by Joshua Zeitler

You won’t believe me, but it’s easy
to forget. Sure, digging a hole that size
is hard, but that whole business
hadn’t crossed my mind since…
Well, a lifetime’s a long line. Mine’s
weighed low. Not long after we dug, I fell in
love—same railway yard, after dark,
though we weren’t disturbed a whit
by any lumbering ghost. Strong wind,
I suppose, blowing through; yes, I see it
whipping her dress against her hips.
Those days it came on quick and vanished.
Love, sure, and the wind.
Her name was Mary, like the elephant,
and her dress a plain brown, well fit
to get dirty in, which I admit we did.
Parents waited up ‘til damn near dawn,
grounded her long enough to kill
any mischief in her eyes.
Hot, sure, but every day was hot.
I don’t remember breaking a sweat.
Used to dirty work. Wouldn’t do it again,
though, not at my age. Took six of us
a long while then, hale as we were.
Time we got done, the show was over.
Crowd thinned out like those high clouds
up there. They hadn’t let her down.
Once a thing’s done, what’s there to do?
I guess it must have been a gale that night:
when I picture her brown eyes, brown dress
flapping, that’s when I see it: the crane
listing like the whisper of a breeze
catching a weather vane.

Editor’s note: You can read more about Mary the elephant and her sad, tragic death here.

Joshua Zeitler is a queer, nonbinary writer based in rural Michigan. They received their MFA from Alma College, and their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Midway Journal, Stanchion, Syzygy, and elsewhere. They can be found on Twitter: @thejayestofzees.

by Audrey T. Carroll

1.

satisfying soft shell symphony
of exoskeletons gently guided
by cupped palm—less waiting
for an offered sacrifice
sanctioned by another,
more a hand gathering
water at a stream

2.

the opposite of a cat call
is a finch singing at you
as you fill a bronze bowl with seed;
they come to recognize the vague
shape of your body, signatures
of you that do not always
seem to signify

3.

spider silk crone’s hairs
craggy as a cliffside,
i n v i s i b l e
except in the right light,
and you must be looking for them,
like trying to find a seam
in the morning dark:
bumps of ugly monster stitching inside,
flat clean edges outside,
having to trust nothing
but the tenderness of your own flesh
to lead you

Audrey T. Carroll (she/they) is the author of What Blooms in the Dark (ELJ Editions, 2024), The Gaia Hypothesis (Alien Buddha Press, 2024), Parts of Speech: A Disabled Dictionary (Alien Buddha Press, 2023), and In My Next Queer Life, I Want to Be (kith books, 2023). Her writing has appeared in Lost Balloon, CRAFT, JMWW, Bending Genres, and others. She is a bi/queer/genderqueer and disabled/chronically ill writer. She serves as a Fiction Editor for Chaotic Merge Magazine and Editor-in-Chief of Genrepunk Magazine. She can be found at AudreyTCarrollWrites.weebly.com and @AudreyTCarroll on Twitter & Instagram.

by Francine Witte

And we just had to show up,
young and unwritten on.

Back then, candles would light
themselves, glittering even

as wax and time dripped
silent away. Flowers

around us everywhere,
but we didn’t see them

wilting. And every night
we’d pass a gather of tulip

heads, their open mouths
singing to an applause of stars,

the sound of all of that going
quiet and quiet as hours passed

into midnight, into morning,
the future waiting there, waving.

Francine Witte is the author of eleven books of poetry and flash fiction. Her flash fiction collection RADIO WATER was published by Roadside Press in January 2024. Her poetry collection is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press. She is flash fiction editor of Flash Boulevard and South Florida Poetry Journal. Visit her website at francinewitte.com.

by Isaac James Richards

Talk to birds they say
you’ve got to talk
to birds to be a poet

why? they always reply
fly headlong into glass
and drown themselves

in the chalice of a
birdbath stuck in
a feeder hole

I’d rather talk to cement
lifeless from jungle to
concrete jungle look

I know you look so
solid but deep down
you’re weak you crack

you’re porous you give
way to expanding ice
and trickling water and

stretching root and
skyward tufts of grass
you’re as vulnerable

as life as fragile
as a bird you bend
and break with

the turning universe
you are an illusion of
stability and permanence

what you really are
is proof that nothing
humans create will

ever be what humans are
one day years hence
you’ll be mossy

an overgrown place
for birds to rest
feet on soft warm stone

only poems can imbue
the lifeless with life
give wings to rocks

see that plane overhead
now concrete flies
talk to it ask it how

does it feel to be a bird
lifeless yes but airborne
and so full of humanity

because I know that a
rock’s heart beats faster
when tossed off a waterfall

I’m waiting for stones to
breathe and for flowers to
burst from cracked-open birds

Isaac James Richards is a reader for Fourth Genre, a contributing editor at Wayfare, and a Pushcart Prize nominee. His poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, Constellations, Red Ogre Review, Stoneboat, and several other venues. His most recent work is forthcoming in Oxford Magazine. In the fall, he will begin a PhD at the Pennsylvania State University. Find him online at isaacrichards.com and @isaacjamesrichards.

by Martha Silano

Today I learned Keats was only five feet tall. A compact corpse,
says Di Suess in “Romantic Poetry,” shorter than Prince,
which I so love knowing, along with the fact

a Steller’s jay might imitate the call of an osprey, line its nest
with pine needles or fur. Fur! That a Pacific geoduck
can live for over 160 years.

I interrupt my reading husband, share the news of a clam
weighing three pounds, that its neck is “baseball length,”
so to eat one you really need to dig deep,

down to armpit depth. As I lose my ability to breathe,
as walking becomes a rare treat, as I wake at 3 am
in painful positions, perplexed by my body’s

next move, I’m delighted by a drawing of a pigeon guillemot,
to learn of its bright red feet, the zing of chartreuse
hiding under Oregon grape’s bark,

the six pale gray eggs of the great blue heron, that strange,
screechy call of a bald eagle in my neighborhood.
On warm days an Anna’s hummingbird buzzes

near the chaise I rest on. Black-headed grosbeaks
that wintered in freaking Mexico sing
in a big-leaf maple

as I text my daughter what Di said: What doesn’t die?
The closest I’ve come to an answer
is poetry.

Martha Silano’s five books of poetry include Gravity Assist, Reckless Lovely, and The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, all from Saturnalia Books. A forthcoming collection, This One We Call Ours, won the 2023 Blue Lynx Prize for Poetry, and will appear in the fall of 2024 from Lynx House Press. Martha’s poems have appeared in Poetry, The Paris Review, American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. Learn more about her work at marthasilano.net. Martha’s is on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and Threads @marthasilano.