by Nancy Huggett

While I was distracted by delible woes,
wallowing next door to my life,
it caught fire. Five-alarm flames billowed
the sky with soot as if to answer the question—
could it get worse? Neighbours offered
their own phoenixes, brightly plumed birds
whose beady eyes darted as they preened
their feathers of the falling ash that marred
their iridescence. How do they rise
above it all? I nest like a leveret in the hollow
under the barberry bush, my crown of thorns
spattered with red. Berries for the birds—
cathartic, but lacking any real sustenance
for this obstinate winter.

Nancy Huggett is a settler descendant who writes and caregives on the unceded Territory of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation (Ottawa, Canada). Published in Event, Poetry Northwest, SWIMM, and Whale Road Review, she’s won some awards (RBC PEN Canada 2024 New Voices Award) and a gazillion rejections. She keeps writing. Nancy is on Instagram: @nanhug,  Bluesky: @nancyhuggett.bsky.social, and Facebook: @nancy.huggett.35.

by Tina Kelley

Ima put the bitch in obituary,
have a night funeral – why
aren’t these more common?
Super sad, candles, I made
the mix tape, to play hours before
dawn, then you all watch sunrise

together, like I never did because
I hate getting up early. Fill the bird
feeders and dog’s bowl before you
come. Wouldn’t it be rich if it fell
on winter solstice, with eclipse,
darkest night in 500 years!

As you file in take a packet
of forget-me-not seeds, feel
bad if you forget to plant them.
While I’m at it, bury me how I
sleep, tummy down, cozy, or
I’ll be restless, haunt you all. No,

keep me from dark graveyards,
stone surfaces flashing, reflecting
passing headlights, alive but not.
Let me be God’s ash passenger
on the Harley roaring over the GWB,
raising my ghost arms in trust

and freedom. That windy dawn,
spread my dust and fillings all
along the span. That’s joy. Save
a quarter cup to sift over my BFF
so we can dish about who’s in hell,
save four cups for the cinder blocks

of the home my husband builds next,
as some busty widow will snatch him
fast. For my son, enough for a diamond.
Plus a bunch for my daughter’s garden,
flowers that make her home look wifely,
herbs that make her hands smell of them,

basil, lemon thyme, mint, sage, oregano,
valorous beans that grow too fast to eat,
and taste sweet like the air here after rain,
and lastly, for her raspberries that hang,
free gifts, more than hands can hold.

Tina Kelley’s fifth poetry collection, Field Guide to North American Words, is expected this fall from Jacar Press, joining Rise Wildly, Abloom & Awry, Precise, and The Gospel of Galore, winner of a Washington State Book Award. A former New York Times reporter, she is the co-author of two non-fiction books, and she and her husband have two children and live in Maplewood, NJ. She’s on Facebook, BlueSky, x.com, and Instagram. 

by Candice M. Kelsey

By the sink again
I imagine my surprise
at her camel
unsaddled out front.

The flutter of tunic
familiar door-slip cloak
and stolen idols
flooding the foyer
like lusty water
from this Mikasa mikvah
of shameless suds.

I would know
the spikenard scent
of my wet earth
patchouli princess.

Heat would steam
my glasses blind
to her foot-step figure
approaching
until hip and clutch
would unveil
my hands peeling
rubber yellow
like an opaque veil.

We have been standing
much longer
than seven years
at counters like these
elbows rough
sponging the insides
of cup after cup
purpled from repetition.

Have you also watched
sudden rains scream
staccato loneliness
out your kitchen window
heard the giggles of
children fumbling
in the garden
felt earth’s plates
crack for your attention?

How many lifetimes
are washed
down the sink
with lemon mint
lavender and saddled
to ancient owing?

Like Jacob I dream
of turning off
the faucet finally
to unglove
this desert heart
and turn toward Rachel.

Candice M. Kelsey (she/her) is a bi-coastal writer and educator. Her work has received Pushcart and Best-of-the-Net nominations, and she is the author of nine books. Her work appears in Bust, The Rumpus, Painted Bride Quarterly, Poet Lore, SWWIM, and other journals. A reader for The Los Angeles Review and The Weight Journal, she recently served as an AWP Poetry Mentor.

by David Elliot Eisenstat

Mouthing tiny stones,
they spoke into existence
a new home.

Sap-sucking insects distilled
honeydew for the housewarming;
the wind gifted a seedling.

Gazing in,
uninvited,
I step over.

David Elliot Eisenstat has contributed poems to THINK, The Pierian, and Rust & Moth among others. The Managing Poetry Editor for Variant Lit, he lives in Brooklyn. Find more of his work at davideisenstat.com/poetry.

by Trevor Conway

Develop breath, little one.
Damage this world with curling claws,
and as you incubate, understand
that warmth is not a permanent fixture.

Everywhere, there are new enigmas,
effort and ingenuity tested
by rain or cold, fickle physics,
the stubborn refusal of prey to submit.

But you, too, have been invited
to this banquet of sorts.
Make no apology for brash manners
and how you wield what you’ve been given.

Puzzled, entranced
and hungry to the point of obsession,
it won’t take long for you to interpret
all the curious habits of others.

They will hope to decipher you,
your black shape against the sky
something to watch, devoted and scared,
and many, you’ll note, will run for cover.

Don’t take it for anything more
than instinct not unlike your own
from that moment when eggshell cracks
and light flows in.

Trevor Conway (trevorconway.weebly.com), from Sligo, Ireland, writes poetry, fiction and songs. He has published three collections of poetry: Evidence of Freewheeling, Breeding Monsters, and No Small Thing. Also available from Amazon is his guide to writing poetry, aimed at child/young adult poets, Nurturing the Nreative Child: A Guide to Writing Poetry. He is currently revising a poetry collection titled A Banquet of Sorts, centred on the themes of science and nature. Interested?