after Dorothy Chan

            Girl, you’re a slapdash shot

of tequila, aren’t ya, in your overalls

            and cowboy boots. Don’t you know

this isn’t the place? I love the way

            you run the edge of your nail across

                        the bottom of my lip, how you cut

your eyes to the crook of my neck,

            like Carmilla with Laura under

the trees at her fathers estate–

            all we’re is missing is some masks

                        and a pair of fangs, and we’d be cursed

to the crypts of our family graves.

            Girl, you’re the steel hitch holding

down the train cars as we roll off

            a Tampa track, the tourists ogling

                        over banked, scaly bodies, sugared

hush puppies, fried conch fritters,

            and the lip puckering tartness

of a key lime pie so sweet,

            I’m already over my allotment

                        of rag tag cracker cliches, even Florida

has to blush; I couldn’t forget her, though,

            the first apple of my alligator eye,

but listen: it was back in Tallahassee

            when I asked if Nic thought

                        I belonged to the streets, and without

blinking he said I reminded him of

a bench at Cascade Park,

permanently out in the wind

            and the rain. I used to look for love

                        over the click of a pool cue and the chalk

on a rod, used find it under red wine

            and pink lipstick with it’s hand

perched like it was about to squash a bug.

            Oh, I found love and it spit me out

                        like a gulp of Mississippi River water

with a weeklong aftertaste,

            and I laughed at Nic because

he was right, my line

            of pretenders stretching the block,

                        and now you’re laughing, too; we’ve completely

missed our spot, and what’s it like

            having a friend tell you a truth

you’ve been trying hard to ignore?

            It’s like a hook in the mouth

                        of a fish yanked from the bottom

of a lake, ripped through the surface

            and floundering on a dock

by the foot of the fisher, a bottle

            of vegetable oil, and a Coleman grill,

                        and girl, you’re a salt lick on my palm

and I’m the lime to wash it down.

            We’re a morning hangover and an afternoon

of chores, we’re a sunset of recovery

            and a night of tongues as wet

as they come, so gut that sucker

and I’ll oil up the pan: I’ve found love

            and you’ve caught us a meal.

---

Parker Logan is from Orlando, Florida and lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His work has recently been featured in Barely South Review,  HAD, and MEMEZINE’s The Slop Review. He works as a teen library tech in  the East Baton Rouge Public Library. You can read more about him at parkerpoetry.org. 

by Laci Mosier

At first, you will feel the gentle tremors of a life you love
changing. Don’t worry, you are shedding your skin, my dear.
Your molecules are shifting. Your heart is breaking.

Slowly and then all at once, you will find yourself sobbing
on the bathroom floor, sitting in the shower, letting the tap
water baptize you in the name of heartbreak and fresh beginnings.

You will ache. You will not change the sheets. You will stare
at the popcorn ceiling above your bed for too long, too many
mornings in a row.

Your friends will come over. They will peel his shirt off of you.
You will dance, dance, dance. The sweat will cleanse whatever the
shower could not.

In the morning, you will cry more.

You will paint your living room purple.

You will meditate, badly.

One by one, you will take down the photos, throw out the ticket
stubs, hide the postcards, letters and love notes. You will put them
neatly into a paper box you keep in the back of your closet.

You will sit on the floor of your apartment. If you are very lucky, your best friend
will sit with you, pressing her hands into yours, her forehead onto yours. She will tell you she is taking some of your pain because it is too heavy for one person to carry.

You will burn with rage.

Burn sage.

Burn toast in the oven.

Then you will call on a tarot card reader. She will tell you that everything
that has happened has made you infinitely, irrevocably stronger. You can
tame lions, she will say.

The Ace of Cups is yours, she will say. The universe wants to give you everything
you’ve ever wanted—the King of Swords is all that’s in the way, she will say.

You will go to yoga and weep in downward dog. The tears will run
out of your eyes as the sweat drips into them and you will breathe,
breathe, breathe, becoming one with the universe.

You will eat vegetables.

You will change the sheets.

You will open the drapes.

You will cut your hair, but not too short, this time.

You will adopt a dog, jump out of a plane, ride horses.

You will change jobs, change apartments, change cities, but only if you want to.

Buy plants.

Breathe.

And when you’ve done everything you possibly can to weather the
storm, you will at last give in to its flood, letting it wash over you
as you willingly, bravely, quietly sit in it.

And slowly, but all at once, you will feel the fluttering of a new
life, one you couldn’t have imagined before, softly and suddenly
beginning, and you will be ready to give it your all.

---

Laci Mosier holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her poems and short stories have appeared in numerous journals, including Hobart, Poetry Northwest, Rejection Letters, Jellyfish Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Maine Review, Tupelo Quarterly, and others. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, in an apartment filled with plants, art, books, and sunshine.

---

John Harkey lives in Columbus, GA, where he teaches high-school English. He received his Ph.D from CUNY, where he wrote a dissertation on “small poetry” and, through that project, edited a facsimile version of Lorine Niedecker’s Homemade Poems. John has one chapbook, Mask Work, that came out with Little Red Leaves in 2013, and a scattering of his poems and prose pieces have been published in Prelude Mag, EOAGH, 2nd Ave Poetry, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, We Are So Happy to Know Something, and Cheap Pop. John also founded Creature Press, a vehicle for handmade, unconventional chapbooks.

Make me
dim-witted. One
of those days where
I can’t bare it—the hum
of madness. My belly wreaking
havoc up and down my spine,
intestines in a knot.
Garlic! Disgusting! or maybe
you called it gross & I called it
get me out of here.

A different morning: I’m spinning
sex between my fingers.
Cavorting with an old pillow
case hoping you’ll come along
and lift my top.

As a kid I would peel the skin
off of grapes with my two front teeth
and gently push the innards
into my cheek with my tongue
keeping it safe before coming
down on it with a hard chew. Pulpy
swallow & the great disappointment:
here was a truly valuable soft thing
that I had worked hard for
& didn’t know what to do with.

---

This poem previously appeared in Cordite Poetry Review.

---

hannah rubin is a writer and interdisciplinary artist. Their work explores queer ecologies of gender and relationships, and their writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Nat. Brut, TAGGVERK, DoubleBlind Magazine, Cordite Poetry Review, Berkeley Poetry Review, BRINK, Pornstar Martini Magazine, and elsewhere. hannah lives and works in Los Angeles.

It’s a bus stop in South America
And crossing five lanes of traffic
At ten in the morning.
It’s quiet,
More than we were expecting.
The taxi is late for arrival and I am thankful for every second.

It’s not knowing the language
And our tensions so high,
A tennis court in my chest.
Love was being rewritten in my head
You were becoming the epitome of sacrifice.

You asked me what I would answer if you pledged me to marry you.
I said I’d wait a few years
And that was the correct response.
It’s a man in a bulletproof vest asking you the intention of your visit,
To give her hope.

We cross out of the city.
There are dogs on rooftops,
We are sharing headphones
And the glass begins to fog in the humid jungle evening.
Whatever home there is left
I find it as I lay my head on your shoulder.
There is a song humming subtly over the foreign soap opera on the TV.
It’s not quite your taste
But it is my favorite.

You will be able to sleep on the plane
And I won’t ever again for the next two years.

---

Ky Pacheco is a burgeoning southwest poet from Flagstaff, AZ. Her work has
previously been published in the 2024 Flagstaff Cycle-zine. She works
seasonally as a wildlife biologist for the Forest Service. Insta @kyssocks

missing Melissa – dust turned to waves
in the desert – okra coming up two months
too late – a forward-breaking gate opening
into someone else’s field – I walk by
a window and I don’t understand how little I see
you – but so clearly the wasp backing out
of a hole inside a long-dead
tree – when we were children we lived
with our grandparents and I remember without
sadness mostly the sound of tires screaming into
the street – the porch light welcomes
whatever intercepts it – I praise
insistence – I kiss
my love because our best friend died
when we were 5 years old – a brain tumor –
and then again at 7, 11, 17…43 – bodies
killing themselves by growing
beyond their own capacity – I’m building
a bed for our visitors – it’s infuriating how little
I understand about re-joining wood already broken
piece by piece – anticipate everything
I hear God saying to no one – I’m still listening
when you stop, for a moment, breathing
in your sleep – I’m recognizable
now as a part of the man who made me –
every man is a suspect – inside my own mouth
I’m annoyed by who I cannot seem to be –
do you miss this Melissa – every part of our body
is ash aching to be reminded it is ash – unlike fire
reaching through the face of every forest
in order to be incited by wind or offered
some relief – I’ve learned to flinch
by standing absolutely still – it isn’t death exactly living
without you – the purpose of a rope
is to borrow someone else’s strength – that’s why
I’m calling you – when I pray I hear nothing
so clearly as our new voice
singe-scoured and full of disbelief –

---

TC Tolbert (he/him/hey grrrl) is a trans and genderqueer monkey-goat who lives in Tucson, AZ where s/he is the current Poet Laureate. Publications include Gephyromania (Ahsahta Press, 2014/Nightboat Books, 2022) and five chapbooks including The Quiet Practices, winner of the 2023 Chad Walsh Prize at Beloit Poetry Journal. TC is co-editor (along with Trace Peterson) of Troubling the Line: Trans and Genderqueer Poetry and Poetics (Nightboat Books 2013). 

---

This poem previously appeared in The American Poetry Review.

There are few mornings like this –
When the tumble day slows
and the sweltering July heat subsides;
when memories of last night’s fire show
resonate with a still-first sense of wonder.

The footfall of Fatherhood feels fine underneath;
I am comfortable here, at peace with a
stirring that has often lingered in the quiet process of thinking.
My daughter turns her eyes aware,
Expecting the dance of color in the thick night sky,
and utters with perfect sincerity the answer her mother and I
had first provided to her own plea for more “firewoooorrrks!”
“Later, next year,” she repeats.

She seems to understand –
just as she is profoundly unaware that stirring
in her mommy’s womb just now, the slightest mobility towards life
of her first sibling yet to be born.

The sky creeps thoughtfully,
grateful it seems that the booms have subsided,
for now – until “Later, next year.”
The clouds pass lightly as we look upward
to dream of a better place.
This unsummer in its brilliant disguise –
cool, elusive, uncharted.

The tongues amongst the people
do not complain of lasting heat
nor of humidity.
Instead, the cool, soft morning greets them,
allowing children to play.

---

Dan’s poetry has appeared in 50 Haiku, though he primarily writes fiction. Other credits include a debut novel (Between the Innings) and short pieces published in We Said, Go Travel!, Pittsburgh City Paper, and Whitehall Literary Review. Dan holds an MFA in Creative Writing and has had plays produced regionally.

barking up the right trees
stuck on the double branch

don’t climb if you can’t get down
if you can’t get down

better learn to
jump

the kids are so back
vlog squad with baby teeth
sucking back cinnamon
getting pantsed by their dads
tamogotchi death hits all seven stages
and everyone knows
that the moon is made of cheese
that green eggs go great
on a ham sandwich
that cyber bullying
is cooler when everyone is doing it

slip-&-slide into stardust
along greenwood grass
burning the summer
at both ends
there’s glass in the pool
marco polo cut short
feet cut deep
red & blue sunburns
on chlorine skin
remember when sunscreen
used to work
the first time

fallen hotdog
soldier slipped
between truck slats
hunger driven dance-moves
filled with
cruel intentions
no amount of ketchup
can cure a broken heart
but a viral video
is a bandaid solution
for missing lunch

category is horse
category is narwhal
category is charades
is easy when every answer
is the right answer
guess flamingo
guess spider
guess where your hamster went
I promise you’ll be happy
with the results

The kids are so back
but seriously
don’t climb a tree
if you don’t know how
to get down
or if your mom can’t
find the ladder

but by some act of god
if you find yourself up there

just close your eyes
try and remember

how to
jump

---

Morgan Tessier is an artist & poet living in Tkaronto. She has based the majority of her art around poetry & collage, with an intentional focus on the soft-white internet underbelly of the human experience. She’s currently interested in Instagram Reels, laundromats, and hot, rich women.

The leaving was such that each apple
in the orchard glassed over into ghost-form

on a single night. Centers rotted, dropped out,
only translucent orbs at the end of wooded knots remained.

A buck arrives, noses them to the ground.
His only want: to hear the shatter. First my grandmother,

then my brother. A permanent Autumn settles across my face.
Brinks become a fabric to dress in.

I practice sewing parts of my body shut:
the mouth, an ear, the space between my fingers.

At the edge of the orchard I find an owl.
Bring my hands around the middle of the algid body,

between my palms it moves as dead things move.
Still, I’m gentle as I walk the owl out of the orchard

to the place of bramble and stumps. Lay the bird out like a boat,
like a baby in the arms, like a dirge.

Slow gold light slips,
the night freeze blackens fruit trees.

I continue to visit the owl. The spiders come.
The flies, too. For a moment one of the owl’s eyes opens.

I look through the eye into the back of his death,
parts of flight and story leak out.

The collapse of the left lung: green.
The collapse of the right lung: sky.

I’ve only ever had one good dream
in 46 years of bad dreams and it was of sleeping

in a moon field with my daughter while friends
placed inocybe between my teeth.

The eye of the owl closes.
The buck says it’s peaceful here, to be with you like this.

I don’t say anything because I don’t speak anymore.
Within a streak of light, wasps fly out of the ground

as leaves fall in the orchard.
I become a ghost apple at the nose of a buck.

---

Kelly Gray is the author of Instructions for the Animal Body (Moon Tide Press, 2021) and Tiger Paw, Tiger Paw, Knife, Knife (Quarter Press, 2022), and The Mating Calls //of the// Specter, which was the recipient of the Tusculum Review Chapbook Prize. Her writing can be found in Cream City Review, Southern Humanities Review, Cherry Tree, Lunch Ticket, and The Northwest Review, among other places, and she is the recipient of the Neutrino Prize from Passages North, the ArtSurround Cohort Grant, and a participant in the 2023 Kenyon Review Poetry Workshop. She has a forthcoming collection which features this poem coming out in spring of 2025.

---

This poem previously appeared in Jet Fuel Review.