Leap of fish —
faint slip
of sound as scales
break the surface
pane. Head arcs
toward tail. Petite
armor plates shoot
rainbow sparks. This
ignition of fin to flame can only
happen when, unfiltered
through wet, sun
hits fish-hide.
Is this why
they jump — to hold
perfect form in
light and color
a moment high
in the element of
death for a fish?

Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the place she returned to has been made home by a dog.

I watch her white shirt
sway against the corpse-drapes
shriveled on the wall, wrinkled
like waves under her eroded eyes –
her repetition was a lion,
teeth dug and dragged her
limbs back and forth:
her body a puppet,
her mind a worn-out toy –
But I should be grateful
that her legs are not yet stiff
pale hospital sheets
and her heart still drips
rain through its gutters
even though soon
her mind will be ironed –
her thoughts flattened
like a flower pressed
into a memory book.

Maggie Hall a new poet who derives her inspiration from the ordinary world and emotions around her.

Hope is eating right out of the jar,
knowing that the peanut butter
may be heavy as it coats your throat.

Maggie Hall is a new poet who derives her inspiration from the ordinary world and emotions around her.

Ribboned at the wrists
by rue and sulk. Dressed
in dust, lacey cobwebs.
Since
your shaped waned,
it’s been squinting ventures
in the dark.

Now the sun undresses at the window,
shining as a bench-pressed chest.
It’s gold finders gesturing a
runner across my outline-
the closest amount of action
I’ll get from touch.

Ariel admits she’s a moody girl. When she’s not drawing or sighing, she writes to bring form out of the pandemonium in her.

The house beyond the one we bought had stood
Empty countless years before we moved there
To that spot along the ridge, where the wood
Crept close and smelled always of molded leaves.

The road from our place to it drained downhill
Near a mile before the asphalt gave way
To twin dirt paths that held a memory still
Of the passage of feet and an old truck.

Left derelict in the taller grass just
Beyond the last bend in the now dirt road,
That same truck defeated by time and rust
Squatted like a steel and rubber tombstone.

Rising twisted and bony above it
With limbs sprawled skyward, grasping and gaunt,
Stood a skeletal tree, like a spirit
Of the wood from a time before humans.

A few branches gripped the skins of brown leaves,
But most jabbed stark and angry at the sky,
Like a stubborn old man who prays or grieves
The loss of a daughter taken too soon.

Silkworm nests woven thick and cloudy grey,
Clustered throughout the tree, caught between limbs
Like ghosts that, their haunting done, chose to stay
As markers of those who had long since left.

We too no longer live on that old lane,
But some ghosts, like the silkworm shrouded trees
Or the ache of a memory’s deep pain,
Cannot be so easily exorcized.

A. Keith Kelly grew up on the Crow Indian Reservation in Montana and worked for years as a fly-fishing and bird hunting guide before entering academia. He is now a professor of English literature and writing living on a tiny farm outside of Atlanta, Georgia.

Stuck somewhere between 5 and 7 am
And we’re all lying in bed
Alone
Scrolling
You’re all laying in bed
Alone
Scrolling
Double tapping on an image on someone
You’ve woken up to
Once
Or for a few long months
And it’s all the same
A publicly compiled list of old lovers
Lingering
Virtually
I’m thinking about you now, too

Caitlin is a Chicago native with a newfound passion for written word. She spent time during the pandemic to learn more about the events industry through obtaining a Digital Event Certification and writing through self-reflection. She recently visited Utah to recharge and hopes to visit more national parks for inspiration.

Sometimes I dance on the moon.
I’ve heard it somewhere.
The sky is a door.
Silver tears are a familiar soft melody. I am held by arms.
Churning in my soul there is a memory. I knew it, I know it.
Patient steps and then a twirl.
Little girl looks at Pleiades. Can she swim to them?
A gentle leap into the dark. Something reaches out to catch.
Sometimes I dance on the moon.

Gabriella McClellan is poet based in Greensboro, North Carolina. At age eighteen, Gabriella has been writing poetry for eleven years. She furthered her education of poetry by attending Duke University’s Young Writer’s Camp. Gabriella lives and works on a small farm where she derives much of her writing inspiration from.

And cold. Doors chime at State
and Lake. The hours of thought. All
lines proceed. Entrances. Passages. Flames
lick at sidewalk names. Silver,
the moon is rounding. Words
and air are ice. A woman slim
in furs arrives. A man like an omega.
Image of the fog. Painted
panthers, panting. Shadows long
to lie in. A clock above an archway.
The Loop. The El. Later.
And cold.

Originally from North Carolina, Jonathan Wike now lives in Nashville where he practices law and teaches English. His poems have appeared in the Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review and Blue Unicorn.