Issue 35

July 2026

Liberation

(And Your Bird Has Flown)

Because the walls that enclosed her 
were invisible, 
the bird never perceived that she was trapped, 
nor understood why her soul sorrowed, 
nor thought to blame 
her failure to fly 
on anything but the weakness of her wings 
 
Until the day when the walls were withdrawn 
and she found herself 
at long last 
free to fly in the open air. 

Brenna Smith

System Update Very Much Required

It’s not looking good. The world, I mean.
My grandmother used to say I was smarter 
than 90% of the population, and believe me, 
I’m not all that wise. Forget artificial 
intelligence, we need a hard restart. 
We need a heart transplant. Let the robots
do the laundry so we can stare at the sunrise 
and fingerpaint our feelings, rage rusting 
into orange, sorrow swirling back to red.
Critical thinking is an ancient art, a dried-out husk
of hieroglyphics we no longer comprehend 
because we have forgotten how to feel, the tiny
tremor of truth between the sparkplugs of our 
rib cage. You can’t live in a body that doesn’t have
a heart. The same goes for countries. It’s hard to know 
what’s real these days. I like things I can hold in my hands.
The velvet petal of a flower. A book of poems. 
My daughter’s  chubby wrist. Hope’s relentless pulse.

Jillian Stacia

Consume In Moderation

I tried to kill with kindness.
Forty years of syrupy offerings
from a do-gooding, eldest daughter 
trained to cater to 
others’ sensitive palates.

I was pleasantly persistent and
perfectly polite.
An apron-clad lady 
clenching her licorice-black cavities 
into a saccharine smile.

My body handled it for a while.

Until my stomach started seizing up
the sugar writhing within me
begging for an ounce of bitterness
a dash of defiance
to balance out the intolerable sweets.

I pried open my honey-coated hands
tossed the candied confections in the trash
and poured the jars of treacle 
drip, drip, dripping 
down the drain.

I had no intention of savoring the remains.

After four decades of delicacies
I finally read the fine print on the recipes.
Consume in moderation.
As it turns out 
the only one I was killing was me.

Lindsay Sledge

Where Are the Words?

The birds flutter by, singing 
their morning song.
The veggie seeds pop 
out of the soil, green 
and vibrant and full of life 
And there are no 
words for this season. 

My brain is empty when I visit 
the coast, the salty air caressing 
my skin, the ocean waves crashing 
against the shore in ferocious 
tumbles, my heart 

Beating
Beating
Beating

In my chest, matching the rhythm 
of the sea that makes my soul come alive. 

But where are the words?

Tay the Librarian

Stolen Surprise

Every October 27
is held in her cupped
hands – like a star –
glittering light slipping
through the cracks 
of her fingers.

It’s a gasp that was never 
even there, 
a moment that 
disappeared 
and a future that faded
before forming.

Potential dissolving
with bottled breath.
Rotting like rusted
instruments burdened
with an unfinished song.

A failed anniversary –
haunting the calendar
and zombie notifications
of unmet milestones.
Cluttering her mind like
a house of a hoarder -
the long list of things
that never happen.

And so, she cupped 
in her hands, a heart 
that never broke, love 
that never aged and shattered 
time that sliced her skin
like the coffee carafe 
she cradled
to pieces.

*from the collection, Motherhead, coming August 2026

Coley

I’ll Be Your Hype Girl

the one at your finish line, hear my firework voice boom your name a mile away.  I’ll be with you in the middle, too. One more interval, one more set. Sweat drips off our chins, down our spines, drops onto the floor. Don’t give up now. Find my messy scrawl in your mailbox, ideas in a voice memo, humor in your DMs, dreams in your REMs. Yes to rest, boundaries, protecting your peace. You are enough. But, also sometimes you do need to apologize or treat your body with tenderness or break up with him. I’ll stretch a rainbow like a wedding arch on your rainiest day. Your plum-bruised heart is safe in my hands, your sob-shaking body in my arms too. I’ll remind you who you are (and also who you want to be). You are beautiful. Yes, even with your smile lines and wiry, silver threads. Remember how hard we laughed in that bar on 18th street when we used to stay up past 9pm? Remember when we couldn’t wait to walk in the lives we’re living right now? I’ll pick up the phone when you call, draft that difficult text message, like your social posts, track your location. Can I share your poem? Join your launch team? Leave you an Amazon review? I’ll blow oxygen onto the embers of your dreams. Let’s paint our lips with sweet cherries, streak our nails with watermelon sunrises, strut in sequins, sink into soft sweatshirts, dance through ordinary Tuesdays. Feel the earth shake beneath our feet, crack the sky open.

Alyssa Silvester

Water You Saying?

The water foul in Washington sure does stink. 

And it looks ugly, too. 

But when’s the last time a mirror was anything
but honest? 

Pull the science books from the fires. 
Consume the last words about shallow efforts 
and deep lies.

We are not an experiment, 
or a project. 
 
We are the people, 
and see what happens 
when algae goes to war
with American flag blue.

We see how it waves 
in protest,  
disrupting the peace
with its free will 
to break
the surface.

Megan Sciarrino

Stalking Literary Devices

I try to listen—
hear the sourdough 
starter crackle.
I meld crackle 
into metaphor, 
but it’s black on top 
 
I try to notice—
See the dappled day 
through the leaves? 
I meld dapples 
into metaphor  
but the day resists 

I try to listen—
to hear the fire,
meld pops and snaps
into metaphor 
but flame flounces
from me 

I try to notice— 
see the pink dawn 
over the mountain?
I grasp the growing 
sun but it burns 
my greedy palms 

Mary Oliver says attention 
is the beginning
of devotion. And it’s true—
I murder my metaphors 
with attention. But what
is the metaphor there for? 

Rebecca Marie