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Abigail Swoboda teaches pre-K and lives in West Philly.

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Georgianna Van Gunten is a writer based out of Santa Fe, New Mexico. She
has an MFA in poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts, and has taught
creative writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her work has
appeared in Bluntly Mag, MeowMeowPowPow, Gesture Literary Press, Le Petit
Press, Bombay Gin, et al. She was selected as January 2020’s Poet of the
Month by the Center for Contemporary Arts in Santa Fe.

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Paz Pacheco Hall is a Trans Chicanx poet based in the American Southwest. Through poetry and photography they explore history, identity, and landscape in the southwest. They have previously been published in Colorado State University’s Greyrock Review, and have received a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing from the same university.  

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jason b. crawford (They/Them)was born in Washington DC, raised in Lansing, MI. Their debut Full-Length Year of the Unicorn Kidz will be out in 2022 from Sundress Publications.

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This poem previously appeared in Beestung Mag.

Snow like delicate arrows outside
and you are leaving the sunshine state.
A long voyage North.

I wonder
what do you keep in your car?

Gas station snacks in the passenger seat,
road trip detritus. Half-drunk thermoses
in every cupholder: water, coffee,
something sweet/effervescent at mile 409.

I similarly prepare for my voyage:
through the driving ice, to the post office.
I call out of work but keep my ear to the wind,
tuning in to catch the hush, a gentle break:
enough time to suit up and find an envelope
wide enough to hold my heart.

We are always on our way towards each other when the storm hits.

This time, I stack flannel on flannel.
Zip your letter in my coat.
I dig my heels into crisp ice.
I’ve salted the road for you.
Come.

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Katie Kay Chelena (she/her) is a theater artist, educator, and writer originally from the mountains of North Carolina / currently in Brooklyn, NY. She is a member of the experimental theater collective the New York Neo-Futurists. She is the theater instructor at NC Governor’s School West. Katie is currently earning her MA in Arts Politics at NYU.

we bump over basement tile, toes stubbing
over grout grooves. sock-skating
while our tios pinball pool cues upstairs.
lips covered in egg-sweet crumbs gush
of some-days and one-days, when we’re big.
crouched behind green leather couches,
we hide from the night’s crawl, the looming
call to leave. two kisses times fourteen cheeks

goodbye. slump into the backseat. fall asleep
by the third pothole, all warmed through.
temples ricochet against the window slope.
the moon follows me home.
the moon follows you home,
looming.
cradled onto a shoulder, eyes squeezed
too-shut and tucked into bed.

it is now some day
and also one day.
you are under a different moon and
I am in the front seat, big.
I tuck myself into bed.

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Crystal Silva is a senior at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill studying communication and studio art. Originally from Massachusetts, Crystal is the daughter of Portuguese immigrants, which informs much of her poetry. When not writing, you can find her developing in the darkroom, throwing pots, and doing improv.

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J.Q.F. is a poet and editor in New York.

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Edie Meade is a writer, artist, and mother of four in Huntington, West Virginia. Recent work can be found in Feral, Still: The Journal, New Flash Fiction Review, Fractured Literary, Ghost Parachute, and elsewhere. Say hi on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/.

Great Aunt Iris, the one who wore pearls and guzzled pink
gimlets, is dead. The funeral for Pat, our old neighbor
the one with the schnauzer who howled at midnight, was
long. And Uncle Nico, who took you on the log flume
‘til you puked cotton candy pellets, is gone.

Do not hug.

Remember, my boy, when you asked Santa for a set of
toy soldiers and a kingfisher for Christmas? Turquoise
feathers floated above an army of plastic green men on
a patchwork quilt. We took selfies with a dying balsam fir.

Wear a mask.

Your father took a second job at the landscaping company
sandwiched between a crematorium and adult bookstore.
He will likely be late for dinner. Again. He can microwave
a frozen turkey casserole before watching Seinfeld reruns.

Wash your hands.

Let’s make vodka tonics. Forget Siri, I mean, Brie,
a harlot unworthy of your devotion. Troy is a ghost
with a mean sleight of hand. Trickster. Marriage, I
mean, motherhood is the real test. You will see, son.

Skip church.

This is hard for me to admit, Dimple. Yaya and Papu
groomed me in the School of Hard Knocks, now I am
the Empress With No Clothes. They will write myths
about us on onion-skin pages with horsefeather quills.

Pass on Pilates.

Dipping you in the River Styx was a mistake. I was
wrong, baby. I should have listened to the somber face
of a scientist mother frozen on camera, a scream warning
of the virus’ uncaged fury. I apologize, sweetheart.

Stay home.

Soon it will be the holidays. My back gave notice when
I lowered an ornament box from the attic. You will need
to dig another 100,000 graves by spring. Shovels are
on sale at Ace. Pick up more hand sanitizer too.

Six feet apart.

The war is us. We are the blindfolded stallions
thundering toward slaughter. What I mean is, it’s not
too late to call your therapist and take a hot bath.
Put down your shield. Send marigolds instead.

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The daughter of Chinese immigrants, Jen Soong grew up in a small town in New Jersey and now lives in California. An alum of Tin House and VONA, her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The Audacity, GAY MAG, Jellyfish Review, Cosmonauts Avenue and Waxwing. She received her MFA in creative writing from UC Davis. Her memoir-in-progress is about family ties, depression and the silences we learn to break. Find her work at jensoong.com.

I stand at the entrance
of a parish with no doors,
wondering if I will be welcomed back inside.
I haven’t attended
an evergreen mass
in what feels like an eternity.
One step onto the forest floor
and twigs snap beneath
the weight of heresy.
My footfall echoes like
a hymn through empty steeples.
Two steps.
A sacred breeze cradles my face
I close my eyes and feel the rain
as it falls through the canopy,
baptizing me.
Three steps
and the fog rolls in
like billows of Frankincense
from a swinging thurible.

I take a seat on a fallen pew
at the river’s edge
and confess my sins
at the pulpit of pines.
Shedding my sediment
to the rush of holy waters.
I say a prayer as I run my hand
over rosary bark.
Fresh sap sticks to my fingers
anointing my skin.
Thunder rolls off the choir’s tongue
as I make my way back out
of the parish with no doors.
I hear the crow’s caw
as it echoes through the branches.
Church bells.
I have been forgiven.

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Jillian Calahan is a poet and short story writer living in the Pacific Northwest with her four cats and two dogs. You can find her work in a variety of anthologies including The Story Behind The Poems Volumes 1 & 2, The Story Behind the Stories Volume 1, and The Poetry Marathon anthologies for 2020 & 2021. You can also find her on Instagram @novamarie_poetry