I was barefoot when it happened.

As Fibonacci (all things told) assured…
if it happened to him, it could happen again

Toes tangle midst wild-eyed gazanias;
Love unfolds within dewdrops, quivering on rims of pink blown glass

She is delicate, this rose,
her leafy past a staircase rimmed in gold
blooming in her season
as patterns foretold.

Winter stars give way to strawberry moons,
a fox runs through our vineyard

A Gardener’s glove
stretches past Orion, threads through Gemini,
plants sequential in the skies,
whispers louder than her blooms:

Come away with me, my beloved,
To places where little roses begin

I told myself to remember, before frost dusted dirt—

But I forgot
the fragrant bud in mountain folds,
feared tiny aphids defying beauty,
forgot dewy fingers as they linger.

Again and again,
I am barefoot when it happens,
surprised by seasons.

Somewhere under a fragrant star,
the Little Prince and I
startle

A Mexican-American poet residing in Fresno, CA, Kimberly Vargas Agnese loves walking barefoot and spending time outdoors. She believes that the sacred is as close as a human’s breath and enjoys playing the Native American flute. To read more of Kimberly’s work, please visit www.bucketsonabarefootbeach.com.

it’s constant
the noise
the requests
the glances and
casual wonderings thrown
my way.
i’m tired of it
to tell you the truth.
i slog through the day
terribly and exhaustingly aware
of everyone around me
i come home and immediately
there you are
expectant
asking about my classes
asking if
now that i’m home
can i do this or that or
the other thing.
i force replies out of my mouth
until
suddenly
as if the universe
on a whim
decided to cut me a break
i hear those miraculous words –
“I forgot to tell you,
I’m going out tonight.”
my heart leaps and
i try to keep the excitement
out of my voice as i think of
all the precious minutes
the blissful seconds
of silence
or
if i want it
of music at its loudest volume
that your impending absence allows.
i wait impatiently
as you get ready
pull on your shoes
i tell you to have fun
take your time
i tell you that you deserve it
but in actuality
i’m speaking to myself
to the girl who is constantly
with every breath
praying for some time
to herself.

Indigo Williams is originally from Seattle, WA, but is currently pursuing a degree while living in Madrid, Spain.

At the age of three,
I stood on the baseboard heater
To reach the single window
In my boxed room in order to
Look out at the night sky.
Calmed by the lighted darkness
That went on further than
My growing brain could comprehend –
The moon shone bright
Right in front of me,
Framed by the pane.
This went on night
After night until
The day my mother
Explained that my special moon
Was nothing more than an
Exterior fixture atop the
Building across the street from us.

From that time on –
My routine would continue
With my conviction that
The industrial bulb
Glowed each night
Just for me.

Tina Vorreyer, graduate of Lawrence University (Appleton, WI), has been published in 4 anthologies by Z Publishing (2017-2019), Black Works Issue #2 (July 2019), Not Very Quiet Issue #4 (March 2019), Riza Press’s “Project Healthy Love” online showcase (January 2019), and is Poet’s Choice’s September 2019 Poetic Musings Contest Winner.

  For Anand

Mother’s greatest craftwork, sewn
into the sun, melting drops
of sunlight like a smile
that burns hell into my face.
He undoes the stitches
of her making with an acting class.
Its daily goals of fives.

Five minutes in meditation.
Five minutes of gratitude.
Five minutes of affirmation.
I wish to be introduced as Comic Con’s first
Indian Superhero, Chakra.

Begins to peel off the edges,
a lusting lip of envelope,
I want to be the first Indian superhero,
Chakra, crinkling belly, his Ironman
monologue inviting the Mandarin
to fight, an instapot pressure smolder
ready to steam, Pulp Fiction
gangster car ride drift-tilted
on a classroom chair, basking in
sun-blinding applause, I AM CHAKRA,
a tiger tearing into the sun.

Preeti Shah is a Queens-based Indian American poet who was a Brooklyn Poets 2019 Fall Fellowship Finalist. She served as Assistant Director of Communications for YJPerspectives Magazine. You can find her on her IG handle: @babyprema

From the early morning spring, tulips shake their sleepy heads
When they lift the soil gently, the first touch they feel is me,
I am autumn’s last breath of air.

When sunlight blazes hotter, snow melts from the Rockies
It runs pouring through its canals, nestling in an emerald pond,
I am the thirsty earth.

Sun slides down the horizon, setting her rays free
Twilight replicates their embrace,
I am the tenderness they share.

On the dark canvas of a rebellious night,
Divinity engraves constellations on celestial sphere,
The sky that borrowed its skin is mine.

I’m the mother of existence, from my womb of sublime wonders
caravan of new lives set free. As you breed from my bleeding tears,
shake the blood off your wings and inhale the first breath.

Saraswoti comes from Alberta, Canada. She is a life celebrator and loves exploring beyond her world. She draws inspiration from nature and people around her. She is an optimist and a continuous spiritual learner. She serves as a board member with Parkland Poets and her poems have appeared around Canada, India, USA, UK and Nepal.

John of God –
Patron Saint of Heart Patients – “
my students need you.
Forgive their incidental murmurs,
their clotted ink,
the myriad hesitations
of their teenage hearts.

And some days
our old heating system
drowns out my voice, so
Apollina, they need you too,
Patron Saint of the Deaf.

Nudge me, Dominic,
Patron Saint of Astronomers,
if I ever block their view of the stars.

And for the ones who pull their
black hoods down,
bless them Anthony the Abbot –
Patron Saint of Grave Diggers.
Help them bury what they need to.
Lead them East toward the light.

Dear Alexis, Patron Saint of Beggars,
help me notice their outstretched hands.
Guide me as I teach them
three metaphors for hunger.

Colette Tennant has two poetry collections: Commotion of Wings (2010) and Eden and After (2015), as well as the commentary Religion in the Handmaid’s Tale: a brief guide (2019). Her poem “Rehearsals” was awarded third by Billy Collins in the 2019 Fish Publishing International Writing Contest. Most recently, her poem was accepted by Eavan Boland for Poetry Ireland Review’s Issue 129. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Prairie Schooner, Southern Poetry Review, and others.

Saw-edged ceilings
Enclose her,
Jab down at the close air
With cemented force,
Ruthless and leaved,
Threaten to pierce

Through thorned gaps
The gray sky hangs,
Heavy and weary
With knowledge of the day,
Sights that wrap and
Squeeze and stick

Witnessed horrors
Ooze and slither
Through the fields,
Weighted with memory,
Blackberry blood and
Distressed sweat

She knows each pit, dip, puddle that
Spots the landscape,
Senses the paths but can’t
Escape the maze
Lined with barbs
Sharp and rusted

Sage Cruser lives and works in Seattle.

Bright red bodies spread away
As she leans in for a peek,
Crawl, prick, cover the brick
Of the hall of ivy,
Spindly legs weave a
Blanket of a thousand limbs

Through slits of light a
A flash of silk,
Blue and gold bells
Ring a sharp warning to
Her witnessing eyes
Through the leaves

They conceal the secrets of
Cold stone against the knees
Of the little one,
Her velvet green dress for a special day wasted,
Torn by mortar that
Binds

Close those crusted eyes,
Recite the silent chant and run
From what’s been seen,
Let it lie,
Long and knowing, whispering a
Lull of hush

Sage Cruser lives and works in Seattle.

A Red Dahlia

I remove my shoes, shirt,
and pants. Naked,
I step into the dahlia’s bloom.
I’m late—our whole
neighborhood’s already here.

We drink iced tea,
carve our initials
on sunlight,
share family recipes
with curious pebbles.

Show Don’t Tell

Sometimes to tell
feels like a kiss
with a hairy landscaper
behind the garage. I ask

images to take a nap–
they need the rest anyway.

Kenneth Pobo does an Internet radio show on Saturday nights called Obscure Oldies. He grew two Show And Tell dahlias this past summer, gorgeous blooms. Things he hates: weedwackers, revved motorcycles, and broccoli.

It is Ramadan,
and my father twists his finger,
expelling black stardust
onto hordes of chopped strawberries and kiwis.
Spiciness permeates the air,
settling in the tiny indentations
that pepper the fruit, like the dark specks
I try to fish out of my heart.
My bowl clamors its protest,
the clean white surface now a pallid scowl.
I want no stardust.
Instead, I want raucous Fourth of July parties,
where glassy red infernos
puncture indigo pinpricks
in a room of celestial bodies,
where fresh milk seeps into potatoes,
choking them thickly
in cots of gelatin.
Mother tilts her mouth,
and wisps of her language
tiptoe gingerly towards mine.
Has Pakistan been made yet?
she asks me, and I imagine
Iqbal – a hand curling a mustache,
smoothing a bicycle chain.
Has Pakistan been made yet – no,
or have I been made yet,
borne from the seedlings
of a retired judge and future author,
tattering spines,
shattering bulbs,
sprinkling garrulous beads
over sweet brown brew.
I don’t dance much,
pin myself at the edges
of florid chants and jeweled tikkas.
When my friends talk to their mothers
their voices undulate against normativity,
trembling with hai and mai,
jellied like aspic.
My lips stutter against leather hides
that flagellate my tongue,
and simple words arrive
cleaved through like ruptured lanterns.
I wish now that I had grasped that stardust
tightly between my fingers,
pricking my palm with the spores
that penetrate my heart.
Perhaps I would have discovered
how to efface shame
from my natural habitat.

Ayesha Asad is an aspiring writer and college freshman with an eclectic variety of interests that include painting, reading, and singing. She lives in Texas, and is particularly fond of watching (and playing) soccer games. Her work has been published in Blue Marble Review and TeenInk.