by Christina Daub

Scooping the earth this morning,
dirt turning and overturned
loose root loam, tunnels
of worms, centipedes
now exposed to sun, to air—
an invasion of sorts,
a disturbance, I regret and yet,
also a sign to exit the dark,
to unroot this burrowed
grief I wriggle away from,
my unseen father near me
in the grass, watching,
waiting, the cardinal
dressed in all his feathers,
his otherworldly reds.

Christina Daub has recent or forthcoming work in Another Chicago Magazine, Kenyon Review, poetryxhunger.com, Potomac Review among other literary journals. She is a Pushcart nominated poet who also translates Spanish & German poetry into English. You can find her at christinadaub.com or @flix2fly on Twitter.

by Amanda Russell

For most of my life, I barely recognized her.
The body stretched and split and stitched like
some corporeal applique sewn around my role-play.

I grew up squirming inside her, was taught
my Self was some hidden else. Spent years
ditching Sunday sermons for the woods, the creek,
the time to unsheathe my claws and climb into my doubt.

In another lifetime, I choked down the last bite
of bread with gulps of goat’s milk— sat in a monastery cafeteria
consuming each word peeled from page and placed
upon sound waves. Found the wisdom of so many saints

less convincing than the letter he penned me— Never mind what I said
about us— without grounds or vows, I booked the flight home.
Spent over a decade stirring the limiting reagent of faith.
I was washing my hands the last time I prayed.

Somehow, it happened. She had become a part of Me—
a home I filled to the fingerprints.

I was washing my fingers. Each digit. Free
to pull back my auburn drapes and see
chipmunks over-fill their cheeks with birdseed
or the sill that needs a good dusting.

Neighbors often witness me rolling up sleeves, sweeping out
unlived lives and relics of fetus dreams stuck in utero. Closet
congregations of old selves sing requiem as I room-to-room….

In this room, Mom is my dominant feature, the exaggerated hand
grasping the multifaceted jewel of my heart,

but in the west room, Someone wakes.
I know that was her
flash of light catching in my mirrored hall.

Amanda Russell is an editor at The Comstock Review and a stay-at-home mom. Her poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Walt’s Corner, EcoTheo Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and the anthology mightier: poets for social justice. To learn more about her or her chapbook, Barren Years, please visit poetrussell.wordpress.com. You can find her on Instagram @poet_russell.

by Matt Jakubowski

I think part of it was that some
of the things I saw as basics
you saw as luxury and if I ever
really wanted you know to cuddle
or buy a nicer lamp something
else in the house would have to wait.

So what ended up happening was
the curtains were left to the moths
and the part of my neck I most liked to be kissed
was waiting and wanting until such time as you and I
had scrimped up enough to afford something
to keep the dawn light out of the bedroom.

But I found out that even after
we’d saved up and waited to pay the
cost to finally afford this new thing
I still ended up waiting at dawn and in
the afternoon and just before midnight

for some moment when you might
finally lean over and kiss me along the lines
that lead to my heart, which was yours
one of your basics, left to spoil as if it were
some kind of luxury beyond your means.

Matthew Jakubowski’s erasures appear in 3:AM Magazine, his fiction is forthcoming from Milk Candy Review, and his latest piece of criticism appears in Hopscotch Translation. He is online at mattjakubowski.com and @matt_jakubowski.

by David Hanlon

You’re eight hours of sleep & careful folding;
I’m a mouthful of ulcers & grasping at hours
lost to obligation,
lost to obsession.

You’re made of granite & marble,
made for building;
you make

sheet music of my skin,
exhume a melody in me.

I’m chalk & sandstone,
used in paint;

I’m weak
because life runs through me.

I’ll move, I’ll go
wherever it takes me—

I’ll still
hold your hand,

sing my song,
brushstroke

our existence.

David Hanlon is a poet from Cardiff, Wales. He is a Best of the Net nominee. You can find his work online in over 60 magazines, including Rust & Moth, ONE ART & Homology Lit. His first chapbook Spectrum of Flight is available for purchase now at Animal Heart Press. You can follow him on twitter @davidhanlon13 and Instagram @welshpoetd.

by Lynne Lampe

Empty chairs line cracked concrete,
watch the sea for miracles. Salt

settles on canvas. Waves take sand
hostage but only captors return to this

beach so wide whales have room
to die. On a long ago vacation a child

sits in a chair far from the rest,
pouting. Stubborn as iridium,

she refuses blue water, squeezes
her arms tight against her chest.

She sees herself as crucible, not
contents. Kicks air out of her way.

Lynne Jensen Lampe’s debut collection, Talk Smack to a Hurricane (Ice Floe Press, 2022), a 2023 Eric Hoffer Book Award winner (honorable mention–poetry), concerns mother-daughter relationships, mental illness, and antisemitism. Her poems appear in many journals, including THRUSH, Figure 1, and Yemassee. A 2020 Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize finalist, she edits academic writing and lives in mid-Missouri with her husband and two dogs. Visit her at lynnejensenlampe.com; Twitter @LJensenLampe; or Instagram @lynnejensenlampe.