by Abigail Raley

All you need to know is that there
are birds, somewhere, birds on the line
calving the sky in two, their talons
clutching their suspension, their highwire
kissing the moon’s lap, and at the top
of the utility pole holding them taut,
keeping aloft their still bodies, there is
a nest, a nest made of my
hair, stems from my favorite rose bush,
slivers of tinsel I ripped from my cat’s
jaws, just in the moment she could’ve
swallowed them whole, fronds of
milkweed that invaded my garden,
dried blades of grass I picked from
the lawn and discarded when, putting
them between my wet lips, they refused
to sing, but what’s most important—
and this is my favorite part—
is that, at the nest’s center, there are
eggs, blue as a spot
of turquoise dropped down into
the river, and in them, finally
there is the inside, the inside
I would candle with the butane lighter
I took from your coffee table that
first bright morning I woke next to your
small body, wrapped around me
like a quilt, your deep breath
hot on the fur of my lobe,
my flesh naked and without envy,
your fingers heavy and steady
and long on their course to my center
and when you trapped yourself
inside the husk of me,
I felt hot and sweet, as simple
as nectar, as quiet as a chick
in its shell, and as you dressed
and made yourself again a person
of the world, I felt my own creature
deep and hard and new, so when
I pulled you into me and kissed
into your abyss, you cupped the
yolk of my throat in your hand
and squeezed it gently
and never let it break.

Abigail Raley is a queer poet from Kentucky. She is currently an MFA poetry candidate at the University of Montana.

by J.D. Isip

Mourning or pretending. Just one more
hour for Miami, listening to the raucous
revelers necking and pawing their way
down to the ocean, watching the fireworks
while you slept, oblivious to it all—

A balcony at the Hard Rock, waiting on dawn,
trying not to take one last look at you, your
naked soles, calves, thighs, all those marathons
for an ass that doesn’t quit, the plane of back
blade to blade, no space for me. I can’t quit

reaching. We know the answer before we ask.
There is too much wisdom, too much damage
to be impressed by how it fell so easy, just
another idol body, to lose oneself again, and
again. There’s a relic of me in Mexico, kissing

the wind, a man, air in my hand. One in Rome
says to read him something that cleaves me
as he drives deep the chisel, the hidden tang
thrumming the handle in his hand. I wasn’t
finished praying at the altar of artifacts, pieces

of us where I left the oddments, looking for
you to call me back to bed, you to be there, for
a way to see you clumsy men, your wreckage, you
and me as intended. Excavation is a belief that
there is more to see beneath the rubble and debris.

J.D. Isip is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Pocketing Feathers (Sadie Girl Press, 2015) and Kissing the Wound (Moon Tide Press, 2023). This poem is part of a new project tentatively titled I Wasn’t Finished, which will be released by Moon Tide Press in late 2024 or early 2025. J.D. writes reviews and interviews, and acts as the microfiction editor for The Blue Mountain Review. He is a full-time English professor in Plano, Texas. J.D. is on Twitter @JDIsip and Facebook as J.D. Isip.

by Adam Gianforcaro

Until it can touch or teethe or tear through,
the wind can try to wail all it wants.

Wind makes no sound on its own, not without
the field of sagebrush or a whistle of window

to leave behind its greasy fingerprints of song.
Not without a partnership I mean.

I too can wrap myself in the breeze. The least
we can do as bodies is to be a body

the air can brush past, to be a catalyst
for transcribing the tidings of ghosts.

This is what it means to write a poem
for the living: to find a field

and let the rabid-mouth gale
turn your body into open-air theatre.

Adam Gianforcaro is the author of the poetry collection Every Living Day (Thirty West Publishing House, 2023). His poems can be found in The Offing, Poet Lore, Third Coast, Northwest Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Delaware and tweets at @xadamg.

by Beth Gordon

– after Andrea Kowch

Today the world is not ending. Our clothes infused with the ghosts of tulips. The loud souls of forsythia. A hidden vineyard. Today I am pretending that tomorrow is real. My darling. My infinite flower. You are the reason I dance. My ankles swelling year over year. At the bottom of the man-made path we find a crevice of water. A shimmering of fool’s gold. Mud & tadpoles & dragonflies & an impossible field of plum trees. We are not dancing to any remembered tune. We are not dancing in sync with the pink moon. Egg moon. Sprouting grass moon. There is a hurricane lurking in every heart. Board the windows. Collect the animals. Climb onto the roof & wait for lightning. Today I am a windmill. I am an emergency evacuation. The world is not ending. The world is ending today.

Beth Gordon’s poems have been published in Poet Lore, Citron Review, SWWIM, Pithead Chapel, Moist Poetry, Okay Donkey and others. She is the author of several chapbooks including The Water Cycle (2022, Variant Literature). Beth is Managing Editor of Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Assistant Editor of Animal Heart Press, and Grandma of Femme Salve Books. Twitter and Instagram @bethgordonpoet.

by Lindsay Clark

CW: Themes of child illness and loss.

Yes, a liver can say
no, too. I have carefully
considered your lymph.
The skin can yellow like
a neglected manuscript. No,
baby, it isn’t your T-cells.
It’s mine. Rejection can be
acute revelation. No, I cannot be
trapped in one body all the time.
It can be reasoned with. Or
it can fester chronically. Manifest
in midlife. Bile ducts caved in
like an ill-tended tunnel
system. Irreparable. The hollow
of a sternum can chug
the marrow whole only
to spit it out like Napa
Valley wine. No, no, not
this one. Not this child.

Lindsay Clark lives in California with her family.