by Ray Ball

ˈdan-də-ˌlī-ən (noun) 1: a small, bright yellow flower that flourishes whether the environment is harsh or bountiful with seeds more tenacious than hope. Make a wish and blow them away, lighter than feathers dispersed by the slightest of breezes. 2: a noxious weed poisoned by suburban dwellers determined to control nature, conquer the outdoors. Mr. Capulet and Mr. Montague are out at dawn every summer Saturday with grudges, weedkiller, and lawnmowers. Mrs. Montague and Mrs. Capulet compete in the annual garden show, pack nutritious lunches their children don’t eat. 3: a flowering plant of the Asteraceae family. Sister of Daisy. Sibling of Sunflower. Daughter of the late Cretaceous period. Stamens and antlers joined. Copious producer of nectar. 4: Monks-head; Milk-witch; Faceclock. Friend and nurse-maid to the apothecary. If only Juliet would have taken such a tonic instead of that dulling draft.

ˈdan-də-ˌlī-ən (adj.) 1: a dramatic shade of yellow as in the color of teenage crushes written on cheeks. Leo as Romeo, yes. Claire as Juliet, even more yes. I was too afraid to tell my friend that she looked like Claire. Not as we wept. Not as we studied Shakespeare’s comedies, like As You Like It. Histrionic hue as in everything feeling so keen and sharp and jagged like the leaves the plant is named for: lion’s tooth. My heart had been wounded by the claws of a lion.

Ray Ball currently lives on the land of the Dena’ina, where she works as a history professor at the University of Alaska Anchorage. She is the author of the poetry collection Trinities (Louisiana Literature Press, 2023). Ray’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Free State Review, Glass, Orange Blossom Review, and Waccamaw. Ray has received multiple nominations for Pushcart and been a Best of the Net finalist. She is senior editor at Coffin Bell and assistant editor Juke Joint. You can find her on Instagram @runninghistory.

A poem in which I substitute teach at all the schools around me

by Kelli Lage

Students ask me about students in buildings
outside of their barn red bricked walls.
I say,
When we read, fireflies swarm fluorescents.
They know the glow and picture it in nameless irises.

When we write, we create strands of rivers and ink ordains hallways.
They’d never considered if water claims each palm with the same allure.

When we speak,
butterflies flood the room, squeezing through cracks,
decorating words, catching words.
Their eardrums rattle,
trying to hear rasps and ropes of voices they’ve never met.

When we listen, we catch sun songs knocking on sentient windows.
They wonder if our sun is up high enough to see all who live.

Kelli Lage is a poetry reader for Bracken Magazine and Best of the Net nominated poet. Her debut full-length poetry collection, Early Cuts, is forthcoming summer 2023 with Kelsay Books. Her poetry chapbook, I’m Glad We Did This, is forthcoming winter 2023 with Prolific Pulse Press. Lage’s work has appeared in Stanchion Zine, Maudlin House, The Lumiere Review, Welter Journal, and elsewhere. Her website is www.KelliLage.com. Kelli is on Twitter / Instagram @KelliLage  and Facebook @byKelliLage

by Mathew Yates

haven’t you seen the end times advancing?
there’s a storm on Venus, this can’t be good.

we are both so broken & so is the Moon,
to take the tide out without us in it.

have you seen your feed today? it’s so sad.
yeah, funny shit. oh, i’m almost done with this

season. just ignore what he says for now.
worry about shrinks & pills after you’re

insured. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. you
say you saw an article on how

depression is a thing with claws, you say
claws aren’t meant for the numb. haven’t you seen

the Sun unpossessing dusks & dawns?
haven’t you seen her floating off without us?

Mathew Yates (they/them) is a poet & artist from Paducah, Kentucky with roots in Mississippi & Appalachia. Their poetry & art can be found in Protean Mag, Screen Door Review, Malarkey Books, Barren Mag, & more. Matthew is on Twitter @m_yates and Etsy (www.etsy.com/shop/mathewyatesart).

by Susan Grimm

Cut the string of attention or chew it until everything
sharp is flat. Everywhere the feathers scratching

under your clothes so that only endings seem good.
Like that time at the beach when the flies were biting

only you. Who would gauze over that—the water
fletched like dragon skin or is that your own granulated

hide. Twitching your hand down the long sleeve
believing you have to be barbed. How else to deflect

uneasy tingling, minute incessant nerve cry. It’s not
Charon at the end, but your whole life a ferry boat ride.

Skiff, Styx. The wind driving down. The shale-sheet sky.

Susan Grimm has been published in Sugar House Review, The Cincinnati Review, Phoebe, and Field. Her chapbook Almost Home was published in 1997. In 2004, BkMk Press published Lake Erie Blue, a full-length collection. In 2010, she won the inaugural Copper Nickel Poetry Prize. In 2011, she won the Hayden Carruth Poetry Prize and her chapbook Roughed Up by the Sun’s Mothering Tongue was published. In 2022, she received her third Ohio Arts Council Individual Artist Grant. Susan is on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/susan.grimm.5/),  Twitter (@sjgrimm), and Instagaram (grimm217).

by Abigail Raley

All you need to know is that there
are birds, somewhere, birds on the line
calving the sky in two, their talons
clutching their suspension, their highwire
kissing the moon’s lap, and at the top
of the utility pole holding them taut,
keeping aloft their still bodies, there is
a nest, a nest made of my
hair, stems from my favorite rose bush,
slivers of tinsel I ripped from my cat’s
jaws, just in the moment she could’ve
swallowed them whole, fronds of
milkweed that invaded my garden,
dried blades of grass I picked from
the lawn and discarded when, putting
them between my wet lips, they refused
to sing, but what’s most important—
and this is my favorite part—
is that, at the nest’s center, there are
eggs, blue as a spot
of turquoise dropped down into
the river, and in them, finally
there is the inside, the inside
I would candle with the butane lighter
I took from your coffee table that
first bright morning I woke next to your
small body, wrapped around me
like a quilt, your deep breath
hot on the fur of my lobe,
my flesh naked and without envy,
your fingers heavy and steady
and long on their course to my center
and when you trapped yourself
inside the husk of me,
I felt hot and sweet, as simple
as nectar, as quiet as a chick
in its shell, and as you dressed
and made yourself again a person
of the world, I felt my own creature
deep and hard and new, so when
I pulled you into me and kissed
into your abyss, you cupped the
yolk of my throat in your hand
and squeezed it gently
and never let it break.

Abigail Raley is a queer poet from Kentucky. She is currently an MFA poetry candidate at the University of Montana.