by Millie Tullis

My mother took apart
Ox-Cart Man
by Donald Hall,
carefully cutting
her favorite pages
to frame and hang
above the washer
and dryer, a well-
used corner of the house.
She loved the paintings,
the moral, the ox. In childhood,
I loved only sad stories. To read
anything was to try
and place myself.
Could I bring home the ox,
if I were the Ox-Cart Man? How
would I keep the millions of cats
from fighting, if I were
the Millions of Cats Man?
How I would keep them fed,
if I were his Wife. How
I would drink milk
from a porcelain bowl
if I were the only Cat
left at the end
of the book.
I’d wear a collar
and sleep through the night.

after Donald Hall, Barbara Cooney, and especially Wanda Gág

Millie Tullis (she/they) is a poet, teacher, and folklorist. She holds an MFA from George Mason University and an MA in American Studies & Folklore from Utah State University. Her work has been published in Sugar House Review, Stone Circle Review, Cimarron Review, Ninth Letter, SWWIM, and elsewhere. Their first full-length collection, These Saints are Stones, is forthcoming with Signature Books in 2026. Raised in northern Utah, Millie lives and works in upstate South Carolina. Find more at millietullis.com.

by Julie Weiss

That question again.
It orbits out of my daughter´s
chest after every death.
A beetle she finds, squashed
into a shape we name dismay.
Her grandmother´s canary,
tucked under dirt and rocks,
the wind warbling a tune
bluesy enough to bawl
her eardrum. Our jolly
neighbor with a weak heart,
whose promise of cheesecake
curdled on her tongue.
She wants me to turn the sky
inside out, show her those
ghost towns she learned about
from the pages of my lips.
There, her great-uncle´s
new glimmering villa. And
there, her grandpa´s favorite
floating burger joint. Welcome
orchestra. Confetti. The dust
on her cheek, a kiss. Daughter,
when is the right time to place
my own terror in your hands
like a tarnished heirloom,
rub the gold flakes off the fables.
When is the right time to say
I don´t know I don´t know I don’t know

Julie Weiss (she/her) is the author of The Places We Empty, her debut collection published by Kelsay books, and two chapbooks, The Jolt and Breath Ablaze: Twenty-One Love Poems in Homage to Adrienne Rich, Volumes I and II, published by Bottlecap Press. Her second collection, Rooming with Elephants, was published in February, 2025 by Kelsay Books. “Poem Written in the Eight Seconds I Lost Sight of My Children” was selected as a 2023 finalist for Best of the Net. She won Sheila-Na-Gig´s editor´s choice award for “Cumbre Vieja” and was named a finalist for the Saguaro Prize. Recent work appears in Variant Lit, The Westchester Review, Up The Staircase Quarterly, The Madrid Review, and others. You can find her on Instagram @colourofpoetry919, Facebook, or at julieweisspoet.com.

by Jack B. Bedell

after Pina Bausch’s Das Frühlingsopfer

The dancers pull themselves through space,
across a stage covered in loose soil,
primitive, fecund, pagan, virginal, decomposed.
They fight gravity with every muscle
connected to their bones, fling their cells
across all distances. Struggle, contrapuntal
against Stravinski’s strings, always
there to slam them to ground. Sweat,
almost enough to wash away their
grace, more than enough to
draw dirt onto their bare skin. To mar
all innocence and joy. And then
the red dress these women pass
from hand to hand—a burden
of hope none of them want to wear,
a sacrifice each dancer would
chase away with movement, every
leap, every fall, every spin and twist
that much closer to a death they are
bidden to face so spring can bloom
along the horizon line, a death waiting
patiently for last steps to fall.

Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in HAD, Heavy Feather, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Moist, Psaltery & Lyre, EcoTheo, and other journals. His work has been selected for inclusion in Best Microfiction and Best Spiritual Literature. His latest collection is Ghost Forest (Mercer University Press, 2024). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019. 

by Ink

One thing the ancient Greeks got right
as far as invented gods go
was the muses.
Coming from nothing,
emissaries of creation
make sense –
burgeon to bursting the beginning universe
then loosen its belt
to accommodate the more
of everything
inevitable with eternity.

So it also makes sense there be a reaper,
a collector of fads and flavors
fallen out of favors,
and I imagine him a hoarder –
loudly grousing about
endlessly collecting the withered
while interring everything
behind museum-grade glass
with hospice bedside manner
and bottomless Windex bottle.

And this memorabilia mausoleum,
viewed from on high,
can only seem a river,
a taxi – elongated for each exhibit added;
new patrons, for two pennies, stare
into the abyss of obsolescence
as the ferryman points out
each in his continually growing list of favorites
and asks,
“Can you believe it”
with rhetorical, childlike wonder
every single time.

Balancing a taste for all things caffeinated with a thorough knowledge of how to waste time, Ink (he/him) sporadically stains the pages of online and print periodicals and performs at open mics of ill repute around the NY/NJ/PA area. He founded and served as Stanza Cannon EIC, an online journal for oral poetry, and has published three chapbooks: 61 Central (Finishing Line Press), The Vessel of the Now (Back Room Poetry), and Pining (Alien Buddha Press). Ink’s full-length poetry collections include Death Loves a Drinking Game (Piscataway House Publications) and Miserable with Fire. SM and contact info can be found here: linktr.ee/inkthepoet.

by Dawn Macdonald

A child’s parents know the Pope; they have an in
with Michelangelo. She swings between
the registers. She has the voice of a chandelier
in a box beneath the bed. A child’s parents know

what’s best. They’ve been to Rome. They’re readers.
A child’s voice has pitches. Her shoes
best serve to elevate. Her stature varies
with the gaze. She’s best beheld in a departure

lounge. Her shoes are loose. Her voice
glissandos unintentionally. Her gaze is fixed
upon a box. Her parents stare into
the backs of banks of chairs.

Dawn Macdonald lives in Whitehorse, Yukon where she grew up without electricity or running water. She won the 2025 Canadian First Book Prize for her poetry collection Northerny (University of Alberta Press). She goes by @yukondawnmacdonald on Instagram and @yukondawn on Bluesky.