by Richard Fox

Every night, I dream we are trying to dress like Dads, while
Hazel whips up a casserole & Mr B lances a carbuncle, & I can
lose myself for days reading the due date stamps on the back
page of a library book, or yacht-watching, while the shore
closes in on the water.

There is a bunting in the spear thistle, making a map from
the stars. At ten days of age, they begin looking skyward at dusk,
& marking the spilled salt that moves against the sincere void;
they migrate on cloudless nights, so while they look down,
they can consider the beyond.

Sometimes I wait on the bridge to watch the trains go by:
go gently, please—the ties that bear the rails sing. Now, bedlam
in the skies above the prairie & the flood-plain, & the autumn
you can see & feel & smell has arrived: when the moment
comes, take the last one.

Richard Fox has been a regular contributor of poetry and visual art to online and print literary journals. Swagger & Remorse, his first book of poetry, was published in 2007. He is currently working on several collections of soundscapes, which are being made available online at Bandcamp: richardfox.bandcamp.com. A poet and visual artist, he holds a BFA in Photography from Temple University, Philadelphia. A former Chicago resident, he now lives in Salt Lake City, Utah. His social media handles are — Twitter: @foxpoems and Instagram: @rfox60647.

by Annie Nazzaro

A summer night on the verge of seizure. The only story I know how to tell right now. The light shining strange and yellow on leaves that haven’t ever been this green. The same things that’ve always happened here. The wanting and the leaving, the grass bending in their wake. How a tree looks just before it topples, thrashing ahead of a crack. A paralyzing quiet, an unbearable heat. What I’ve been waiting for and what I would do anything to stop if there was anything that would stop it. The horizon line, obscured by foliage. Until the wind takes everything it’s going to take.

View the painting that inspired this poem.

Annie Nazzaro is a writer based in Chicago. When she is not writing, she can be found at home playing video games or out competing in pub trivia with friends. She is on Bluesky and Instagram and more info is at her Linktree.

by Chrissy Stegman

In my blood, the chaotic hum. Waiting.
I inflate sentimentality with my mouth.

I only have so much time now.
Someone needs to tell my children I love them.

I’m someone. My eyes trace the hours
of borrowed graces. I want to be thieved

from fate’s brittle glass. My gaze to be softened
by the gentle siege of promised light.

I see violets in December and they’re beautiful. I think:
they’re the color of an affair, illicit in the dirt.

A message from my husband burns through my phone:
i want to kiss you

I think: yes. kiss me. before time embroiders us gray
The clock’s hands carve at me. I think.

Immense, breathtaking, an echo predictable.
The cool fingers of distant poles tease

my heart’s threshold. I see the storms,
self-aware. I skip a stone.

A fleeting spark, just before it kisses me
into the unseen dark.

Chrissy Stegman is a poet from Baltimore, Maryland. Her work has been featured in various journals, most recently Rejection Letters and Gone Lawn. Her work is forthcoming in Gargoyle Magazine and Anti-Heroin Chic. She is the recipient of the 2022 Patricia Bibby Idyllwild Arts scholarship for poetry and placed second for the 2022 Ellen Conroy Kennedy Poetry Prize. She is a 2023 Best of the Net Nominee. Her social media handles are: Twitter/X: @pimpledrose; Blue Sky: @chrissystegmanpoet.bsky.social; and Instagram: @thegoosefaerie

by Hannah Grieco

Bilirubin like my heart used to
rise, code yellow despite these
worn-out thumps, these

elevated platelets, buttery
veins, weighted skin clinging
a depression of dermis.

When did I start feeling so old?
When did sleep become thin
become a test run

a preview, an old woman’s
afternoon nap, short and then
long, and then drugged, and then

hours of foggy wandering, when
did I start feeling so tired?
When did I stop looking

to you, looking for that
moment when the skin around
your eyes creased, your eye-smile

my love, those lines said: my
girl, that was me laughing
at your jokes, that was my

heart rising, red, an escalating
frequency of thumps pounding
yours/us, yours/us.

Hannah Grieco is a writer in Washington, DC. Find her online at hgrieco.com and on Instagram/Bluesky @writesloud.

by Andrew McCall

where have you been
this flame-tinged season?
A long drought
chewed wounds in the earth,
made you hole up, waiting
for another season.

I, too, stayed low,
choking on smoke from Canada –
particulate and savory, – caught
in the soft tissue of my tongue
leaving a tinge of barbecued
forests and singed duff.

After three days of rain
you remembered
yourself, rose and broke
open your hardpan
mantle; I smelled
the wringing out of your green
fronds and walked back into you.

I tripped over a cup fungus
still burrowing its way
from the underground, holding
new wetness in its mouth.

I stilled myself on a
ironwood branch,
moist and thick, like
my father’s bicep
after his work
in the fields.

I scattered the striders
flashing downstream
like thoughts
in a waking mind.

No big god cared
enough to clean up our ashes
and cinders.

Instead,
the swarming little ones
made the resurrection:
an old trickle in the woods,
ghost pipes
glistening and translucent,
the bold seed sprouting late
in summer’s hum.

Andy McCall as born in Missouri and teaches ecology, ecopoetics, and botany at Denison University in Ohio. Some of his work can be found in Canary, Lascaux Review, and 2River View.