Stone Circle Review

The Night Owl

by Malene Lotz

have you gone across the skies
like the moon above the Santa Croce in Florence?

after the dark mosaic filaments in the cathedral
made you stiffen inside like a dried ghost

as you walked across the bridges
and your feet hurt

and all the other terrible things kept
happening
inside your head

have you said I know
I know I can do it

has the holy fresco enlivened itself inside of you
like the night shining above

have you been moved by that strange hour
while walking home

and feeling what you should have felt
when it happened

did the angel finally tell you to see
that you are brave

while you’re standing on the ledge
above a darkening port

and a tower bell rings inside of you
giving way to the light, dappled
moving across a piazza

Malene Lotz was born in Denmark and grew up partly in the US. She became a modern ballet dancer, living, dancing and teaching intuitive movement in New York. Her poems have appeared in The Inflectionist Review, Stone Circle Review and SLANT, with work forthcoming in River Heron Review. She is Danish and lives in Denmark north of the beautiful city of Copenhagen.

The Editor2026-11-15T09:59:07-05:00November 15, 2026|

Bat

by J.R. Solonche

I hang from the rafter of the barn,
a small leather pouch of hunger.
The day is a heavy woolen blanket
I pull over my head, but the dusk
arrives like a pushed open door.
I unhook my toes from the beam.
I launch myself into the gray blur,
a jagged piece of the evening itself.
I do not look for the moth with eyes.
I shoot arrows of high, thin sound
into the brush. The willow returns
a sharp note. The fence post gives
back a dull thud. The moth is a tiny,
moving target of white. You walk
through the yard below, blind to
the architecture of the night. You
think the air is empty between us,
but I am weaving a net of invisible
threads, catching the world before
it can hit the ground.

Nominated for the Eric Hoffer Book Award, twice for the National Book Award and four times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of more than 50 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

The Editor2026-11-14T11:26:59-05:00November 14, 2026|

Fist

by Edward Johnson

Back when days were just like Legos
portals opened in the swaddling clouds
sudden wormholes of cornflower blue
in the blanket spray of gray.
These days it’s rare to see a wound
of sky big enough to punch a fist
through the cirrus sutures.
A plunge into this slant-lit lake
where we wait in our still-life skiff
the bow and stern in equipoise
between days lived and yet to live
the light disappearing into the waters
where the bigger fish are said to swim.

Edward Johnson lives in a log cabin in the North Cascades where he writes poems, watches birds and plays bad ukulele. For 30 years, he was a legal aid lawyer in Oregon where he represented people forced to live outside because of our lack of affordable housing. He has work out or forthcoming in Eclectica Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy, Indefinite Space, Main Street Rag, The Dissident Voice, Evergreen Review, Whisk(e)y Tit Journal, Abraxas Review, Second Coming Poem-of-the-Day series, Home Planet News, Amethyst Review, The Tiny Journal and other cool outlets.

The Editor2026-11-08T11:36:41-05:00November 8, 2026|

oh god of this

by E.B. Schnepp

specific wine glass, the smallest
shrine, oh god who ferments
to wine even when offered
only water. oh god of the coin
toss, the magic 8 ball, who always ends
inconclusive, on its side or ask
tomorrow, respectively. oh god
who does not say make yourself smaller,
but make this smaller. for you
I willingly fetal myself to hear you better.
the quiet under this comforter is nice
this time of year, the midwest exhausting itself
as it screams its way through winter. I say
I could live here forever and you say no
you can’t, you’ll have to get up to pee
eventually, go about your human life
and I flip you off and you laugh, echoing
from every kitchen cupboard. a raucous clatter
of dishes and faux wood doors.

E.B. Schnepp is a poet currently residing in Illinois. Their work has been featured in Poetry Daily and can be found in Gulf Coast, Mid-American Review, and American Literary Review among others. Their chapbook, Blueberries Stain Like Blood, is available from Bottlecap Press.

The Editor2026-11-07T10:46:21-05:00November 7, 2026|

Light

by Precious Iyoriobhe

After Amanda Gorman

Till the sun stops rising we will talk
About the kind hearts of the women
That raised us, the certainty of what
We thought was going to be their eternal lives,
Before we knew what the rain wanted from us,
When the roads diverged into the mountains
And borders were not borders, we will talk,
About running, and how this country has kept
Us at bay, Nigeria to Benin, to Cape Coast,
Everywhere we’ve been is a part of our home,
Its incense thick as nostalgia there’s so much
Gathering and so much loss, boys born in
Strange alphabet so we called them strangers,
The history of what they are thrown and forgotten
This country is our disease too,
Something alive in us long after we die,
What we tell ourselves, what we tell
Others—all together is silence.

Precious Iyoriobhe has taught literature for 15 years, deriving joy and fulfilment from helping little kids achieve their literary dreams. She writes stories, poems, and essays, while also being an ardent oral storyteller. A resident of Côte d’Ivoire, Precious is originally from Nigeria.

The Editor2026-11-01T11:23:35-05:00November 1, 2026|