'flowers of hell, bonded in glitter' — poetry by Katie Doherty

Slice

A slice of you, in two
I cannot bear the fractured play of the undying pasture of your youth.

Dependence and diplomacy are falling, ranges of tangible feelings.
Corpse bright,
corpse light – a tinge of the edge of madness.

In the flight of the moon,
the green tides grow, and I fade into
the night.

---

Copper Flavoured

Copper flavoured beetroot,
ground born and tattered in the wind,
fly-by fresh natives coagulate in June.

Fortuitous flatlands carry their seeds,
the wine tastes like butter – forgone and foreseen.

Flagellation feeds into the corners of the mind,
hung dry and fostered into congenital species.

The fires burn in times where mob rules,
seize the flowers of hell, bonded in glitter
and soaked in blood.

---

Katie Doherty is an editor, curator and writer based in London. She founded the Black Flowers Arts Journal in 2020 and has worked in underground publishing since 2006. Her work has been published by Black Flowers Press, A Cafe in Space: The Anais Nin Literary Journal, East London Press, Tangerine Press, Paper and Ink, Resurrection Magazine, Analog Submission Press and Between Shadows Press.

Website: www.blackflowers.online

Instagram: @kissofthevelvetwhip

'it is the scent of death and it is a wolfish girl' — poetry by Lena Kinder

pray ; wish

---

wolfish

---

Lena Kinder has an MA in creative writing from the University of Southern Mississippi and is pursuing an MFA in creative writing at Hollins University. Her works can be found in or forthcoming from Wigleaf, Salt Hill, Pinch, Flash Frog, and more. She is the editor-in-chief of Folklore Review. You can find more on about Lena at https://lenakinder.squarespace.com/

'plotting like a diabolical orchid' — poetry by Laura Cronk

USING UP THE BOYS

the boys weren’t promising
weren’t courtly didn’t clean up well

their lithe nonchalance at halftime
was unsustainable in any official capacity

when they were with us
they were too embarrassed to get the door

too uncertain to pay a compliment
or smooth our hair with elegant calloused hands

we lived in the country where mixed messages
bottlenecked between front cortex and bright nerves

I filled out forms and got the summer job
spending hours at the register studying them

plotting like a diabolical orchid
to drink their sadness

lap it from cheek hollows
sip from clavicles

drink like a cut flower
waist deep in freshwater

---

THERE HE IS, LOUNGING IN MY CHEST

thirsty though rainwet
forever no age
gorgeous
in menswear designed
for the end of the world
pale blue sequined shirt
navy high waisted
sequined pants-
as GQ said, how else are
we supposed to live?
how could I have been
so tranquilized?
when the devil himself
was there all along
pushing his hair back
to make real eye contact

---

Laura Cronk, is a poet and essayist and is the author of two books from Persea Books: Ghost Hour (2020) and Having Been an Accomplice (2012), winner of the Lexi Rudnitsky First Book Prize.  Her poems, essays and interviews have appeared in anthologies and publications including the Best American Poetry series, the Academy of American Poets, Big Other, The Bennington Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Court Green, The Curator, Iterant, Lit Hub, The Literary Review,  Public Seminar, and WSQ. She was the founding poetry editor for The Inquisitive Eater: New School Food and is currently an associate editor with Tupelo Quarterly. For many years she curated the Monday Night Poetry Series at KGB Bar. She has presented panels on reframing the writers' workshop and the ethics of writing nonfiction. In her teaching practice, she is especially interested in collaborative pedagogical methods. Her work supporting writers at The New School has included programming The Summer Writers Colony, the Writing & Democracy Honors Program, and the BA in Creative Writing. She is a member of the feminist writing collective The Matrix.

---

'even in wilds, it sins' — poetry by Ann DeVilbiss

Dreams Inside the Glass Case

As I heal, leisure falls around me like a dawn-gray glove.

My nails grow long and indolent, clicking along the nightstand

when I reach for water, any water. I drift out on pills

forget-me-not blue, temper their chalk with candied jellies

feeling how I imagine the rich do: cared for without apology.

The bed is a tomb where I pray for the lazarus day to

come quickly, flat on my back under cotton shrouds, pain

the little dog nipping at my heels. A certain kind of woman

is allowed to rest so I don her mask. When I slip under

a technicolor parade of gems moving through the dark.

---

Palm Oasis

Because I fear the mountain

I climb it, braced and trembling.

In every direction the rock pushing

slant from earth, spiked land laden

with cholla, creosote, joshua trees

keeping watch for fire and rain alike.

My steps press the dust, among

the millions of visitors, of years.

Life retreats behind dead growth when

season is harsh. No shade, no succor

ranges grazing the sun like hard knuckles

until day’s leave when the dusklight slips

into the oasis how an unzipped dress

falls from the shoulders of a beauty,

quiet pierced by revved engines because

this is America; even in wilds, it sins.

What sweetness in its sour belly,

these lands kept separate, for now.

Shriveled pomegranates rattle in wind

bells of the underworld.

How did I luck into so much

here at the end of everything.

---

Ann DeVilbiss (she/her) has work published or forthcoming in Appalachian Review, Columbia Journal, The Missouri Review, and elsewhere. She has received support from the Kentucky Arts Council and the Kentucky Foundation for Women. Her little book of spell poems, The Red Chorus, is available from White Stag Publishing. A founding member of the Sublimity City Poetry Collective, she lives and works in Louisville.

'I birth my own being' — poetry by Nichole Turnbloom

Pheromone

It is (you, I want) a mystery you maintain

distraction or eccentricities (to suffer) an assay

to distinguish between substance and absence,

a figure of imagination (in myself I am) your figure of speech.

A lion waiting (aware of this): all must come to the watering hole,

patience is not a virtue, it is a necessary pawn,

when one surrenders, the throat grows soft--

the wind carries the scent of Circe.

Note: Italics in parentheticals are Sappho fragment 26 as translated by Anne Carson

---

Eros shook my mind

Apricot blooms burst
into a perfume piquant
with the possibility
of our
convergence. 

Hungry (for battle)
I hear the conch shell’s
ballads of life
in love
with itself.

Dying to live,
falling to awaken 
your breath
moves
mountains.

I birth my own being.

Note: The title is Sappho fragment 47 as translated by Anne Carson.

---

Nichole Turnbloom has MFA in poetry and completed additional training through the institute for Poetic Medicine.You can read her work in Acumen, Journal of Westbrae Literary Group, The Branches, Spillwords, and is forthcoming in IWWG’s 2025 Anthology Write Forward among various other venues.  

'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.