by I Echo

With a line from Ocean Vuong

There is something to living that repeats itself.
The body, different, but in the mirror of the world,
Something asks to be bent into an old likeness.
I watched a man make a field out of the belly
Of a bobcat. The wild animal tickled and kissed
Into domestication like an old love. A comma
Asked to be a full stop, and it is no surprise
How it takes. As long as possible
Like a cracked mirror. Lately, my accent is
As secret as the presence of my mother.
In the poem about love, I speak to my mother.
So many poems about love, I speak to my mother
And I am sure she is shocked to see her baby
Bruised by such a delicate thing,
So, after all these years, she finally has to just sit
And listen. What else can the dead do?
My father is as alive as a child’s tongue.
He asks if it is important I have to tell everyone
The truth of my mother. Where she comes from,
My own heritage, silenced by her nonexistence.
And because it is easier to forget a thing
When it has been beaten into the lesser thing,
It is a burden to remember even my own name.
At work, my boss calls me a nice guy and I smile
Because it is good to be paid for your niceness.
I am not old enough to forget everything
About my mother, so, at least, I remember
How she would empty a tray of fish
Into abundance. That tray emptied for her
Wide smile. You could feed a family out of
That smile. Isn’t it fitting
How I, too, am surviving with a smile, Mummy?

I Echo is the pen name of Ghanaian-Nigerian writer, Chris Baah. He has work in Isele, Ubwali & elsewhere. He dreams of exploring the world & its cultures. & oh, he is the Founding Curator of NENTA Literary Journal.

by Enikő Deptuch Vághy

I also fear waking
to loss. I hold my lover
as he dreams, remember
the times I’ve drifted
into new lives, sleeping
in the same bed with other people,
how I’ve woken beside them
or alone, knowing I have traveled
so far they will never find me again.
Once, after a fight with a different man,
I reached for his hand in our dark room,
felt a fist. I pushed it open, let his fingers close
around mine. I thought this would keep
me beside him forever. I didn’t know
I’d found a new way to measure distance.
My lover presses into me like a vow.
I breathe the scent of his neck, pray
we wake in the same waters.
The first time he slept over, we clung
to each other, his heartbeat pounding
against mine as if to awaken it.
When he turned from me, I feared him
pulled by another current, his desire receding
with his touch. The next morning, I found myself
back in his arms, his pulse a constant swim stroke
keeping us afloat.

Enikő Deptuch Vághy is a poet, artist, and editor. She is currently a PhD candidate in the Program for Writers at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Additionally, she is the Founding EIC of the literary and arts journal Lover’s Eye Press. You can find her at @persepheni88 on Instagram.

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.