by Dale Cottingham

Searing, seared: where he shrivels from her
after trying one last time. One way the self, having
grown used to a surround, sees it—

suddenly, starkly, stunned by it—

for what it is.

Outside, cars, trucks on the Interstate
downshift, over-shift, make efforts to slow down,
speed up, heading to a future,
what can be bright, or painful,
yet to be written.

There’s a passing that we sometimes stumble
into, sometimes we think we know what to do. There are
shadows that come overhead, burden us for a time, then leave.
He lies flat on his back, silent but thoughts race,
more than electric, more than lucid, more like
hitting bottom, like he’s reached a crossroad:
how will he live now.

Dale Cottingham has published poems and reviews of poetry collections in many journals, including Prairie Schooner, Ashville Poetry Review and Rain Taxi. He is a Pushcart Nominee, a Best of Net Nominee, the winner of the 2019 New Millennium Award for Poem of the Year and was a finalist in the 2022 Great Midwest Poetry Contest. His debut volume of poems Midwest Hymns, launched in April, 2023. It is a finalist in the 2023 Best Book Awards for Poetry. He lives in Edmond, Oklahoma.

by Shome Dasgupta

Green and yellow—a sparked field
where we taped four leaf clovers
together, forgetting the meaning
of living at home and pondering
magical ways to steal ice cream
from the pink and purple and blue
truck coming around the turn—
we run with our hands together.
We run with pebbles in our palms,
asking for the cheapest cardboard
cups of vanilla with chocolate syrup.

We were royalty under the sun
—under the sun we were hidden
from shadowed jaws and crumbled
teeth. A melody to bounce in our
heads when the bed covers tore,
full of holes leading to our fears.
How one Sunday, with our faces
covered in swirls of amnesia,
I looked at you when no one else
was looking, knowing that once
upon a time in the future—past
rooster’s crow and beyond wired
knotted fences, cut from our own
skin, we’ll marry the moon’s tongue.

Side by side, that tune hummed
from our breaths—through windows,
a fox darted to the pond to amuse
minnows, where we once fished
for stars after a reckoning, years
ago. Fingers clasped and puzzled:
in the bronzed straw plain, hearing
our childhood tremors sinking,
diminished—to taste sprinkles,
a past echo resting in our mouths.

Shome Dasgupta is the author of The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India), and most recently, the novels The Muu-Antiques (Malarkey Books) and Tentacles Numbing (Thirty West), a prose collection, Histories Of Memories (Belle Point Press), a short story collection, Atchafalaya Darling, and a poetry collection, Iron Oxide (Assure Press). His writing has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, New Orleans Review, Jabberwock Review, American Book Review, Arkansas Review, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. He lives in Lafayette, LA and can be found at shomedome.com and @laughingyeti.

by Stephanie Frazee

my friend says never bother
slicing a mango

eat it like a bee,
ass-deep in petals

furry with pollen
baskets bursting

she sways her hips,
fleshy, ragged pit

in a sticky hand
chin glistening with juice

glissade, renegade,
drop it like it’s hot

she dances,
resinous and sweet.

I moved away, it’s been
years since

I have seen her—
when I scrape

a blade through flesh
embracing pit,

I remember my friend
and regrets cling to me

a knife
could never

Stephanie Frazee’s writing has appeared in or is forthcoming from Evergreen Review, Door Is A Jar, Roi Faineant Press, Bayou Magazine, ONE ART, Juked, SmokeLong Quarterly, and elsewhere. She is an assistant editor at American Short Fiction, an associate editor at Juked, and she is on Twitter, Instagram, and Bluesky as @stephieosaurus. Her website is stephaniefrazee.com.