by Sirrudeen Nahar

It was no fickle thing to swear myself to you. I was unmoving, I rejected a hundred hands just to keep my own laced to the bow, notching arrow after arrow in your name. The Amazons never cut their breasts: they wore binders that circled their hearts tighter than any wedding ring. I know their devotion well, and now I know how easily it spoils. What was I to do? You asked for me, and I let myself have you. How was I to know that someone else wore your skin? Was I supposed to deny you, ignore the moon that guides me to my prey at night? Teach me how to hunt blind. If anyone could show me, it would be you. Part the clouds and give yourself to me as I thought you did. If Zeus believed he could copy your body, your grace, the cold sting of your lips, then prove him wrong. Artemis, I have given my pride and my life for you, and I am owed. If I ask for too much, then spurn me. Send me away to a black expanse full of the nothing my worship has earned. Make me a bright, burning shade therein. Give me a Hell where those who died for love pass each other by as if they’ve never met.

Sirrudeen Nahar (they/any) experiments with different mediums to enflesh the ideas that compel them. You can follow their work on IG and Twitter @sirrudeen and Bluesky @sirrudeen.bsky.social.

by Elisa Luna Ady

Elisa Luna Ady is a writer from Southern California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Adroit Journal, Passages North, Witness Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in Chicago, where she recently completed her MFA+MA through Northwestern University’s Litowitz Program and where she was awarded the 2025 English Department Prize for best MFA thesis. Find her on Instagram @lastsiteing and elunady.net

by Noah Powers

My lover is now a termite munching tiny tunnels
through the woodwork of my insides. She’s
paving walkable streets for termite travel
with a word on the phone from six thousand miles away,
she’s establishing communes made-up entirely
of her clones. They tend to my heart. They water it
daily. They build tiny termite projectors and fire light
onto the inside of my eyes in the shape of her face,
all the versions I’ve seen so far and teasers of all those
expressions yet to come. In termite school, they learn
how to gnaw only at the places that bear no load.
When they have to work at a sensitive part of my brain,
they are gentle. Their mandibles peck like quick kisses.
All of the time, she is doing beautiful, incredible termite things.
And yet, every day without fail, I’m on the hunt for a solution.
I visit wizards in their high towers, witches in their covens,
scientists of entomology and anthropology. My Duolingo is full
of languages old and dead and only found on clay tablets.
I’m looking for a way to make her a woman again, to feel
her body pressed against mine like words printed to page.
Meanwhile, she’s composing termite symphonies of our favorite songs
so I can hear them all the time, learning how to tweak the frequencies
to scale. All these efforts crafted from nothing but our love.
However small or selfish. However full of hope.

Noah Powers (they/he) is a bipedal mammal first discovered near the Ohio River in what we now know as Kentucky. Their poems can be found in HAD, Ghost City Review, Rejection Letters, Bullshit Lit, and more. An MFA candidate at the University of Alabama, they currently serve as a poetry editor for JAKE and as the managing editor for Black Warrior Review.

by Crystal Taylor

clocks the velocity of the peregrine’s spiral.
counts eagles rolling cartwheels in talon-locked pairs,
an air-slice dare to gravity.

derives secant lines, the angle of the furrow
under a raptor’s beak, scribbles physics
on the tilt of her glide, the precision of sly hunt.

sketches functions and patterns of passerines’
bob and dip, bouncing sine and cosine waves,
the pitch of their warbler-warn.

thumbtacks the moon to a paper sky,
draws a tangent line where the sun sinks
and a constellation rises.

approximates the chill of wind without the sting
of a backhand to the cheek on a jetty,
eyes gritty on a salt-hover dock.

communicates order, theorizes chaos,
but cannot hang symbols of geometry, physics—
on the senses of a witness.

Crystal Taylor is a writer and poet from Texas. Her poetry lives in Rust & Moth, Maudlin House, One Art, and other sacred spaces. When she isn’t writing, she is likely at work. Crystal is active on Bluesky @CrystalTaylorSA, and Instagram @cj_taylor_writes.

by Matt Uhler

Let us love this distance, since those who do not love each other are not separated.
     – Simone Weil

Because the little boy in the too big coat was looking up,
I looked up too. The late day sun lit the white underwings of
a passing gull and higher up, a plane
glistened silver in a sky that looked too light
and thinly blue to hold so many destinations
in one square inch of view. Even when we’re standing still,
eyes pointed skyward and squinting,
we’re all in that plane moving slowly from here to there
and from there to some semblance of home.
That’s when I remembered that without love
or this truant’s memory and saddled heart
whose gallop has slowed to a trot,
there is no such thing as separation. I had forgotten
how fond I’ve grown of these distances,
this late-day longing, and what it means
to point my soul towards thin, ambiguous clouds.

Matt Uhler is a writer, former book editor, and current nonprofit executive living and practicing kindness in San Francisco, California. Previous work has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic. He occasionally posts and shares things on Bluesky: @matt-uhler.bsky.social.