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Two Poems by Isabelle Foster

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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

Two Poems by Daniel Edward Moore

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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

Two Poems by Walter Hill

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– 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

Two Poems by Victor McConnell

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21st Century American Birthday

You know you’ve made it
as a consumer and a modern American
when the bulk of your birthday texts and emails
are automated.

Happy birthday from Starbucks
come in for a free coffee.

Happy birthday from Hertz
get one day free if you book your next rental now.

Happy birthday from your optometrist
don’t forget to schedule your annual vision check-up
and be sure to look at our new frames.

Happy birthday from your dentist
don’t neglect your annual cleaning
make a vow to floss regularly as you age.

Happy birthday from Jiffy Lube
come get your free oil change
and a twelve point inspection.

Happy birthday from your physical therapist
does that shoulder still hurt
book now for ten percent off
don’t forget we’re out of network.

Happy birthday from your current employer
and your last employer
they value your contributions
and wish you a great year ahead.

Happy birthday from your insurance company
home and auto
are you happy with your coverages
have you looked into life insurance?

Happy birthday from your bank
they hope you have a wonderful day
are you interested in some new type of checking account?

Happy birthday from the tire shop
don’t forget about your rotation and
check our holiday special for tires
remember winter is approaching
don’t forget your snow tires.

Happy birthday from some website
you don’t remember
you bought something off of years ago
what even was it.

Happy birthday from your credit card company
use these rewards redeem these points
thank you for being a loyal card user
don’t stop spending.

Happy birthday from this social media site
and that one too
make sure you do a post
or a story
or both
share your birthday with your friends
share share share.

Happy birthday from this big hotel chain
and from Air BNB
and from that little bed and breakfast
where you spent your final night with your last lover.

Happy birthday from this restaurant
and that restaurant too
come in for a free birthday dessert
come in for a free birthday drink
come in for 20% off
come to our restaurant
no ours
go to all of them
you can eat 5, 6, 10 meals on your birthday and
maybe, finally
you’ll feel satisfied.


Winter Wind

You stay in bed
during the first winter wind.

It slices the window
behind your head
at a higher pitch
than in summer.

It sounds cold,
as if it could cut through
the pane that separates you
from the morning air
at any moment.

Victor McConnell grew up in a small town in Texas and graduated from Dartmouth’s creative writing program in 2004. After a year in a wheelchair in 2005 and a long, mostly dormant period from 2010-2019, he resumed writing fiction and poetry in 2020. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in a variety of literary journals, such as the Los Angeles Review, New Ohio Review, Dogwood Literary Journal, and Driftwood Press, among others. His first book, a collection of short stories titled WHEN EVEN THE BONES HAVE THINNED, is scheduled for
publication in 2026 with Hidden River Press out of Philadelphia. He has a 14-year-old son and lives in Golden, Colorado. More of his work can be found at https://www.victormcconnellauthor.com/.

Featured image: Social media addiction, Doctorxgc, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Two Poems by Laurel Brett

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PEONY BUD

a sphere as round
as earth     multifoliate—

petals folded
into possibilities

ovate leaves the backdrop
waxy with the future—

jade pigment—
the outlines

capture impatience
like waiting rain

the main event—
the pink of peonies

unmatched by roses
or clematis     what pink

was invented to express—
not a color really

but a gap in spectral light
in faint tracings

of blood     in tongues
in our labia that need

to be named and have
a voice


XERCES BLUE

The first insect lost
to human impact. The color
of Alice Roosevelt’s

famous gown, Diana’s sapphire
ring, & profusions
of forget-me-nots that still bloom

on the same San Francisco dunes
where the Xerces lived.
The males had iridescent wings.

They survive in photographs
& in our minds’ eyes.
One quarter of all

papillons 
mariposas    farfallas  
have vanished.

Laurel Brett holds a PhD in English and an advanced certificate in creative writing. She has published a book of criticism, DISQUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT (Cambridge Scholars, 2016), a novel called a page turner by the NYT THE SCHRÖDINGER GIRL (Akashic Books, 2020). Her debut poetry collection, PENELOPE IN THE CAR, will appear shortly from Indolent Books.

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