'vespiaries brooding combs of quietness' — poetry by Susan Irvine

White Roses

You cisterns sequestering white-shadowed air

As still and pure as aquifer under rock,

You vespiaries brooding combs of quietness

Within the shelter of your papery cups,

So crystalline, so pure your essence is

Of things immortal, unobtainable,

It has the power to re-configure us,

To instigate a deeper thirstiness.

Roses, white roses growing by the wall,

Let me stay by you and build a hermitage

Though the sky blackens and your petals fall,

Prick my sullen heart and let me drink

From your white grails a shadow of the unslakeable.

---

size of my life

As the great befurred chamberlains

Thronging with peerless hums

Descend on state visits

To the palace of roses, a dit -

A miniscule virgule - darts

Among them, a speck

Against these walls so sheer,

Battlements of the horns of plenty,

Where it also partakes, enters.

---

Susan Irvine teaches a course on using smell as material at the Royal College of Art, London. She has published a novel, Muse, and a short story collection, Corpus, both with UK imprint, Quercus.

'What comes after happiness?' — poetry by Robert McDonald

Together with the Thrashing Wings

There is no such thing as a still winter night.

On the highway of cold winds, little voices seemed to rise.

A single crow called from the edge of the road.

The winds were so strong I could not push against them.

Winter birds were crystals who flew over our heads.

Above the darkness stood another darkness, together with thrashing wings.

Perhaps we are orphans, hiding between ferns and the moss.

I removed a rock from the first stone wall, as old as the mountain itself.

I wanted a house that could not be seen.

I made a bone needle, I sewed myself an outfit from the dead deer’s fur.

I had the feeling that I was in an old story somewhere.

Even ice moves, an inching white river.

If what you long for is a roof above your head, slip quietly into the hemlock forest.

Note: This is a found poem. All the lines are taken from ‘My Side of The Mountain’ by Jean Craighead George.

---

Sirens

Define each realm by what is lost.

The swifts in their flight, how they arrow into bluing.

Perhaps this is Sunday evening and the end of all rest.

“Of all that is seen and unseen,” he loved that phrase from church.

How to describe the end of things: the bluing is the sky.

Think of a ship filled with all the heroes.

And the petals of the daylilies are closing one by one.

Raise your whiskey glass, that promise of darkness.

The crazy lady on the park bench says “Sirens, the sirens.”

What comes after happiness?

By the time that evening finally arrives, a tree will grow up from the living room floor.

There’s no real forgiveness, that’s one thing our minister said.

So the birds turned into people and they all flew away.

---

Robert McDonald’s first book of poems, "A Streetlight That's Been Told It Used to Be the Moon," is coming from Roadside Press in 2026. His work has appeared in 2 Rivers View, Action/Spectacle, I-70 Review, The San Pedro River Review, The Madrid Review, and West Trade Review, among others. He lives with his husband in Chicago.

‘the pale seam of spillage’ — poetry by Amanda Gaines

GIRL SPELL FOR TRANSMUTATION

---

Amanda Gaines is an Appalachian writer with a Ph.D. in creative writing from Oklahoma State University. Her work has been published in Passages North, Cleaver, Potomac Review, Barrelhouse, Fugue, december, Witness, Southern Humanities Review, Willow Springs, Yemassee, Redivider, New Orleans Review, Southeast Review, The Southern Review, Juked, Rattle, Pleiades, SmokeLong Quarterly, Ninth Letter, and Superstition Review. She's currently a postdoctoral fellow at the University of Tennessee. 

'an assailing miasma' — poetry by Sadee Bee

“I am an appetite. Nothing more.”

- Count Orlock, Nosferatu

I am a feast–sublimely–decadent torture.

The kind–once tongue touched–sends prickles down a throat.
An addictive–amuse-bouche. Never enough to satiate–only
enough–to

linger

linger

linger

Many have brought–their appetite–to my feet.
Dined–and supped–until I begged–for reprieve. With
them–followed such darkness–an assailing miasma.

take

take

take

of me–until I can be–consumed no longer.
I am not–a feast–I am pestilence.
Bringing death–dispersing ruin–to men that dare–imbibe.

---

Portal

It is of much consequence–
that I– hand out keys–to my heart.
Only later–to find–their teeth–lodged in my back.
Fingers turn them–all at once–unlatching my skin
revealing a gateway–to a Hellmouth.
Ribs–part like weathered gates–in protest.
Unveiling wrath–between blood and bone.
Perpetual use–dulls the spirit–within here.
Never being the choice–a want–a need.
a damnation–to loneliness–desolation.
To be a whim–a dream–a passing fancy.
Easy to forget–could drive any mind mad.

---

Sadee Bee (They/Them) is a queer artist and writer inspired by magic, strange dreams, and creepy vibes. Sadee is the author of Elgin Award-Nominated Magic Lives In Girls (kith books), & Celestial Bodies / Earthbound Wounds (White Stag Publishing). Bee can be found on Twitter @SadeeBee, on Instagram @sadee__bee, and the web at www.sadeebee.com

' ghost of cinnamon, wet dog & bog blood' — poetry by Trista Edwards

Milk Shadow Has a Pregnancy Dream & Meets Mama Mud-Nest

clay-heavy barrel she rolls eyes sleep sticky as snail milk
shadow descends to hum swaying cool under ceiling fan
& dreams sweet like tapped maple tiny hand claws tic
nighttime tics milk shadow cows to cockcrow stay sticky
more time briny tide licks the hum tongue mud body heart
twig gathered hair candy shell damp ink halo tight dream
deeper mama mud-nest is here baby house critter-maker
droop belly & breasts yawn empty milk no worries mama
mud-nest is here sleep little shadow sleep milk sleep belly
sleep critter & wade ink deep milk shadow mama is here

---

Earth Hatchling

Scent of clung earth, his first perfume—
muck of silt, rust-bloom, ghost of cinnamon, 
wet dog & bog blood. Mama Mud-Nest pulses 
a riverine flood. Twigs a shudder & pelt matted, 
damp with the history of skin. Shell-shards break 
to a crown of pearly blue—he blinks, 
a swamp jewel, slick & new, daubed in preening oil. 
Splayed like star anise inside hollow bone. 
The grand creature unfurls atop the bower 
of his exit. Mama Mud-Nest contracts 
his old cradle from her mossy cup, ink gloss
& feral musk—the breath of earth’s core, still hot
with the body’s deep work. Nest & hatchling
smolder in the primordial spoor of their becoming.

These poems are from DEATH ROLL, a new book out with White Stag Publishing.

---

Trista Edwards is a poet, editor, and scholar whose work dwells in the intersections of folklore, myth, and the macabre. She is the author of the poetry collections Death Roll (White Stag Publishing, 2026) and Spectral Evidence (April Gloaming Press, 2020). Her creative projects often draw from Southern Gothic themes and speculative literature, interests that also inform her personal life as an avid horror fan.

Currently, Trista serves as an Acquisitions Specialist and Developmental Editor at Atmosphere Press, an independent hybrid publisher based in Austin, Texas. Her editorial portfolio includes editing the anthologies #BLOODLORE (White Stag Press, 2025) and Till the Tide (Sundress Publications, 2015). Her own writing has been featured in a variety of literary journals, including The Adroit Journal, 32 Poems, and Southeast Review.

Trista earned her Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the University of North Texas after completing her M.A. and B.A. at the University of West Georgia. She lives in Hiram, Georgia, with her husband and two children, where she is currently at work on her debut novel.

You can find more of her work at www.tristaedwards.com.

'Make of me a piecemeal mound' — poetry by Matthew Gustafson

BRUTALIST SONNET

A gray June and a broken porch, the sun lost and the neighbor biking. / With the grandeur of two corpses thrown in a grave our spines fold into one. / Inside we feel vaguely moved, but after we are quiet, and we don’t address the dying bird caged within our chests. / I visit the graveyard to keep voices alive, and in this decaying summer I find not solace, not comfort, but grim reality. / My parents are buried like brickwork, one casket atop another, fused together by the dirt, the graveyard a foundation of wood and wax I bury my memories and bootsoles in. / When I die, I will do so in small, squarely framed boxes, like the quiet doll of a child that I am. / My tired kintsugi lungs will collapse into themselves like inflatable slides, and the great bruise of the milky way will settle on my stiff skin like dust on an old photo. / A hard year I’ve had of it. / I’ve been gardening, see, my skin caked in sweat and the rose petals all dry, so let me lie, and lend me now your soft, uncracked hands. / Exsanguinate me. / Let me of my blood, drain my tucked away veins of their last warmth, pull them from the house of my body like worn-out heating ducts. / Make of me a piecemeal mound, make of my heaping remains and heap of veins a new kind of art, gather my scattered parts and make of this mess something whole. / Sweep my scraps into russet collage. / Leap into me with such force that even the sky must relent its grasp and for just a moment I’ll hold you entirely so all that exists is you and I in something like a cloud of leaves.

---

Dirge at Dusk

For the dim day. For the long night. For the night pooled in flower pots. For the night that glows under watchful starts, under the half-built moon. For the night on your fingernails, in your downturned pupils. Your hair is the glittering filigree, our hands the moonlit arabesque. For the stars that draw down. For this panopticon we guard, and call the night sky. For the shy god’s handrail that we call a galaxy. For this second story balcony. For the galaxy of breath, loose from my lips. For the galaxy from yours. For how we watch our breath dance away together like proud silver horses. For how beautiful they gallop. For how quickly they fade.

---

Matthew Gustafson has many ghosts stuck in his throat. At first, the poems were meant to be like hot tea, washing the ghosts away and soothing his windpipe, but now he realizes all he's done is give the ghosts a microphone. When not tending to the catacombs of his throat, Matt has found time to graduate from Lafayette College and Stony Brook University, be the Poetry Editor at Folklore Review, and publish poems in The Shore, Eunoia Review, Beaver Magazine, and elsewhere.

'the fever always holds' — poetry by Abbie Allison

my doctor’s folly

darling, darling – cerberus wheezes, and inside it is the smell of his pure smokes, snuffed and hanging heavy in the air.

in this acetylene paradise, i am the meek virgin, the hothouse orchid, the lecher’s baby – i am a lantern’s delicate glowing radiation, flickering off, on, off, on. the night trundles along outside, but in here – in this garden of indelible metal, my feverish cries bead and dissolve like paper on my tongue.

he thinks of himself as god, as a light eating the days from the rounded heat of my body, but god hurts the world in elements, not in love. his kiss is my head gated under water. his flush is an anchored body choking. three deaths in an hour. there is no devil, not in here – hiroshima’s ash coating was a man’s sin. darling, darling.

in this paradise, the fever always holds.

(Note: Diction taken from Fever 103° by Sylvia Plath)

---

Abbie Allison is an emerging writer and poet from Hanceville, Alabama, infatuated with themes that work through grief, girlhood, religion, and southern culture. She is a current undergraduate student at The University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, where she studies criminology and writes opinion articles for The Crimson White. Her fiction work can be found in The Reprise.

'those petty midnights' — poetry by Zoë Davis

Value

Remember when our currency was horses?
I’d buy a stable full of you
trade in unicorns
an unusual bargain
back when we both knew
the going rate
hooves churning
gold topped milk crests
wild thundering plains. I’d be moved
if we purchased a loaf of bread
sure in the knowledge of oil-slicked flanks
muscles straining beneath
a wealth of polished hide
more precious than paper
worth more than the value
it claims to hold.

---

Heroes

To our darling selves, we chimed, running with stick guns and darting finger-swords.

You you you. Always you. How the world swelled at those petty midnights; how we lost shoes
and wore each other home.

I never told you how I felt. It was heavy business to twist the dagger so. Tetanus shot of leaded
air. Parking lot arsonist dipped in burger grease.

Divine.

You stalked me home, slipped slick palm into mine, said is it pennies that smell like rain or is rain just God’s loose change?

They said it was a cigarette. Drifting you to sleep.

---

Zoë Davis is an emerging writer from Sheffield, England. She's a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can't do by playing wheelchair rugby league. In her free time she writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant, Dust and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she's always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat. 

'my dear vesuvius' — poetry by jp thorn

there is one who watches over you

my dear vesuvius, you’re overdue on eruption: tiny screw still
turns into the frame of our body, we’re deconstructing though
true will hovers above; it is compassionate & sage.

it’s when we speak i hear crows lodged in your throat rasp out,
unaware you forgot to postscript the future, blissfully pompeii.

fear itself frightened sinks talons deep into your larynx; a sore
throat makes you tremble towards death, speak hoarsely about
specter kids who stalk from around corners, toying you with
hypotheticals until you’ve gotta test the placebo effect of suicidal
ideation for yourself,

right back to scarceness of childhood bedrooms where you’d rest
your head on some god’s eyelids, sleep to dvd menus & train
sounds as they pooled into one great ocean at her feet. there, you
are free from trying, held only to self-made standards though time-
clouds weather, oftentimes more scalding than lax.

nowadays, do you still wish to flee? two tickets purchased because
i’ll probably go, too, palm your remainders into my pockets then
head for the door, notice a shadow break inches of light through
the keyhole: maybe you were right about us always being watched.

---

jp thorn is a queer, neurodivergent artist & 2026 best of the net nominee. raised in & returned to the bible belt, they advocate for destigmatization & radically open communication with work inspired by humanness, reframing traditionalism, therapeutic processes, unlearning patriarchy, identity, & global patterns. you can find more of their them at www.thorn.jp

'In the doom tunnel' — poetry by Melissa Eleftherion

my myth

I ate the four seeds that kept me tethered - a bridge, a gold watch

I shed the battle cry landscape

I reckoned with my doom agent

My automatic clock, my heart on the grid

Layers of skin just shred for the compost

Layers of skin on the meat slicer

In the doom tunnels I channel my latent id

My shadow warrior

My pain

I lash a dungeon wall

I lash a dungeon wall & eat cheese

I’m such a good girl

I am a good girl dreamscape

In the doom tunnel

---

Queen of Cups / Ammonoid

Predaceous wisp

Thetamorph of thunder

& catastrophe

Innocuous sweet clawing

A flesh of needs

Why interrupture

Sinks / a dream

Capture abrupt

Like jaws

Between its eyes

Why & why again

The compulsion

To drown with one’s love

Thirteen chambers where I can sometimes hide

A sea of indexes

When the clouded

Wash of your heart

Tamps my fire chalice

I secrete in chasms

Protect a

“soft interior from damage”

The mud of your ancient

Shell a longing

I can no longer endure

---

Melissa Eleftherion (she/they) is a writer, a librarian, and a visual artist. Born & raised in Brooklyn, they are the author of four poetry collections: field guide to autobiography (The Operating System, 2018), gutter rainbows (Querencia Press, 2024), Suture (Cooper Dillon, 2026) & Malocchia (White Stag, 2026) as well as twelve chapbooks including abject sutures (above/ground press, 2024). Her work has been widely published in venues like Quarter after Eight, Sixth Finch, & Verse Daily, & received numerous nominations for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Melissa now lives in Northern California where she manages the Ukiah Branch Library, curates the LOBA Reading Series, and serves as Poet Laureate Emeritus of the City of Ukiah. Recent work is available at www.apoetlibrarian.wordpress.com.

'Love me as a wilderness' — Ruth Martinez

When I Sing Blue

Love me when a memory seizures me
to those acts of violation,
when a long emptiness follows,
the moon in the window cracks and falls
and the spider won’t quit crawling up my spine.

When I become a day moon, love me,
for I am a round thin host placed on the tongue of the sky,
melting into the west.

Love me as I step from Salvation Army-food stamp bower,
section 8 haunted house,
ditch road dusting my feet as I wail-walk the waterways,
looking for my drowned self in reflections of crane-shadow moon.

Love me as a sun-stained flower in glass.
Love me as a painting framed in gold on the floor of a burnt museum.
Love me as a wilderness alight, drought candle opening evergreen seedlings.

As if you are the promise that peeled me back from the edge of a building, as if you are petals of wind, and I,
footsteps of a garden as it dances in your spring dawn.

---

Ruth Martinez lives in Burque, New Mexico. As a child she listened to rain birds, horses, migratory birds and the stories of the grown-ups in Spanish and English. She has published short essays and poetry in Ofrenda Magazine, LunaLuna, Cordella Press, Poetry As Promised, Witchology Magazine, The Hopper, Black Moon Magazine and Ice Floe Press. She co-wrote an Indie book of poetry, Crow Moon, with her good comadre Anna Griego, and Bottlecap Press published thier chapbook Root Women. In her spare time, she reads poetry and fantasy novels, dabbles in art journaling, strolls through botanic gardens, and hikes in the mountains, where she has encountered cougars on three occasions. She cannot choose a favorite book. She’s a hoarder.

You can follow her on Instagram @blackberrybramblebooks and @veranotaos.

'lost in the rapture of man' — poetry by Ian Berger

[A freckle at her sun’s eye]

A freckle at her sun’s eye in

the windows of the nursery

I will mange, that graceless, through the

frames of saints along the walls

A rapture that I left in her

old garden tub upstairs is

bleeding through her mother’s cupboard

on the dollhouse chairs she kept

And should they plea, should she let

her children see the vanity fair

at last, I will know her from afar

as she spreads blankets on the floor,

and ask something of her savior

whilst the cattails pierce her blouse

---

[Or a cherub cast in resin]

Or a cherub cast in resin that

the girl who bled in the garden tub

will practice nursing in her sundress

when the doors to the parlor are closed

somewhere in the daylight, leaking through

the windows ’til it peels the moulding clean

Whilst her brothers whine at mother

for the cider in the cupboard—reaching,

unrepentant—spoiled, I said please.

Whilst their father wanders the activity bus

with girls he baptized in the aughts

and asks them, halos in his teeth,

where they find such pretty dresses that,

he hopes, will flatter his daughter’s eyes at service

---

[Whilst the boys, in their study]

Whilst the boys, in their study, pick

a harvest for their lessons in

the greenhouse, carrying, to their

mothers, baskets of sprouts and

parsnips, I will follow her through the years,

to where their paper mache and cabbages

fell, “Ages past,” she said, “lost in the

rapture of man.”

And whilst the boys

set the table for lunch in the

parlor, I will taste the kind foxglove

with my heart in her teeth, and see,

from the windows of the manor, the lady

in the curtains mouth the name of a saint

---

Ian Berger is a writer and teacher in Wilson, North Carolina. He is currently studying literature and political science while working in the public school system. In the meantime, when he is not writing poems—that is, often; between visits from kindly muses—he cooks for his partner and collects books.

'Stop trying to write something beautiful' — poetry by Diana Whitney

There’s No Normal Anymore, Says the Minister of Farming

June high pressure sweeps out the dross. Tree pollen, grass pollen, weed pollen floating lush on the breeze, dusting the dashboards, settling on the lake like a skein of saffron. Celestial bodies above our bodies enact a story of anguish and will. On Friday, Mercury stations direct and passes the demon star, Algol. Our girl sits on the porch screaming: It happened to me, it happened when I was 12, I’m the one who has to live in this fucking town where nobody believes me. The peonies ignite. The poppies explode in a riot of crimson. I want to plant myself among the flaming blooms and lift their silk dresses, touch their black tongues. I want to channel the cycle of yearn and release. No one is sleeping long or deeply. The cats roam the gardens under a waxing moon. A bear cub wanders through the high school parking lot. Our girl sneaks out after midnight and doesn’t get caught. You’re chugging Benadryl and coffee, red-eyed out weeding the corn, trying to survive Gemini season. I’m riding high on June rocket fuel, waking to the woodpecker knocking at dawn. We know it can’t last, the dog days are coming, so why not go out in a blaze of solar fire, gobbling up the flowers like a supernova.

---

Hum

The clothes in my closet hang drab & forlorn skins
without a body I want to swap them

for somebody else’s life

I want one perfect sundress all summer long

In the soup of late August I outrun
the thunderstorms Goldenrod crackles
in the fields Poison ivy seethes

& shines in the ditches
What if I will always at some level
be sad? At my mother’s house

my ears prick for ghost noises footsteps
up the back stairs breath rattling
the latches

Stop trying to write something beautiful
and write something true My mother

with her fists curled
around two stuffed animals eyelids drooping
or perpetually closed I kiss the soft

hollows of her cheeks stroke the freckled
backs of her hands feel the bones
of her limbs

coming to the surface What will become
of this place we called home? Bats roost
in the attic squirrels scrabble

the walls yellowjackets nest
in joists & doorjambs Beneath
the silence you can hear a hum

something small wanting in
It’s not over yet
far from it

---

Diana Whitney is a queer writer and educator embracing a fierce belief in the power of poetry as a means of connection to self and others. She is the editor of the bestselling anthology You Don’t Have to Be Everything: Poems for Girls Becoming Themselves, winner of the Claudia Lewis Award, and the author of three full-length poetry books, Wanting It, Dark Beds, and Girl Trouble. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, the Kenyon Review, the San Francisco Chronicle, and many other outlets. An advocate for survivors of sexual violence in her Vermont hometown and beyond, Diana works as a developmental editor and a community organizer for a rural LGBTQ+ nonprofit.

'I am a devotee' — poetry by Patricia Grisafi

Oranges at Selinunte

The cafe in the middle
Of one temple and another
Feels right. They have pastries
And espresso and a plexiglass box of oranges
Ripe for squeezing.
I order an espresso because.
Then I ask for an orange. How stupid
To arrive without fruit. I am determined
To leave an offering. I forget
Almost everything including doctor appointments
And intimate partner violence.
I am fine.
There are oranges.
There are tombs.
I put fruit in my bag.
Thistle, snail shells, dust, hard sun
Making me holy in its light. I lived here
I know here
I made this walk
I carried this fruit
I saw these goats
They saw me
On the hill was the gorgon
With her sneer
And we felt safe. This was family.
We cursed and smiled,
It was hot but the sea curled over the hill.
I lost
So much. Bending over
A stone I pretend is God, whispering
Where is home, please take me

---

Dig

Archaeology is self-injury, I want
To visit the museum
Where everyone’s murder
Underwear is blasted under white light
In a sad little room.
We are so in love
With ritual, I have prayed deeply
To wake elsewhere in time,
In a building overlooking the sea,
Everyone gossiping about what
To make for dinner, who didn’t have sardines at the market,
Whose kid is behaving like an animal, wanting
Wanting to fall into a fantasy swirl —
Oh hi, I am from the future, I don’t know I don’t know I wish I knew
Will you just take me
To the crack where hell spills out of the Earth and let me
Inhale black death and be
Eye to eye with it?

---

Before Mary Was

Oh, I prayed. Walked into the black
Box and told a stranger lies
To make it seem I was worse.
I did not want to bore the priest
Like a child entertains her elders
With smiles and twirls.
A woman burned a hole
In my Communion veil with her Virginia Slim.
Very fitting, terrible, solemn,
Tiny hands forming triangles
All so clean instead
Of death humming
Inside, insisting
Once, I was
A woman long dead
Who buried her hands,
Had dusty feet, licked inside
Snail shells for slimy meat,
Everywhere, clinging
In the sun. I walk. Opening
A deep cut with a grin
As blood is power,
Makes the grain.
I don’t have to worry
About Botox or balding.
We will all die young
In the sun, in pain, but in the sun.
I am a devotee.
The god is my sea.
I collect wild parsley.
Before all that was good and kind
Was the veil and the door.
We all kept our eyes
On the moon and what fell
From the trees.
Burial was simple.
No one was pure.
What was a sin.
I lie, have always lied, I am the queen of lies.
My heels drag. I never
Sleep, but I must have known
Salt crusting skin, once, and was free.

---

Patricia Grisafi, PhD, is a New York City-based freelance writer, editor, and occasional professor. Her work has appeared in Salon, The Guardian, LARB, CNN, NBCThink, MSNBC, VICE, Bustle, Narratively, SELF, Catapult, The Rumpus, Ravishly, and elsewhere. Trish's interests include horror and the Gothic, feminism, mental health, parenting, and representations of mental illness in popular culture. She is the author of Breaking Down Plath (Jossey-Bass), a literary companion on Sylvia Plath for middle and high school students. Her debut poetry collection, Animal, is available from White Stag.

'come enflesh our feast' — poetry by Haley Hodges

SUBSERVIENT

I am drawn from your rib.
God plucked me
from your chest,
could thrust me in again.
Since we are dust, love,
tell me what sort of dust
to be. Shall I settle on you, or
shall you breathe me in and later
cough me up, wiping me from
your wet lips, from the brow
that sweats for its bread?

---

GOOD ANIMAL

I was your good animal,
your tiger eye. You were my

one ruling
roar. I was your

jungle smut but far
more, a like-minded
beast.

Come palm come fern come vine
we said, come green

to greater green, come enflesh

our feast. So fast! I was your
good animal, not best. Not

first, or last.

---

Haley Hodges received her MFA from Seattle Pacific University in 2025. She holds additional qualifications from Hope College, Shenandoah Conservatory, and Oxford University. Her work has been featured in Cassandra Voices, Ekstasis Magazine, t'ART, Reformed Journal and elsewhere. Her debut book of poems, Eros Rex, is forthcoming from Orison Books in 2026.