Stone Circle Review

Henrietta Leavitt Reads An Astronomical Glass Plate Negative

by Brian Evans-Jones

(Harvard, 1903)

Midwinter—the day cold, her fingers cold,
cold the room where she angles glass
to throw what light the low sun shares
onto these black stars—blotched on white
like speckles on an egg, a void
from which knowledge might hatch—but she
is fumbling, fumbling,
her fingers stiff, her reach so short—
she will try, she will scratch letters, lines,
to make God’s cosmic camouflage
mean something—Ah, says God,
staring up through the glass’s hard eye—
you are wrong, you are always wrong—
still her hand moves, just a little
less wrong than yesterday

Brian Evans-Jones is a poet and teacher from Britain, now living in New Hampshire. His poems are published or forthcoming in The Inflectionist Review, Cloudbank, The Café Review, Biscuit Hill, The Shore, and other journals. He won the 2017 Maureen Egen Award from Poets & Writers and was Poet Laureate of Hampshire, UK, in 2012–13. He teaches poetry online at The Poetry Place.

The Editor2026-09-05T10:32:36-04:00September 5, 2026|

Pegasus

by Justin Karcher

A patient tells me that if insurance doesn’t
cover the procedure, he won’t go through
with it, that he’ll just live with blood
in his pee. I’m speechless as I watch him
walk away into the arms of no one.

I retreat into the breakroom and eat
a slice of someone’s leftover retirement cake

and as my sweet tooth shakes
I read about leper colonies
how they issued their own money
in the belief that allowing lepers to handle
regular money could spread the disease

not unlike the wild horses eating firecrackers
in our backyards. When they run, they explode
and a hand appears from heaven to sweep away
the body parts. The way we pretend
not to see anything.

Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher, Bluesky: @justinkarcher.bsky.social) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright from Buffalo, NY. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). Recent playwriting credits include The Birth of Santa (American Repertory Theater of WNY) and The Buffalo Bills Need Our Help (Alleyway Theatre). Justin’s website is justinkarcherauthor.com.

The Editor2026-08-30T10:46:47-04:00August 30, 2026|

Driving to San Pedro

by Brandon Shane

from West Long Beach
trucks containing America
roll slow twenty-fives on roads
whose disrepair you accept,
a bridge hoisted by God
containers on every side
hiding all the birds you don’t see,
the sky is auspiciously white
clouds at poster distance
and another bridge
a little more human
signs that say slow down
note the hard work
ports and ports municipalities
who it belongs to every
thing from everywhere
the roads turning turning
and you return each time
a little more proud
a little more confused
as to what it all does.

Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in Rattle, trampset, Variant Lit, The Chiron Review, Stone Circle Review, IceFloe Press, The Marrow Poetry, One Art Poetry, Spectra Poets, Plague Circus Press, among others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English. Find him on Twitter @HalfTheLobster.

The Editor2026-08-29T10:53:42-04:00August 29, 2026|

Gift

by Leah Muncy

The secret is that we all wish we had it worse

than anyone else. The doctor rides in on his horse

and says: I’m sorry, this pain is original. This frees you

from the thousands of angelfish swimming upstream

in your chest. Frees you from the vision of hands

in the desert, plucking the numbers

from your tiny clock. And your nights, once infested

with flies carrying messages to the altar,

God just standing there in his strange robe.

Leah Muncy’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, The Skybridge Review, The Passionfruit Review, b l u s h, West 10th, New York Magazine, Architectural Digest, and others. She lives in Brooklyn with her cat, Pony, and works as an art director. You can find her on Instagram @lelahmoney.

The Editor2026-08-23T12:05:51-04:00August 23, 2026|

Another Dream About My Mother

by Stephanie K. Merrill

You know too much to stay
too long even in my sleep.
Like Kassandra you’ve seen enough.
No one will hear you now.
The tornado black sky is coming down.
Kansas storms appointed like ancient vestals
keep raging their truths for the earth.
In the end we’re all being chased,
smelling like fire, trying to keep our souls full
while overhead the star of the Great Dog,
Sirius, bows to you.

Stephanie K. Merrill (she/her) is a retired high school English teacher. She has works published in a variety of literary magazines including One Art, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, UCity Review, and Trampoline Poetry. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. Her debut collection, Finding the Heart, is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. She lives in Austin, Texas.

The Editor2026-08-22T10:16:40-04:00August 22, 2026|