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.

by Michael Akuchie

For years, I accepted the theory that
God’s mercy had an ending. So I
stopped soliciting for myself,
my country, and the homeless man whose
pleas for a kind act rattled the gate that
kept my mind from working itself to madness.
I carved a distance too vast for a forest to fit.
Meeting you made me remember how
to make prayer with honesty to taste.
To find Him, I did not need
to wrestle the beast of denial or
reenact the day Abraham readied Isaac
for an embrace with the knife.
I cultivated an enduring hunger to feel close.

Michael Akuchie’s poems have appeared in Poet Lore, The Rumpus, Cosmonauts Avenue, Lost Balloon, Drunk Monkeys, Ecotheo Review, Whale Road Review, and Gordon Square Review. His debut chapbook of poems, Wreck (The Hellebore Press), was published in 2021. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria. He’s on Twitter/X as @Michael_Akuchie.

by Lindsay McLeod

So
it has come to this.
The gnaw
where I find myself
getting lost on purpose
because smiling is now
frowned upon here.

Best I leave this
as I first found it
(drunk on indifference
the King of Empty Cups)

and hope that perhaps
in time she will forgive
my hesitant gratitude
because
you never can tell

one day this pain
might just be useful
but
oh dear God the cost.

Lindsay McLeod is an Australian writer who lives quietly on the coast of the great southern penal colony with (yet another ferocious Aussie animal) his adored blue heeler, Mary. His work has found homes in Firefly, Oddball, Burningword, Five2one, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, Leaves of Ink, Words Dance, Fine Flu, Literary Nest and more.

by George Taxon

In a trough,
an ingrown pyramid
scheme thrives.
A glitch?
Glib. Soluble.
In a stagnant pool of bliss.
Sapiens.
Who?
Me, trying to float,
trying to leave this rocky
ocean behind.
It’s dark down here
on this shelf,
where the deflated myths
of the past continue
to settle.
Up above,
I’m not sure if I belong,
my dreams won’t hold
water,
slapped together with rust
and artificial tears.
Damn.
Another dawn,
and I taste mildew
in my bubble
of joy.
O breathless turtle,
counsel me,
instruct me how
to crawl.
My appetites are insatiable,
my flaws gurgle in
this state-of-the-art net.
I am in the dark,
yet I see nothing
but blue.

George Taxon is a writer who has worked as an antiquarian bookseller, medical editor, and administrator. He lives just outside of Boston, Massachusetts.

by Mike O’Brien

I
Crouching on his haunches,
The Sea Policeman looks into the lifeless eye of a cow
It had wandered too near the edge of the crumbling cliff above
When it fell onto the shingle It must have landed with a real thud

II
He holds the barnacle encrusted frame of a child’s bicycle
Look at his boots sinking into the watery sand
Look closer and you can see the tidemarks
Six inches above the cuffs of his trousers

III
In earnest conversation with two men next to a small fishing boat
He points to the rope that one of them is holding
The other has a pipe in his mouth
A dense mist obscures the horizon

IV
A family holiday at Scarborough
He stands awkwardly on the beach with his wife and two small children
His eyes are distant – thinking of his beat
The real seaside

V
He examines the contents of a broken wooden crate
They are scattered over the smooth pebbles
Bottles, some smashed
Some intact and containing a greyish brown fluid

VI
Notebook in hand
Licking his pencil
He towers above a couple of crying kiddies
Between them is the partially decomposed remains of a seal

VII
He is standing outside of a stone church,
His helmet under his right arm,
Surrounded by ancient gravestones
Their inscriptions worn to illegibility by the salt air

Mike O’Brien is a largely cheerful sort of a chap who enjoys writing and performing poetry. Some of his work can be found at zoomburst.substack.com. He has also dabbled in publishing other poets, who can be found at sixtyoddpoets@substack.com. Instagram @obrienfeatures.