by Abbie Doll

tell me when || did we become || this utterly worn & weary couch || stamped with still-s(t)inging snippets of our foundation— || our battlefield past || conversations, forever f a d i n g || illegible in memory || yet ink somehow still seeping || out the pores of this dilapidated fabric we continue to share || all the spills we thought would drip-dry || all those bombastic arguments || we assumed wouldn’t stain the satin || tell me why || everything sultry seems destined to sour || why everything new || seems doomed to ruin || is there no preservation of the pristine? || can’t remember the last time || things felt comfortable || the last time || we furnished each other || hell, hope the coffin’s cozier than this || ‘cause lately || can’t help but feel like || i’ve become the woman in the wall || -paper || —cigarette-stained & brown-mustard yellow || with dancing hieroglyphs winking back || boasting on & on || with their fairy-tale pleas || lookee here, lookee here! || we’re free, we’re free! || but no not me. || i’m just an echo of || unseen & unheard || (unseen & unheard) || ((unseen & unheard)) || i say repeatedly || though i know || you’re still || not listening || ‘cause your attention span is dead-skin thin || & there’s never (been) || enough || can’t you see how famished i am? || look at me— || over here becoming || the textbook image of emaciated || can’t you see the cramps in my toes? || the chipped nails & scars? || no? || well, how ‘bout my bloomin’ bunion || you’ve got to see that. || we’ve grown so d(r)eadfully distant, you & me… || baby can’t you see || all this misery afoot? || can’t help but wonder || if this long-john leg o’ mine || pardon the holes, dear || will ever be tied || to a body again || ever be wrapped || ‘round yours again || as i tiptoe tread || down these ever-bl(e)ackening steps || thinkin’ how we slipped || from trying to impress to coal-miner soiled || can’t help but count || each patch of dirt || all the while being mesmerized by || the jagged angles || of my black-cat || shadow— || this funky feline slinkin’ about || sometimes tethered, sometimes not || pussyfootin’ around || just like you always did.

Abbie Doll is a writer residing in Columbus, OH, with an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a Fiction Editor at Identity Theory. Her work has been featured in Door Is a Jar Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, and Pinch Journal Online, among others; it has also been longlisted for The Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for The Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, and the Pushcart Prize. Connect on socials @AbbieDollWrites.

by Melissa Eleftherion

ecologies
in the rolling fog,
how light mutes here
everything vulnerable & beholding

limpets cling fierce to their rocks
to their special little scars,
appear themselves
as wave retreats,

as does the costate shell,
the eelgrass, the feather boa kelp,
the snail & the chiton,
exposed in a milk blue of interiors.

awe in the rigor
& among soft coral
nacreous belly of a labyrinth
it’s the rocks, all the while that get me

the hard & the fissure
the fragment & tender
iridescent wonder in
a sea of countless living things

ancient sea deposits,
fossilized shells,
petrified wood & dinosaur bones
in a coastal dune environment

in a marine environment
shale, a greyish rock
a tidal flat, how we form
layer upon layer, balancing.

index of a shell structure
composition a requisite
mirror among the
sorting/party of minerals

gypsum & halites excused themselves
before the chitinous
interlude/invertebrates,
exoskeletons/the dream of the sea

all late winter
a dry indehiscence
I coax & struggle,
watch for decay,

stand poised to
gather dust,
feather & tether this tending,
what emerges from such care

Melissa Eleftherion (she/they) is a writer, a librarian, and a visual artist. Born & raised in Brooklyn, she holds degrees from Brooklyn College, Mills College, and San Jose State University. They are the author of two poetry collections, field guide to autobiography (The Operating System, 2018), & gutter rainbows (Querencia Press, 2024), and twelve chapbooks including abject sutures (above/ground press, 2024). Their work has been widely published & featured in venues like Verse Daily, Sixth Finch, Entropy, & Barren Magazine. Melissa now lives in Northern California where she manages the Ukiah Branch Library, curates the LOBA Reading Series, and serves as Poet Laureate Emeritus of the City of Ukiah. Recent work is available at www.apoetlibrarian.wordpress.com. She can also be found on Facebook @melissa.eleftherion, Instagram @apoetlibrarian, and Bluesky: @apoetlibrarian.bsky.social.

by Zachary Daniel

Last night of the fair.
The livestock are packing
their suitcases for a journey
in the back of warm trailers.

The Ferris wheel, groaning,
lurches from its stanchions
and rolls into the darkness,
taking from each of its cabins
one long draught of bourbon.

East Wing of the assembly hall.
Antique toy soldiers
lost in the brightness
of industrial lamps.
One has a blue ribbon.
They all report to him.

Fat pumpkins loaded onto palanquins.
Kohlrabi push. Watermelons roll.
The dark tobacco sheaves bow
so low they fall
and are smoked.

Many hundred tracks of powdered sugar
the ants are mopping away.

The patriotic quilt quietly undoes
the seams on its patches
and drifts into the white mountainous
bed of Argentina.

2AM. The head supervisor arrives.
Her beam finds only the barren walls.
She has a kind of ceremonial key
which jingles as it unlocks nothing.

Zachary Daniel works as a gardener in Cave Hill Cemetery. He lives with his wife and cat in Louisville, Kentucky. He has poems published or forthcoming at The Pierian, Eunoia Review, Palette Poetry, Verse Daily, and elsewhere on the internet.

by Eric Fisher Stone

…the Passenger Pigeon, passed away on September 1, 1914, in the Cincinnati Zoo. She was believed to be the last living individual of her species.

–Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History

Dying, I become the sky,
whisking from the zoo
and pointing toddler fingers,
my skull hatching a sunset
once dappled with wings
of my kind abundant as grapes.

I need no heaven besides the world,
my companion’s cherry eye glowing
in my dreams. My grief keeps him alive
beyond his death, his song cooing through my brain,
his feathers’ sunflower taste pickled
in memory until sparrows
chirrup my funeral canticle.

I think the last person alive
will weep for whelks,
their feet gummed on pumice,
for squirrels’ manic hands
smaller than a human’s, yet rarer
in the universe than diamonds
or fire. Lions yawp farewells

three exhibits down and emus
like tiptoeing brooms peck goodbyes.
Nurse my warmth in the blood-syllable
of your heartbeat. You will chant
bird-rosaries, mourning the Earth
more precious than paradise
when making love is real.

Eric Fisher Stone is a poet, composition instructor, and PhD student at Oklahoma State University. His publications include three full-length collections of poetry, The Providence of Grass, from Chatter House Press, Animal Joy, from WordTech Editions, and Bear Lexicon, from Clare Songbirds Publishing House. He can be found on Facebook @EricFisherStone and Bluesky @javelinasarecute.bsky.social.

by Elizabeth Joy Levinson

What odd length of you, tibia, tarsus, the nape of you
bodies bent flat on the shore, feathers dirty, unpreened
mandible, maxilla, arrows towards nothing,
awkward in death, heavy headed,
wings slightly pulled away, you are
a leaf on the beach, you are delicate angel,
you are warning —
Once nearly gone, you returned by the hundreds,
and this may be how you’ll go again, breast to breast,
restricted blood flow in the icy water, together, you keel,
your joints swollen in pain, your lungs desperate, too tired to struggle,
the phantoms of you frighten me. Once, on a bright day in October, some years ago,
my love and I heard them calling from different corners of the city. I do not know
what other strange musics we will lose, or can afford to.

Elizabeth Joy Levinson is a biology teacher in Chicago. Her work has been published in Whale Road Review, SWWIM, One Art, The Shore, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others. She is the author of a full-length collection, Uncomfortable Ecologies, available from Unsolicited Press, as well as two chapbooks. She can be found can be found at Instagram @ejoylevinson and on the web at ejoylevinson.com.