This Little Slice of Life

This little slice of life
where morning mango melts on the tip
of your tongue so used to the taste
of sweet-sounding birds beckoning
sunrise, paired with the salty
screech of the horn whose honks
herald the traffic’s smog of
people passively pushing past,
this little slice of life. Where
summer storms steal the sky by surprise
but you don’t look
twice, chin titled towards the tears
that wash your face free
of hurried calls and flights, near
to the soul, the water hydrates
the seed of an idea tucked
in the cavity of the chest
sparked by sunlight drunk
through the delight
of youthful eyes
that wander the expanse
of a day and night
that only belong
to this little slice of life.

Unravel

the
moonlight silence,
punctuated by
a shrieking alarm,
shatters and folds—
the threads of the
comforter unravel,
leaving you bare.

the shrill cuts to bone
awakening the senses,
the lull of sweet
dreams dissipate with the
return of suffuse sorrow,
as clouds of confusion
fog an air, burdened
by heavy humidity,
constraining the chest.

realizing once more,
how daunting reality 
presses the head
below the surface—
woken once more,
to the wicked
wondering of which
wayward lane
you should wander
as you seek
dry land.

Isabelle Foster (she/her) lives in Washington DC and grew up in New England, with an affinity for the forest and a proclivity for words. Often found running by the brook or with her head buried in a book, from a young age, Isabelle has cultivated a desire to write and capture in some small part the wonder and essence of the natural world and our experience within it. She currently works at the non-profit World Wildlife Fund (WWF), based in Washington, DC. Her work focuses on sustainable food systems and conservation for furthering planetary health and beneficial outcomes for people and planet. She believes writing is a lifestyle and power method for conveying emotion and activism—she finds inspiration in the smallest daily happenings, composing snatches of songs and narrating a novel all while walking to work. She is an emerging writer and has just started to submit her pieces for publication this year.

Featured image: ଜଗଦୀଶ ଉତ୍ତରକବାଟ, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Immaculate Ruins

It begins with a stranger’s cautious agreement
to get lost for a while in the ruins of you, playing

sentinel from the love seat’s worn brown arms,
as breath leaves a kiss of steam on the window,

proof there’s something warm inside, unafraid
of dirty glass and its beautiful war on clean.

Remember, this memory will become a ghost
tucked into bed with a kiss and a prayer as

Mary’s nightlight’s three burning holes lets
immaculate be immaculate.

It’s the Kind of Darkness

some would die for
in the shadow of hope’s flickering promise
to bring them back for special occasions
like the body’s shadow puppet,
that fist of feathers praising the wrist’s
compulsive need to make angels in the snow,
drifting from shredded denim clouds
all liquored up on lightning’s lust
to make the body hairless, as
thunder’s leather bravado
chokes gently on its depth.
But, what about the kind of darkness
everyone loves the most,
hungry and hard as a chicken’s beak
pile driving seed to glory?
Being fed is one thing.
Fear is something else.

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work has appeared in Southern Humanities Review, North American Review and more. His work is forthcoming in The Meadow, The Chiron Review, Nine Mile Magazine, and Heavy Feather Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents,” is from Brick Road Poetry Press.

Featured image: Old Market’s Window, Diego Torres Silvestre from Sao Paulo, Brazil, CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

– after Marcellus Williams

they killed him in a Missouri jail yesterday. they
took his grey beard & bald head. yesterday
they rained death upon a man i never knew

who told me all will be well, told me
leave my last words to Allah. the state’s Death
met Marcellus & he looked like my father, another

dad gone, the daily dead, once for every day a black
man was innocent, and by my math that is no less than
300 odd years worth of bodies & chairs & injections planted

in the dirt. at the airport drop-off i gave my Marcellus
a stiff hug and forgot to say i love you or thanks for
coming; i drove home the way i assume all our fathers die,

silent sniffles, small smiles, locked jaw. i like to
believe i’ve slipped through the cracks in the
holding cell called America but then i see another

Marcellus, cast out on the roadside all glasses & silent
lips & thick brow digging worry out of me, like my pops
sat silent in my passenger seat.

we thought my uncle Juan died Monday,
but neither of us said this. i paused everything
after the call came in. when pops got done
swallowing tears he told me just play something on the tv.

Stories Gathered by Missionaries, Ethnographers, & Imperialists of Other Sorts
Cuauhtémoc’s Dream

i.

What’s the word for having your feet set
atop flames, patiently outlasting sinister wishes
of the invader and his gunpowder—the same word
frogs mumble as they dally in boiling water.

it can’t be cowardice to escape out
of ropes choking smaller while the executioner watches & holds i
n a smile; we’re building new words for losing
feeling in your soles, for toes becoming comfortable with fire.

Call it optimism: drunken
weekends, a flight to LA, outrunning the plague; all dalliances
wilt, like spears limp against armor glinting orange in heat
that beckons & tears. someone will fix this.

ii.

what virtues follow an expatriate besides romance; survival
makes a poor excuse for blind living. in a country
with mirrors, positivity wouldn’t smell
so much like smoke.

i propose immolation, from heel to crown,
rather than give way or name compatriots & sympathizers; escape runs thru
pale hearts, how kindness strikes & holds fast. victory will
resound new words on tongues lapping lips

when this time ends & the mirrors arrive, friends will be counted
among the hands & feet, soot the new currency, record made
of glasses half full, all pouring over with liquid colored
like freedom from grinding teeth, like caring for another soul

Walter Hill is a poet, game developer by day, and he is always listening. His work has been published most recently in The Ear, Juste Milieu, and Touchstone Literary Magazine. He has most recently shared his process and poetry with emerging poets as Point Park University’s Visiting Poet in Fall 2024. Raised in Bowie, MD, he resides in Austin, TX where he facilitates workshops with the East Austin Writer’s Project. He finds the right words moving amongst a changing city, dancing to music, and helping others.

Featured image: Chiayi Prison, Mk2010, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons