by Sarah Mills

Mornings, we had an insatiable appetite for snow.
I served burnt toast, raspberry jam, egg-white snow.

Don’t you want to be happy? she asked, as if I could enter
happiness like the address of a website, store gigabytes of snow.

I knelt on a chevron rug and prayed while listening
to ruby-throated hummingbirds migrate. On the skylight, snow.

The meteorologist’s predictions were sharp as stalactites.
He assured me: below 32 degrees Fahrenheit—snow.

When I was a child, snow accumulated for days, like teeth
overcrowding Earth’s mouth—an overbite of snow.

I ask the postal clerk how long it will take happiness to arrive
in my mailbox. She sells me insurance, offers to expedite snow.

At night, his ghost visits me wearing a puffer jacket and red scarf.
He hovers above my bed like a satellite—midnight snow.

I gather the glitter from a broken snow globe.
It glistens like a future, a sword, an armored knight, snow.

These words fall like flurries and land on a blank page.
As the author of this poem, can I copyright snow?

The universe’s indifference gives me frostbite, so I rub my hands
together. With these sparks, I’ll write and recite snow.

The Tragicomedy of Sarah Mills. A curtain rises, a curtain falls.
Just before the lights dim, enter stage right—snow.

Sarah Mills’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in RHINO, trampset, Jet Fuel Review, HAD, Rust & Moth, Pithead Chapel, Beaver Mag, Identity Theory, The Shore, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. She is online at sarahmillswrites.com, and on Bluesky @sarahmillswrites.bsky.social.

by Carole Anzovin

Here I lie, my virtue spent.
I am the sharp-edged eggshell,
the empty ooetheca,
the crumpled cereal-box liner
without even the dust of breakfast.

It is my brown season,
a color like November,
belly-full with cloudy skies
and the whispering of frost.
I can only rest. Be vacant.
Slip out of my routines.

Dust and cobwebs gather.
The lightest feathering of snow
falls. My bones feel the hardwood
floor through the carpeting.
In the gathered stillness,
only breath can be heard.

Carole Anzovin (she/her) lives and writes in Western Massachusetts. Her poems have appeared in The Cackling Kettle, Silkworm, Impossible Archetype, Corvid Queen, and other journals. Find her online at @sunhearthpoetry.bsky.social and living-vividly.com

by Rosangela Batista

Afterone hurricaneafter another

I came to understand
this will-o’-the-wisp.

After the will-o’-the-wisp
I came to understand the wind
gravedigger’s toil on the sandy
barrier islands.

An impatient gravedigger,
this Florida Wind.
Exhumes carcasses of beings
who have not completed their Bardo,
who didn’t even lose their teeth.

That bituminous night
beyond the howl of the whirling
Sabal palms, the sudden bluish
flame flickered, the riverbank
appeared like the plume
of an exhausted rocket.

It grew and retreated, meandered
uncertain of the journey.
The light of the liquefied creatures
excavated from their dens
thrown by the winds
from here to there.

The dead breath
of the will-o’-the-wisp
from Florida shook
the blue-gill fish, alligators
from the NASA swamps.
The great blue heron ejected himself
heading toward the Atlantic like a war missile.

Rosangela posted her Portuguese version of this poem at facebook.com/Poems4Calm/

Rosangela Batista is a Brazilian-American writer based in Florida. Her poems have appeared in The Wallace Stevens Journal, LitBreak, The Westchester Review, Poets for Science, and Gavea-Brown.

by Brandon Shane

My daughter sits in a body of flowers,
the casual beauty that occurs
a few miles into the wilderness,
and it is morning in December,
none of the animals know what to do,
summertime in winter,
the blooming agenda
must be discarded
and printed again,
she is laughing like the trees
do not hold a grudge
against our home, the life cut down
for ours to flourish,
the birds calling a phone
that we cannot pick up,
the sunlight offering a tender hand,
a bit of reprieve from the displays
of wooden walls, wooden rooftops,
the truck churning down roads
running over and spitting out.
And I watch her sometimes
with lilacs between her fingers
or roses, whatever
magical thing she has ripped
from the ground, parading
the roots like some
auspicious thing.

My daughter grabs another, and another,
I smell their petals, wonderful stem of life,
dead now, gorgeous explosions, then sterile,
and she stirs for a moment, something
telling her this is wrong; I study this,
guilt lumping in her throat,
the mercy of nature
all around us.

I close my eyes and hear ritual slaughter,
chants of witches having become
wind chimes hanging in the forest,
and a gust hits me with vibrating tracks,
my daughter has pulled every flower,
she is tripping to find more,
a bouquet between her fingers,
their green blood, what’s left
wilting on the dirt, a killing field.
She fills me with happiness,
I watch as the sun glides
over her brown hair,
she is laughing, and killing
all the flowers, how precious
this moment resides
in my memory,
and how that thing
in her throat has become
voracious laughter.

Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in trampset, Chiron Review, the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.

by J.D. Isip

If ever an echo in a hallway brought you through
a passenger car, appointed in burgundy with tasseled lamps,
tinkling porcelain plates, thick crystal goblets, then forests of ash,
oak, and cedar elm, the wet ground, coal in the engine, voices from the living-

room where you left or were going cascade across memory, yours
and those you borrowed from intellects in the architecture, ears
and mouths in the overhangs and eaves. Reverberations
of our collected past, all of us passengers on this

rail crisscrossing liminal towns, ley lines, family lines
calling from the kitchen, the locomotive, the yellow-green prairies
dappled with sheep and shadows from overhead clouds, shadows stretching
this foreign and familiar landscape, how what was once clear in the light of day,

a home, a hallway, a half-life seemed whole just moments ago when this world
was without layers, just the topsoil of time. The trip almost always begins
by accident, some ancient root knots across your path, some sound
joins the round of the chorus past, present, future-bound.

J.D. Isip’s collections include Reluctant Prophets (Moon Tide Press, 2025), Kissing the Wound (Moon Tide Press, 2023), and Pocketing Feathers (Sadie Girl Press, 2015). J.D. teaches in South Texas where he lives with his dogs, Ivy and Bucky.