Stone Circle Review

newlyweds visit a capsized ship

by Kate Choi

Real piece of work, he says, surveying the forty-five degree deck. Bad rigging, adds his wife knowingly from the other side of the wreck. Uh-huh, he says, squinting at the transom. He reaches out and begins scraping at it with his fingernails. He thinks, This is the rustiest shipwreck I’ve ever seen, and it’s one of the recent ones. He thinks, Jesus. They’re getting worse by the year. He manages to pick off a barnacle and rolls it between his fingers. Crusty and rough, it digs into the pad of his thumb. Irritated, he shakes it off into the water. No wonder, he remarks. This sucks. His wife, in the meantime, is still staring at the ship. That has got to be about five hundred windows, she says. Mhm, the husband agrees absently, picking at another barnacle. This one might be better, he thinks. The second one is always better. He peels it off the paint. It’s fresher, wiggles a little in his grip. Its shell is cracked, and he pries at the gap with one salted finger. The second one’s always better, he thinks. The third’s a gamble, though. He considers for a moment, then shakes his head. Yes, sometimes it was better to quit when you were ahead. Yep, his wife says. That’s five hundred windows alright. The husband finishes washing his hands off in the seawater. He doesn’t look up at the ship. Come on, he says to his wife. Let’s go home. His wife is still staring upward. What a waste of windows, she says. Don’t you think this is a waste of windows? Don’t be ridiculous, the husband says irritably. He grabs her shoulder and maneuvers them back to their yacht.

Kate Choi is a creative writer from Seoul, South Korea. An alumna of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, Kenyon Young Writers Workshop, and Adroit Summer Mentorship, her work is published or forthcoming in Rust & Moth, ONEART, The SHORE Poetry, and manywor(l)ds. Her work has been recognized by Polyphony Lit, Marginalia Poetry Contest, the NCTE Achievement Awards in Writing, Aster Lit, and more. She works as a poetry reader for Ploughshares, wildscape., and Twin Bird Review. You can find her online at katechoi.carrd.co.

The Editor2026-09-12T10:30:19-04:00September 12, 2026|

Adrift in the Age of Dictators

by Jude Marr

ships are trees, bodies are water
heart songs are fire: we are, because liquid
this world our container

I take breath from the bottom of the sky
watch bodies fall, a billion
cadences, rhythms of lost years

particles of plastic sift through air, sweet
as civet, or salt-tinged
resting or in motion, catching light

they drift, an ocean of crescent-shaped specks
where seabirds flail: remote, entangled
moons in the stomachs of birds.

Jude Marr (he, him) is a Pushcart-nominated trans poet and editor. His poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies, most recently in Acropolis and Whale Road Review. Jude’s first chapbook, Breakfast for the Birds (Finishing Line Press, 2017) was followed by a full-length collection, We Know Each Other By Our Wounds (Animal Heart Press, 2020.) His next chapbook, Silence Will Not Save Us is forthcoming from The Broken Spine in November 2027. A native of Scotland, Jude has lived in three of the UK’s four countries and also spent ten years in the southern United States. He now lives in Coimbra, Portugal.

The Editor2026-09-07T14:48:26-04:00September 6, 2026|

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|