man

Hate lives just down the street. 
Right around the corner 
in the house with the paved 
backyard. He doesn’t like 
to get his shoes dirty. 

knock knock 

He comes by everyday 
about this time. Slides up 
to the door. Runs his small, 
slimy hands through 
his greasy hair. 

knock knock 

I don’t answer but he knows 
I watch him through the window. 
He smiles at his own reflection.
Promises freedom and riches. 
Says millions just like me 

knock knock 

have already joined. 
For the low, low price 
of my soul he’ll even 
throw in a hat. 
Look, there he is now. 

knock knock 

Michelle Windsor

What Happened at the Pet Store

Please, Mama. I glance at my watch,
a sliver of time before the optometrist.
I want to go look at the fishies. We stop

at the pet store, weave through dog food, litter.
Wow! Fish tank light illuminates her cheeks,
her lashes licking gurgling bubbles behind glass.

A school of iridescent fish swish by, too many
to count. In the upper corner of the tank, a fish stuck
to the circulator. Puffy eyes, bloated body. Undeniably 

dead. 

My daughter doesn’t notice. 

What are their names? I like that one. 
Which one is the mommy, the daddy, the sister, the brother?
Are they all friends? Let’s go look at the turtles now.

Months later I still picture the rotting fish 
and my daughter glued to the front of the tank,
awestruck only with life—it's shine, shimmer. 

Could I marvel at the fish, this life too, even though I know how it all ends? 

Alyssa Silvester