Stone Circle Review

The Fruit Cellar Is Empty

by Selby Liebert

After Crisis Birds, Stella Snead (1950)

We are here, in a world becoming
desert, winter and summer,
and the green rise of spring already so distant, here
because our wings are clipped, a chorus singing
as the sea of wheat is stripped
to chaff, the branches of the forest bare,
so each note echoes.

Empty homes, not more than dried spit
and horsehair, brittle walled little hearts –
we are not forgotten,
only wrapped deeper, the seeds of an apple:
a little sweet, a little poison,
and still we are hungry,
in this slumbering tree
waking into hope, shedding the fruit of old sunsets.

Nature will preserve these fragile bones,
and the sky will bring a new day,
a reminder:
we do not come into this world
so full of limbs
to be alone.

Selby Liebert is a Great Plains transplant growing in the Pacific Northwest. When not writing she enjoys photography, cooking good food, and making music. Her work has appeared in Identity Theory, Gone Lawn, and elsewhere. Find her online at @sqliebert.bsky.social.

The Editor2026-08-09T10:32:54-04:00August 9, 2026|

It could be worse. Consider this:

by Jane-Rebecca Cannarella

Asteroid, christened as starlight,

flames braid and hitch across the sky.

A dinosaur, cow-eyed, looks.
He has a nice family, all in one place,

he checks the falling steam

and hears bursting climate chaos.
The ocean drains; somewhere far,
Mars spills its jammy streams
toward nothingness.

The dinosaur, named, and with

family present, watches
as rushing light, with its whistling
melodies, maps a path toward its target.

Fireshine in many eyes,
necks crane—together,
they share the moment.

Jane-Rebecca Cannarella is a writer and editor living in West Philadelphia. She edits HOOT Review, Meow Meow Pow Pow Lit, and was an editor for Lunch Ticket from 2015 to 2017. Jane-Rebecca is the author of the flash fiction collections Better Bones (Thirty West Publishing House) and Thirst and Frost (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), as well as the poetry collections Eleven Hundred (Really Serious Lit), Long Island Sad Poems (Serotonin Press), and others. She works as a paralegal for an immigration law firm, and likes cats and salt.

The Editor2026-08-08T10:28:22-04:00August 8, 2026|

Bite of Mordant

by Ann Chinnis

After Louise Glück’s “Wild Iris”

Although it was my mother’s
favorite flower, bursting

purple, I never was an iris.
My yard explodes with them,

short blooming period
from May to June.

I discharged
a young mother from the ER.

She returned the next day
and died. Brittled by failure,

I moved to an island. After a year,
like Glück’s wild iris, I made

a passage home from another world:
oblivion.

Unlike her iris, no great fountain,
no deep blue shadows. Lonely

rhizome. Papered skin. Hungry
for the water’s boil, the wringing, my

purple begged the pot for mordant’s
bite, repose of fiber.

Ann Chinnis is the recipient of a Pushcart Prize, 2025 and the author of three poetry books: Poppet, My Poppet, I Can Catch Anything, and Love Song: Port & Starboard. Her work has been published in Sky Island Journal, River Heron Review, Gyroscope, Crab Creek Review, among others. She is a retired Emergency Physician and a leadership coach and lives with her wife in Virginia Beach, Virginia. You can find her on Instagram @achinnis. Her website is annchinnispoet.com.

The Editor2026-08-05T15:31:30-04:00August 2, 2026|

The Reckoning of Trees

by Dolo Diaz

Growing up, cylindrical corpses stacked in fathers’ truck, a massive machine with M.A.N. decal’d in front, and father, all five feet—perched in the driver’s seat headed for the sawmill. The ones around us, apple, lemon, peach, trees kept for fruit, dogs for hunting, cats for mice. Forests kept at bay by grassy fields, like shorelines holding back the ocean. Forests the mighty home of wolves that could swallow whole small girls in red capes and helpless grandmothers. Trees of the forest never became pets. And now I live under towering redwoods in my backyard. Colossal Monterey pines that sway and hiss with the faintest wind, thirsty for currents. Drinkers of fog, spitting it back like bullets. In the dead of night, like the moon shadow of God, waiting. Perfectly still. We are theirs.

Dolo Diaz is a scientist/poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Centaur, The Indianapolis Review, 2River View, among others. Her website is dolodiaz.com.

The Editor2026-08-01T08:24:51-04:00August 1, 2026|

Unable, until the end

by Jonathan Grimwood

The old gods come by,
sullen or joyful according
to instinct. A few,
near silent shadows
now.

Goldenrod, dog rose,
pearlwort, seapink

Horns worn lightly;
thorns, less
so.

Some fashions don’t change,
it seems.

The skull of a fox
for an orb, an antler,
as sceptre.

They are sad not to find you; not
even your echo off
a broken wall.

They thought you undying
like them; you, who knew
them so well.

They’d decided you must be
the same, with your coming
and going.

A little ragged, a little
smart, a little held
between
worlds.

Unable, until the end,
to decide in which if any,
you belong

Jonathan Grimwood is a Maltese born novelist and poet, who grew up in the Far East and Scandinavia. He lives in Edinburgh, with his partner Sam Baker, and an opiate addicted street cat. He has written for a number of national newspapers. He is on Insta as joncourtenaygrimwood and Bluesky as @joncg.bsky.social.

The Editor2026-07-26T10:29:38-04:00July 26, 2026|