by Brendan Byrne

I only watched it once: that video of you in the
stick-trees, cradling a 20-gauge in your arms like
a child, like melting snow in the palms of spring,

firing it three times, with the crow’s crows, into
nothing, although it could have been anything,
the frame only holding your body and the gun’s

hot steel, glowing like a star, like a constellation
bit come to ground, broken off or freed. And
years ago, drowning in your brother’s clothes,

lying on the late-winter bed of leaves, having
followed me into the dark, both of us afraid
of the morning, sun spilling over the horizon

like wrath, like a hound, soft kiss to my temple,
I wondered if this were a sign, a flood, a grave
robbing, for when your hair grew long–as I hid

still, buried with a thousand undaunted beetles,
first snow coming for me–that buckshot might
fill me like rain, three thuds like the slowing

of a train, the sewing of a wound, lips pressed
into a wooden comb like the nape of a neck,
prayer bound in the squeal of a weather-vane.

Brendan Byrne is a student at Hamilton College in Central New York. His work has previously appeared with Green Ink Poetry Press, the Hyacinth Review, and The Shore Poetry. He will begin his MFA in Poetry at Florida State University this summer. 

by Olusoji Obebe

for Lagos Market Fire victims

there are fires in this world/ that have blotted the skies/ with histories of dark/ fires, that breathe away/ the innocence of buds/ & squeeze happiness dry.

there are fires/ that are songs only the dead sing/ fires, that clean memories/ & leave the soot hanging in the future.

there are fires/ that are old &/ need a touch of water/ fires, that burn without ignition/ but slip off from the hand of water.

there are fires/ locked up in your body/ fires, that put you out/ without ashes.

there are fires we do not see/ fires we nurse into a mare/ that we can no longer tame.

Olusoji Obebe is a Nigerian creative writer and poetry reader at Fiery Scribe Review. He is a 2x BOTN nominee and Winner of the Fidelis Okoro Prize for Poetry 2024. His works have been published in Brittle Paper, Pepper Coast Lit, Salamander Ink, Morrab Library, MUSE Journal No.51, The Shallow Tales Review, and elsewhere. He is on X @olusoji_obebe and Instagram @olusojiobebe.

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.