By Olivia L. Casey My scales too heavy now for me to rise.Scales jabbed tightly in my many achesBraided up in agony, I lie. I lift a wing and loose a weakened cryFor I have found a body too weak to wakeThe heavy scales I carry at sunrise. Anxious eyes…
By Seth Pierce (This poem contains reference to self-harm.) Mr. and Mrs. Mad’sMalcontent attitude is a lucid illusion of personal contemptA cover-up to an elusive getaway for attentionPlaying into the conviction of self-deprivation Starving hot-cold souls of artists and philosophers refusing to share anything but pain, In order to gain anything…
By Anikah Burge It started out like any typical day would for me. As Mama made lunch in the next room, I watched the world through the only window I was allowed to look through. I never grew tired of the view. We lived next to and across from many…
by Bradley J. Scott, III Across the road from Mee Maw’s house, gray mist rose above the cornfield. That cool mist covered my face on what normally became an unbearable July day. Now a city boy, it was something I hadn’t felt in quite some time. Nor had been sitting…
By Eva-Maria Sher Every morning another linkin the chain mailof desperate news Ever greater numbersof souls departing in the armsof strangers Our hearts paralyzedour minds exhausted—can’tcomprehend their magnitude Dear Onethe maravillas I wantedto offer for your soul Succumbedto an unexpectedfrost
by Elizabeth Christopher Sylvie’s done with worry. She clicks off the ten o’clock news, thinking what a relief it is to be done with it, like a cool current rolling under the skin. Their kids are grown and gone. Their youngest didn’t turn out to be soft in the head….
by Nadja K. McGlinn The nurse in the cubicle where my husband and I got our second shots of the COVID-19 remarked that everyone she’d injected that day had the scar from a smallpox vaccination, meaning we were old—old enough to have still gotten them as children. She noted I…
by Peter Breyer Who loved me more, Sita or Govinda? The thought consumed me as I exited the Pan Am Clipper in Bombay. The air was so thick that it smelled. I walked into the terminal with large, swirling fans hanging from the dirty ceiling above. Counters were piled high…
by Jonathan Cooper In the laneway’s narrowing lightrestaurant workers clutch at coats,plastic bags sagging with personal effects.The doorman curses and fretsat the forgotten family photo, taped insidehis staff locker, smiling into the darkas men pound nails into plywood,closing every way in—every way out.
by Steven R Weiner You are in a room where machines chirpLike chicks in shells who will never peck free, Machines too sleek and modernTo be birds, with spikes and curling tubes Arrayed around small screens trainedTo display your cells in codes, finding patterns Of polarized cells and their magneticEnergy…