'pulled from dark stars' — poetry by Devan Murphy

ANGER AGENT (SCORPIO SUN)

Pulled from dark stars. Armored
luck, hot with breath.

My first planet is a heartbeat; my second
is dimmer and of the dead.

My attachment to the world is a knife floating
above my forehead and it’s how I make my way.

Dramatic taproot! I am my own rider and this knife
points only at my mouth; you couldn’t catch it.

However we originate, no matter the sky,
we are all fierce until we are not:

in dreams I shimmer
and am small.

---

ABSORBER (PISCES MOON)

Dreamed up by melting orbs. Scaly
assurance, shy and weepy with regret.

I take to my ice giant to forget. I am last in a loop—
a band no tine could puncture or divvy.

My attachment to the world is a crepe-paper
lantern over the sea: it cannot allure forever.

I am covered by the universe and I give
unto the universe. This concert of light pricks the eyes.

I melt. The lantern won’t resurface. You’ll see—after more
centuries, I will go beyond the farthest beyond.

Alone, I build fortresses
from fins, scales.

---

Devan Murphy is the author of the chapbook I'm Not I'm Not I'm Not a Baby (Ethel 2024), a collection of prose poems and essays and abstract comics about God and loneliness. Her writing and illustrations have appeared or are forthcoming in Electric Literature, The Cincinnati Review, -ette, The Iowa Review, Gigantic Sequins, and elsewhere. You can find her online at devmurphy.club or on Instagram @gytrashh. She resides in Pittsburgh with her cat, Buddy, where she writes wikiHow articles and personality quizzes for a living.

'In dreams it’s your hands I see' — poetry by Kirun Kapur

Raga of the Reports
(for my father)

When it snapped, the thread of time, that chime—
god’s veena string—a line of melody I called life, 

it ended. The moon creaked off its hinge, wind blew in 
the little coffins of my ears, 

my mouth opened, I found a field—
pathless, unpeopled, fireflies: off-on, off-off. 


*

In dreams it’s your hands I see—peeling pith from an orange, midair telling a story, stirring sugar into tea, gesturing the makhta, lifting a splinter from my good-girl feet. 

It’s your voice—the only one to say my name the way god says it. 

I say my name in rooms, chairs full, the air conditioned, lights livid as if for surgery. I sound like I’m importing myself. 

When I open my mouth, I see the quince is in its glory. When I open my
mouth I hope to find

that line of sound—my name, chime of you and me, of time,

a coral blossom. In the mind. In the mouth.
In the yard, a whole bush shaking with sparrows. 


*

When the doctor couldn’t look at me. When she read out the report I’d already read—
the quince was glorious. I smelled the perfumed air. I felt the little mind. My mind 

became a coffin, then a field. Do you have questions, asked the doctor in the moon? 
I closed my eyes and listened to you call my name. My god. In the chime that used to be my life. 

*

God said, let there be light. God said, let the flowers and the little coffins bloom. God said, time and fathers—all there is. You must open your mouth 

and speak the world. You must import yourself to the field called life.

I repeat my name. My date of birth. 

I went to bed a person. Woke up a patient that first time, 
your hand on my forehead declaring 

I had cold-body-fever, rubbing Ram Tel, god’s oil, over my scraped palms. 

I went to bed a person and woke up sweating on a train. 
Never eat the dessert, you used to say. The fields 

of rice streaked by. I dozed and woke to find a charpai 

full of turbaned men playing cards outside the window. I wondered. I woke again. Would you be at the station? At my bedside with a book? 

Your hands. I see them— 

I went to bed and a song went by
and now another man putting his hand on mine saying my name the wrong way, saying 

Dexamethasone, Isatuximab, Lenalidomide, I’m saying 

soon there will be lilacs. The quince has passed. I cut the last prickly branches. I wait for the lilac to choke me with perfume. 

*

Once you brought me to a holy man. He told me not to put my nose too close to his roses. I could inhale small bugs. But you said every tiny thing makes a song. The holy know 

the syllables. The songs of all the little living things. Thick silky roses hung over dry pavers in the mid-June heat. Gulab. Gulabi. The monsoon 

hadn’t come, yet there was this pink lushness. I think of it now 
pressing my face to my own not-yet lilacs. Who knows what’s inside

when you open your mouth. Your mind. When you will wake up 
a dry field of study. 

What kind of syllables are the doctor’s? Divine 
enough to fill the little coffins? Lush 

enough for all the little living things? 

*

When god spoke in her ear, filled her night with fireflies. When she was 
pronounced out of herself and into the field of care—

A dream of roses. A dream of hands on her forehead. Her god-name spinning her into the world.

*

Saraswati plays the veena. The whole world vibrates with sound. Oh, the sound of your name in the mouth of the ones who love you. Oh, the little melody 

of love. Of fear. Of fever. Of flowers about to bloom.  Listen, listen—
strings of the veena 

calling  

*

It’s too hot when the lilacs finally bloom. Smell so intense it feels 
like sound. 

*

In waiting rooms, I give my name, my date of birth. In moon rooms,
on lunar dates. In scanners, the lights blink on and off.  I listen to the hum—

*

The goddess plays the veena. Flowers bloom and bloom. 
Fingers picking out the melody. Fingers laying down the drone. 

The holy wrote: the human throat 
is a sareer veena—moan and hum 

of the universe inside you. The rhyme of time. Open your mouth 
to find the lilac after the quince, the song-flower of your mind. 

*

On the day I first put the chemicals in my veins— 

On the first day I use a medicine that will ruin my body to save my life,
learning to tune myself to that string of syllables

19 children are shot in a school.

This poem should stop. All the blood should stop in every vein. 

What’s the use?

The broken veena string, the smashed chime— 

all the gods and goddesses 
should be stricken from the page. 

We open our mouths—

horror error sorrow terror— 

We open and close our mouths—

The syllable sobs 
of life keep pouring into the light—

Name. Date of Birth. 

The child blinking into the field. The field 
filled with little coffins. 

How will we bear the song?
How can any other story go on?

We open our mouths 
and lay the flowers on the graves.

Off-on-off-off. Even today—

Stop, I say. Stop.

The notes have changed. The raga continues to play,

the nurse repeats the syllables of my life. A new music—

report after report. Name after name 

nothing stops

How can a song contain it?
How can a vein? 

It should not. 
I open my mouth 

and here’s the nurse with the needle
saying my name.

Here’s a father with an inconsolable bouquet.
Here’s a god-tune in my ear. Saying,

listen, listen—

you were always just a little variation 
of one little refrain 

listen, listen—

the monsoon after the white-hot June.

---

Kirun Kapur is a poet, editor, teacher and translator. She is the author of three books of poetry, Visiting Indira Gandhi’s Palmist (Elixir Press, 2015) which won the Arts & Letters Rumi Prize and the Antivenom Poetry Award; Women in the Waiting Room (Black Lawrence Press, 2020), a finalist for the National Poetry Series; and the chapbook All the Rivers in Paradise (UChicago Arts, 2022). Her work has appeared in Ploughshares , AGNI, Poetry International, Prairie Schooner and many other journals. She serves as editor at the Beloit Poetry Journal and teaches at Amherst College, where she is director of the Creative Writing Program.

'our gaze aqueous' — poems by Gioele Galea (translated by Abigail Ardelle Zammit)

08

Unyielding
in our head
the thought of water

and our gaze aqueous. 

Asking 
what our eyes bespeak   
is pointless. 

From water
no sound issues forth,
and no sound remains
in its hold.


Insistenti
ġo rasna
l-idea tal-ilma
u ħarsitna fluwida.
Nistaqsu
x’inhuma għajnejna
ma jrendix.
Mill-ilma
ma jqumx ħoss,
u ħoss ma jżommx
ġo ħoġru.

---

09

Look, everything has receded.

Down to sounds,
one by one,
falling dead
in our laps;
and there’s nothing to revive them,
not even our lips.

What could 
this water be, so still
as far as our sight can carry?  

Our eyes open,
as if within them 
the horizon awakes.  


Ara, kollox ċeda.
Sal-ħsejjes,
wieħed wieħed,
waqgħu mejta
f’ħoġorna;
u m’hemmx x’jirxuxtahom,
lanqas fommna.
Xi jkun
dan l-ilma mank imkemmex
sa fejn tagħtina l-ħarsa?
B’għajnejna miftuħin,
donnu ġo fihom
iqum ix-xefaq.

---

10

Yes,
you may
lose your eyes 
forever;
they might
never return
to your face.

If
the water takes them
the sky will swallow them up.

Have you ever
seen pools
not taken up 
by blueness?


Iva,
għandek mnejn
titlifhom għal dejjem
għajnejk;
għandhom mnejn
ma jerġgħux
lura f’wiċċek.
Jekk
jeħodhomlok l-ilma
jiblagħhomlok is-sema.
Qatt
rajt għadajjar
mhumiex meħuda
mill-kħula?

---

11

To renew
the mortified pool of your soul 
the sky sends water. 

Have you ever
seen it looking at you    
once more 
after rain?

Renewing you,
and letting go.
Lest you 
bind it through your gaze.


Biex iġedded
l-għadira umiljata ta’ ruħek
jibgħat l-ilma s-sema.
Qatt
rajtu jħares lejk
darb’oħra
wara x-xita?
Iġeddek,
u jitilqek.
Li ma tmurx
torbtu b’ħarstek.

---

12

What’s there 
to keep 
of your soul?

Water 
escapes 
from your hands
and the sun and wind
dry them up.

You’d be burying it
in a desert if you 
bury your face.
in your palms.


X’hemm
xi żżomm
minn ruħek?
Jaħrabl-ilma
minn idejk
u x-xemx u r-riħ
inixxfuhomlok.
Fil-pali,
tkun tidfnu ġo deżert
jekk tidfen wiċċek.

---

Gioele Galea read theology at the University of Malta. For fourteen years, he led a solitary life in a hermitage. He has published seven collections of poetry, including Ifrixli Ħdanek Beraħ (Malta: PalPrints Publications, 1996), Dija (Malta: Carmelite Institute, 2012), Bla Qiegħ' (Horizons, 2015), Għera (Malta: Horizons, 2018), Ilma (Malta: Horizons, 2022), al of which give witness to an uncompromising spiritual journey where bareness is as overwhelming as it is essential. Galea has also published two prize-winning hybrid memoirs, Tħabbat Xtaqtek (Malta: Horizons, 2017) u In-Nar Għandu Isem (Malta: Horizons, 2020). His poetry has been translated into English and Arabic. 

Abigail Ardelle Zammit is a Maltese writer, editor and educator whose poetry and reviews have appeared in international journals and anthologies including CounterText, Black Iris, Matter, Tupelo Quarterly, Boulevard, Gutter, Modern Poetry in Translation, Mslexia, Poetry International, The SHOp, Iota, Aesthetica, Ink, Sweat and Tears, High Window, O:JA&L, The Ekphrastic Review, Smokestack Lightning (Smokestack, 2021) and The Montreal Poetry Prize Anthology 2022 (Véhicule Press, 2023).  Abigail’s poetry collections are Leaves Borrowed from Human Flesh (Etruscan Press, Wilkes University, 2025), Portrait of a Woman with Sea Urchin (London: SPM, 2015) and Voices from the Land of Trees (UK: Smokestack, 2007).  She has co-authored two bilingual pamphlets (Half Spine, Half Wild Flower – Nofsi Spina, Nofsi Fjur Selvaġġ) and written A Seamus Heaney guidebook for high-school students. 

Trouble by Catherine Kyle

BY CATHERINE KYLE

Trouble

I dreamt I was a tree, deep in a forest. My roots were wound around a boulder covered with moss and needles I had shed. A voice in the dream said, “See—you’ve become so accustomed to this pain, you’ve grown yourself around it.” 

Even then, my roots did not let the boulder go. Even then, they clung to it like a precious creature sheltered, a satchel held close to the chest.

*

I do not know how to speak about this. I do not know the word for watching someone I love become, voluntarily and involuntarily, swallowed by a garment they put on. I do not know the cry to make as the fur grows over their hands. I do not know what plea to scream as the collar grows over their face. As the line between the sleeve and their skin disappears. 

A thing that transcended words. Words, the most reliable life raft I had known. 

*

I dreamt I was battling a beast in the woods. Snow made crystals on the ground. In the dream, I was flat on my back, lifting a shield with one exhausted arm. The beast pounded on it, scratched at it, knocking its jewels loose. It roared terribly, shaking snow from the bare branches. Its body moved, reckless and relentless. But the eyes were those of someone I loved. In anguish. As horrified as I was.

The eyes spoke in words I do not know. The beast’s breaths, rising through the cold air in puffs, were words I do not know. 

*

I do not know what to say when someone I love says, voice shaking, “If it is here, I will drink it”—then goes to the market, returns home, and fills the shelves with it. When my questioning of this, soft as a sparrow, is met with snarls and barks.

Whom am I speaking to, in these moments? The person, or the beast? 

* 

How many monsters can a heart contain? How many selves can dwell there? I imagine myself the way the beast must have seen me—a hindrance, a noisy gnat. 

I imagine myself the way the person must have seen me, but here, there is only a void. I imagine myself as two eyes pleading, the silence of lifting a shield. 

*

When everything explodes, when the powder keg of the home finally flashes into cinders, I dream I am hanging from a single board of its wreckage, dangling over a cliff. Smoke pours from the ruins of the home. The board I am gripping is charcoal. A voice in the dream whispers to me, “All you have to do is let go.” 

I know I will hit every rock on the way down. I know the sea is there to catch me. 

I unlock my fingers like roots from the board. I fall and fall and fall. 

* 

Foam and salt slice every red wound. I float on my back, gaze skyward. I have no name for the pillar of smoke at the cliff’s edge that used to be a home. I have no name for the absence of a figure that might have stood there and gazed back. 

I swim because the stars have no language, just presence. I swim because the waves have no words, just a pulse. I swim because my own heart is present and pulsing. I let these things carry me on. 

Catherine Kyle is the author of Fulgurite (Cornerstone Press, forthcoming), Shelter in Place (Spuyten Duyvil, 2019), and other poetry collections. She was the winner of the 2019-2020 COG Poetry Award, a finalist for the 2021 Mississippi Review Prize in poetry, and a finalist for the 2021 Pinch Literary Awards. She works as an assistant professor at DigiPen Institute of Technology, where she teaches creative writing.

Checking my Dead Mother’s Horoscope by Alicia Turner

BY ALICIA TURNER

“the dead / borrow so little from / the past / as if they were alive.”

A Little White Shadow — Mary Ruefle

Shadow Work (on Checking my Dead Mother’s Horoscope)

It’s a Tuesday morning.
I am scrolling through an online obituary guestbook to relive my mother’s life.

She’s immortalized on the top of the page — the photo a scanned copy of a Polaroid from a throwaway camera that I once begged her to develop.

She’s wearing a solid white t-shirt — one that she changed out of just moments after the photo was taken, in fear of spilling something on it.

I always remember the minor moments, but not the mess. And I hate that about myself.

My mother went missing and was declared dead on the same day: Tuesday, October 17th, 2006.

Her body wasn’t found until weeks later, in the passenger seat of my uncle’s beaten-down, blue truck, nestled in muddy water and the river’s rage —

which is to say that she gave herself back to the earth and is the reason the earth has something to grieve.

Then, at fourteen, I colored it painfully ironic – that blue was her favorite color, and she never stopped moving, and she loved to swim. I was sure when the truck accelerated that she saw the sky in the rear view. Tested time, balled up her fists, and fought fate. Told fate to “Go fuck itself,” like she’d tell anyone who held her down, who told her to be still.

My mother was a twisting, turning thing. My mother was reckless in still water.

***

I’ve always said with certainty that October 17th was “blue.” On that day, the rain was relentless. I didn’t bring an umbrella to school because no one predicted it —

not even the weekly forecast in the back of the countertop magazines (* that my mother would refuse to get rid of solely for the horoscope sections). She was a real-life laugh track and a heavy heart (a proclaimed Leo rising), who loved to have her life be read back to her.

But not me, no — all Virgo. I’ve always been too afraid of flying off the page, to show up for life, to slow down. I’ve always been too careful to go puddle jumping for the fear of tracking messes – but my mother encouraged it. She liked predicted chaos, as simple and complex as it was.

***

This is the part where I transition into telling you that I tracked her body for weeks. And I tell you that the water was too elevated to find her. That October 17th was blue because it bruised me like a punch to the gut. Like a gut feeling. And you want to tell me that “it’s not [my] fault,” but I am not a blameless God. I am no God at all.

But on that day the moon was in Virgo.

And the moon controls the tides.

And rivers eventually end up flowing into oceans.

I make-believe that the sky helped me intuit the words she needed to her — and trust that I had the best view of her life.

While irrational, I wish I would’ve called it sooner. Not waited for her to call.

Not pretended to believe in underwater voyages where I spent whole days holding my breath.

Because now I think of her every time I find a phone book.

I think of her every time it’s bright out and twice when it rains.

I always check the weather before I leave the house, because I like predictions. Predictability.

And I always check my horoscope.

***

Today, it tries to teach me the difference between surface and depth:

“There’s a grand water configuration mysteriously guiding your hand.

Have you heard the water is still rising?”

From somewhere behind the shadow work, my mother’s starry-eyed news reads:

“Dear, Leo: Be cautious. Water is the only element that can extinguish your flame. But do not fear — your life is loud, all blazing. You are an incessantly-lit cigarette – no ashes. The river’s mouth is always hungry for more — but so are you.

You will never be caught dead in a white t-shirt, to be a stain on your own life.”

Alicia Turner holds an MA in English and is a grant writer & storyteller. She can be found writing confessional, conversational poetry in an over-priced apartment somewhere in WV. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Four Lines (4lines), CTD's ‘Pen-2-Paper’ project, Voicemail Poems, FreezeRay Poetry, Defunkt Magazine, Sybil Journal, The Daily Drunk, ExPat Press, Rejection Letters Press, Screen Door Review, J Journal Literary Magazine, Sledgehammer Lit, Screenshot Lit, Taint Taint Taint Magazine, Cartridge Lit., Space City Underground, époque press, among others.

After Life by Aimée Keeble

By Aimée Keeble

After Life

When I die, I'm reunited with my parents for thousands of years. I look exactly like I did at twelve and my mom looks thirty-five which makes her happy. My dad is kind of a blur between thirty-seven and eighty. The cocker spaniel is back and so is the cat that ate my hamster. But he's outside because he was always outside. We have a great time, all four of us. There are always half-fizzy two liters of 7Up in the fridge and I wonder if there is any significance to this. We play board games a lot, especially Splat which I think disappeared from retail sometime in the early 90s. It feels good to be in memory. Mary Poppins comes on the TV a lot during the Holidays, and we normally make time to sit down together and watch it. Outside the windows, the sky is gold and moving.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, my dad says to me.

Can you spell it?

S, I start.

No, he says.

S, I say again.

Wrong! He cries out.

I say S a few more times and he's looking at me with his forever eyes, smiling like he's always known he's smarter than me. And I'm so glad about that.

Can you spell it? He asks again.

I look at my mother but she's holding the cocker spaniel like a baby and Dick Van Dyke is talking to penguins. Animals can be distracting.

Can you spell it?

I give up, I tell my dad. I want to fall asleep on the sofa before the movie ends.

I,T! He yells. He's delighted.

I get it, I say. That's so stupid.

The movie ends but I'm awake, trying to backtrack my mind into getting to the answer.

Move on, my dad says.

I can't, my brain won't let me, I answer.

It's dark now and I stand in the doorway calling the cat's name. He doesn't come and so I go further into the yard and say his name a few more times. I turn back and close the front door and stand in the hallway, enjoying the safe night feeling. In life, the cat was the first to go. My dad would have been proud of him.

Aimée Keeble has her Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow and is represented by Ayla Zuraw-Friedland at the Frances Goldin Agency. Aimée lives in North Carolina and is working on her second novel.

A Visit to El Cementerio Viejo by Isa Guzman

BY ISA GUZMAN

A Visit to El Cementerio Viejo
for Titi Paula

Before the trip, I drew the Ten of Swords.

It was the first time going back to La Isla for close to ten years. The first time I would be there as a woman. The last time I was on the island, I was saying my goodbyes to Titi. It has been years, but it was too difficult to imagine the island without her. It wasn't possible to acknowledge it. In my mind, I could still envision her living her life at her house in Ceiba Sur. Feeding the stray chickens, or dogs, or people with whatever she had left in her small kitchen. There was no other truth.

As expected, the trip started out rough. We had to go from San Juan, in the northern part of the island, to Juana Diaz, a town well on the southern coast. We were expecting a long drive, but because of some complications, we only left the capital as the sun was going down. We would drive into the night.

I had gone to the island with my chosen family, and we all had our plans to reconnect with the aspects of island life that always eluded us. Puerto Rico is a place we so desperately want to call home. Distance and time estrange us. I think it is easier for the rest to say this is home, but not me.

Watching the island from the passenger window, I couldn't help but feel each sword pierce me. Who could ignore the failing infrastructure? Unlit and incomplete highways? The empty buildings? The for-sale signs on dozens of houses? That unrelenting thought that I was just a visitor, or worse, an intruder, with no business being here? Even the mountains appeared to turn their faces away from me.

I carried these swords over the next few days and nights. It was difficult to appreciate the views, the sounds, and the calm. There was an impending collapse inside my chest and mind. I spent Sunday night wasted on the balcony of our rental, overlooking a mountainside covered in trees. In the worst of it, a hallucination overwhelmed me with images of figures walking back and forth through the trees. An army of ghosts who refused to approach the house, but would stand in the middle of the road and stare up at me.

Then my turn came. We agreed to a day to take a few hours to drive to Juncos, and make that all important visit. I wanted to visit my family house, but first I had to pay respects to my Titi and the rest of my familia at the Cementerio Viejo.

The day was rain. At least, all I can recall is the rain that poured as we approached the town. My heart jumped at the first houses we saw. The basketball court. The cemetery itself. Little had changed. In fact, the area was doing well compared to many other towns on the island. As soon as we stopped, I got out of the car and began walking straight to my destination with only the graveyard attendant called after me to take his umbrella.

As always, I wandered around the painted white stones. Every time my parents and I would visit the island, we always set time to pay our respects. Every visit was a strange incident. Often, we got lost. My thoughts were racing with memories of under-cooked chicken, lullabies, mosquito nets, quenepa trees by her driveway, the stray dogs she took in, and her coffee I never got to taste. I was lost. Lost, lost. Right until I noticed the unmarked grave, apparently occupied by a witch, situated right next to my family's tomb.

The rain hadn't let up. A trembling took over my limbs. It overwhelmed me with the quiet and finality of the moment. The first time presenting myself as the woman I am. The tears came easily, but I hadn't expected how clear my voice would be. I began speaking in fluent Spanish. Something I had never done. My Spanish is beyond rota. I began talking to my great aunt, my grandmother, and everyone else interred in that tomb. Spoke with them about my struggles with my gender and all the horrible experiences I’ve gone through and hidden. Spoke with them about all my hopes and dreams. Spoke with them in earnest about the hopelessness that defined these two years of both the pandemic and my transition.

It wasn't a confession. I was searching for acknowledgment. A sign that I could be accepted and loved. So many regrets had tangled themselves inside my body. My self-imposed silence being the most prominent. As the words kept flowing out, the silence of the area finally eased me. I felt as if I was being listened to. I was being listened to. At my last words, a plea to protégeme y cuídame, the rain let up. Some sun broke through the clouds. It was the cue to leave in peace. A moment of tremendous love. Not only for the possibility of the acceptance from my family, but a tremendous self love that brought me to this moment. To speak myself without fear.

Isa Guzman is a poet and recent Brooklyn College MFA graduate from Los Sures, Brooklyn. Dedicating her work to the hardship, traumas, and political struggle within the Boricua Diaspora, especially the LGBTQ+ (Boriquir) communities within it. Isa helps lead several projects including: The Titere Poets Collective, The Pan Con Titeres Podcast, La Esquina Open Mic, and La Cocina Workshop! She have published her work through several magazines, including The Acentos Review, The Bridge, Public Seminar, and also appears in several anthologies, such as The Other Side of Violet, Birds Fall Silent in the Mechanical Sea, and The Breakbeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNext. You can follow her through their social media: @Isa_Writes.

Poetry by Kathy Paul

By Kathy Paul

Kathryn Paul is a survivor of many things, including cancer and downsizing. Her poems have appeared in The Examined Life; Last Leaves; Abandoned Mine; Rogue Agent; Intima Journal of Narrative Medicine; Hospital Drive; The Ekphrastic Review; Lunch Ticket; Stirring; and Pictures of Poets. Kathy lives in Albuquerque, NM

Peak Hurricane Season by Laura Andrea

By Laura Andrea

Peak Hurricane Season

Fall eeks into the tropics during sunset. Six in the afternoon beats its way inside through the blades of the box fan on my bedroom window. It’s still too hot to rip apart childhood novels and high school textbooks in a newfound passion for collage. It will be until at least late November. The poetry will have to find itself, black out itself. 

I don’t remember locking the bedroom door. A habit stuck in a cycle of breaking and reforming, a specter onto itself. It’s the only way to assure the stillness promised by autumn. Hurricane season is entering its peak and the greens are greener. From the right angle—surrendered on the ground—they can cover up most of the sky. The blue is the giveaway but only if you’ve bragged to an expired lover about it. 

Reaccustoming myself to perpetuity is taking some getting used to. If the seasons don’t change the people less so. The door is always swung a smidge, not that we need more than a crack or keyhole to breach back into something better left. Death here isn’t cyclical, seasonal, or expected—but violent. Purposeful. No skeletal trees and marigold yellow leaves to remind us rebirth is normal. Rebirths are suspect. 

We can play at it though. Midday sun yells at me for traversing the busy street. It’s not my fault the sidewalks are parallels, never to cross paths. Refuge takes the form of a good ol’ American store seasonally defined even at this perfect latitude. I hold a baby’s long-sleeved flannel, soft and flat and perfectly orange. The store is empty save from employees stocking the clothes that won’t sell in this heat. The shirt is cheap because it’s small. Would make a worthwhile shoplifting story. It’ll never get lost in my hands, so I hang it back on the rack. They have clean bathrooms; the crying should happen there. 

If only the beer would stay chilled in my hand, nightfall could trick me. Like a fake engagement ring worn only to bed. It fits better on my thumb anyway (freakish knuckles). The humidity induced sweat activate the ink. The green ring stain around the wrong finger is embarrassingly permanent. More green. More goddamn green. 

Relentless. A metaphor too confused to seduce anyone. Greed, innocence, nature, jealousy. 

It’s all gotta go. 

The pile is intrusive. Moved from desk chair to bed to nightstand back to desk chair, like stubborn laundry. A dry erase marker, a trio of little alien men, an alcohol wipes package, two shirts, a hat, a palm tree tapestry. On occasion the pile will decorate the floor, but it imitates a hill too well. Putting everything back makes me scream so I tape them to the empty teal wall. It’s green enough to be punished too. 

The wall faces two windows. After long enough it might yellow the assortment of plastic. 

Midnight welcomes light storming. It’s finally dark enough drown the green even though I still feel it there. The window doesn’t even feel cold under my hands pressing against it. I must look like an apparition, the blackout curtains draping my back. Every flash of lightning forces me to blink. To hide the phantoms roaming the green. 

It’s been a year or maybe a day. Time keeps folding in on itself and looping around. Bedroom furniture shifts around again but there’s nowhere else to put these old books except under the bed. Not enough pictures of 17-year-old me were taken so she rips herself from those pages and stands at the foot of the bed. She’d roam, but there’s little space for foot traffic and doesn’t want to get yelled at. 

If I win tonight, she’ll join the green, below. If I don’t, we’ll stare at each other through the mirror usually covered with the tapestry. If she’s especially willful, she’ll wear me and visit the house. It’s slightly off and exactly the same as she left it. 

Lately it only rains at night. It’s almost cold. Almost fooling. It’s hard too. Reminder of what is to come, the danger zone we’re about to enter and how the past months’ heat was a warning. Summer is a ghost haunting the Caribbean. Autumn is its white bedsheet. 

Laura Andrea is a writer and educator from Carolina, Puerto Rico. They hold an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at El Paso. Her work can be found in Contrapuntos, Acentos Review, and Boundless Anthology, among others. They’re the author of ‘genderbi’ (Ghost City Press, 2022) a poetry microchap, and writes the column 'Monsterfucker' for Final Girl Bulletin Board. You can follow their day-to-day on Instagram & Twitter @lauranlora

A Child of Air by Ruth Nakamura

By Ruth Nakamura

A Child of Air

A large part of me connects to earth. I am solid ground, cannot swim well, though I enjoy being in gentle shallow water. I am rounder, heavier, curvier. Give me bread, wheat-stalks of the earth, ground and transformed, fluffy, give me a few slices of buttered bread, French bread from the market, oven bread from the Pueblos, let me use it to mop up red chile ladled atop over-easy eggs as a meal, mini harvest, and I am happy. 

But I am also a child of air. Give me the moon in a jar, an imaginative work of art or story, let me wallow, introverted, in creative writing, journaling, dream records. As the season changes, I look to the sky. Easily, I float there, follow the migratory birds. I can picture their journey, the temperature of the wind over each feather. The subtle colors they bend into the cooling evenings, ghosts of lavender, soft rills of pink. 

The long lines of Canadian geese traveling south along the Rio Grande river bring autumn in their wings, in their songs, a trill I grew up hearing, down in in our river valley home. A thread of sound to weave that feeling of changing light, a rounder, softer, dimmer gold, into my bones, a siren call to lift stifling heat, carry it away on monsoon clouds.

What is it about the season that makes creativity so prolific for me? Many of my poems unfold in the rite of autumn, her ritual of leaf flame. The entire world I inhabit steps into a kind of nostalgia, settling deeper into itself as I sink my feet into muddied banks of Guadelupe River, stand on the sluggish brown bank, become still as a snowy egret hunting the moon, her feathers speared with light of cottonwood gold. I wear the mask of Dia de Los Muertos. Think of marigolds and monarchs while there is still gilt to be seen, I too am filtered through the lens of dying leaves. 

It must be that I am witness to death. All around, insects are on their last flight, they glitter more than ever, the blaze of cicadas, the leap of grasshoppers, the gathering songs of butterflies, frantic, edged, then slowed and dulled, the last of the leaf chomp on my giant sunflowers, a feast for birds. 

It must be that I am witness to leaving. I take down the hummingbird feeders, they need to travel south with their colors and their songs, while wrapping myself in sweaters against desert chill, or tapestried jackets, don long sleeve ware to knit the warmth they must travel to find. The bluebirds. Gone. The geese, heralds, take weeks and are far more visible, bodies and bodies, a mass exodus. 

It must be that I am witness to gathering. The preparation of winter birds, they fatten themselves at the birdfeeders, gorge upon my giant sunflowers, grown from twenty-year-old seeds my dad gave me. Squirrels in the mountains run up ponderosa trunks with fattened cheeks. Mammalian fur thickens. The chile is roasted in front of grocery stores or we buy it in bulking sacks, pounds of it, peel, roast, repeat. Its splinters of smoky sharp smell breathe fall into the air. It is our leaving-summer-song. 

I stand here fully welcoming the season. Preparing for the stew with buttered bread, the early dark, the stacks of wood, the morning frost, smell of cedar woodsmoke sharp and clean as a blessing beneath starlight. A break from wildfires. Sometimes from the wind. Sheltered in the valley of mountains. A longer sleep. An assessment of memory and dream brought on by the call of the great horned owl at 2 a.m. 

It must be that all these things, they are old hand mirrors we hold up to peer within, finding ourselves inside, on the fringes. If we allow true sight, we find the connection to the world we walk. We are not separate from Her natural rhythm. 

Things go to ground, to inner sanctum. And so do we.  

The Dark Lull by Melissa Pleckham

By Melissa Pleckham

The Dark Lull

Nothing’s ever completely dead.

In the 1971 film Let’s Scare Jessica to Death — a film so slow, so subtle that one hesitates to call it a horror film, let alone a vampire film, although that’s exactly what it is — this line is uttered by the pale, red-haired woman whom the titular Jessica is surprised to find squatting in the farmhouse she’s recently acquired with her husband and friend. The trio have just crossed the fog-veiled Connecticut countryside in a black hearse with the word “LOVE” scrawled in crimson on its door; Jessica, fragile as fine china after a mental health episode only vaguely alluded to, demands the hearse stop at a weed-choked cemetery for grave rubbings. She hangs the headstone-sized tissue paper trophies around her bed, runs her fingers across them delicately. This, we are shown, is a woman for whom death is a part of life in a very tangible way.

So when the red-haired woman suggests a seance one night after dinner, and responds to Jessica’s friend’s skepticism with this line that calls into question the very existence of death itself, or at least death as any sort of permanent or all-encompassing state, Jessica seems to smile in agreement, readily playing the part of medium when beseeched. There are no Victorian parlor theatrics in this film, but the scene — and the line — have stayed with me just the same. It’s a film that I like to revisit as the heat and chaos of late summer begin to melt imperceptibly into the dark lull of autumn. But this year, the line resonated with me more than ever. I kept it in my mind, I ran my fingers over it like Jessica with her grave rubbings.

Is it true that death is a myth? A fairy tale? Does anything, anyone, ever die completely?

The last October before the world stopped, I spent Halloween in the labyrinth of bones beneath the city of Paris. It was my first visit to the city, and my first Halloween spent out of the country. My husband and I wanted to do something special, unforgettable.

We walked to the catacombs from our hotel in the 6th arrondissement. It had been raining but that morning was cool and cloudy, the air sweet and sharp. The day before we’d visited Père Lachaise, the trees lining the stone paths of the cemetery crowned with gold and orange. Jim Morrison’s grave was surrounded by a fence, the ground nearby strewn with gifts, offerings. On the way out we passed a mausoleum with its door partially ajar; in the dark, we could see cigarette butts, an empty liquor bottle, and, stretched stark white against the stark white marble, a large bone that looked like a femur. Shocked, we looked away. “Someone’s been partying here,” I said. “Some French kids.” 

But who can say who threw that party? Who can say who was invited, who attended? Nothing’s ever completely dead.

At the catacombs that Halloween morning, we could be certain more bones awaited us in that dank darkness beneath the city of light, down that endlessly spiraling staircase, through that electric torch-lit tunnel, on the other side of the archway that demarcates the start of that self-proclaimed Empire of Death. The catacombs sprawl like veins beneath the skin of the city, a second Paris that is far less lively but no less full of lives, or at least the earthly remains of those who once lived them.

I had never been in an ossuary before, and once I adjusted to the darkness, to the feeling of being so far underground, what struck me most was how peaceful it was. How quiet. How the skulls stacked almost to the ceiling felt both very relatable, very human — alas, poor Yorick! — but also so far removed from the one on my own shoulders, atop my own spine, that held the organ that made all of my hopes and dreams and loves and fears and observances and sensory perceptions possible. Every skull in those catacombs had once held a brain like a precious jewel, every bone signified a human soul that had walked the streets above us, the streets where we were so charmed and beguiled by the romance and mystery of Paris.

Are the catacombs scary? Of course not, although I wouldn’t want to be trapped down there alone. So I suppose I might concede that the tunnels, the darkness, have the capacity to frighten. But the bones? Those are beautiful.

Are the catacombs scary? Of course not. Nothing’s ever completely dead.

Autumn’s lull would take on a different meaning for me the following year, and the one after that: The pandemic forced a different kind of pause, a different kind of reflection, a different kind of encounter with death than I’d ever experienced before. I remembered our Halloween in the catacombs often that October, sometimes with sadness as I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to travel internationally again, but always with gratitude for the experience we’d shared.

This year, at the tail end of a summer that so far refuses to end, refuses to concede its loss to the looming autumn, my heart again wanders back to those cool dark halls coiled beneath Paris. I walk there in my mind like a meditation, relishing the mystery, wondering at my own mortality. No matter how strong we may feel, fall is a time of year where the crunch of a leaf, the singe of burning pumpkin, the thrill or sadness of a sunset that comes sooner than we were expecting, reminds us that to live is to know that our hearts are limned with lines like a cracked teacup, that the veil between worlds is tissue-thin, spread soft against stone, could tear at any time.

And it reminds us: Do not fear. 

Do not fear. Nothing is ever completely dead.

Melissa Pleckham is a Los Angeles-based writer, actor, and musician. Her work has been featured in numerous publications, including Flame Tree Fiction, Luna Luna, Hello Horror, Under the Bed Magazine, and FunDead Publications’ Entombed in Verse poetry collection. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association. Her short screenplay "Moon-Sick" was awarded Best Werewolf Short Script at the 2020 Hollywood Horrorfest and was a Finalist at the 2021 Shriekfest Horror Film Festival. She also plays bass and sings for the garage-goth duo Black Lullabies. You can find her online at melissapleckham.com and on social media at @mpleckham.

I Have The Cat (A Ghost Story) by Nikki Reimer

By Nikki Reimer

I Have The Cat

Moving day brought an explosion of ladybugs. They were all over our belongings stacked on the front lawn, crawling on the desk, four and six and eight on each box. For any other insect I’d have called it an infestation, but the word didn’t match this saccharine state of things. Bright red spotted walking gumdrops blanketing the objects in the yard. Like in one of my childhood colouring books or the opening scene to a Disney film; an infestation of twee. 

 It’s a bright early October day. The air is crisp. The light slants through the air like through glass and I’m trying to feel my body in the world but reality warps and bends away from my touch. My brother has been dead one year, seven months and 14 days. My husband and I are moving house for the third time since the day Chris didn’t wake up. My arrhythmia acts up from the stress. Heartbeat fluttering up into my chest. Mothwings.

 The first move was in June 2012, four months after he died. My husband packed up our apartment into a U-Haul. Two cats in two carriers went next. Little ginger tabby Amy buckled into the back seat, her big sister Bella on my lap. For thirteen months we lived in my parents’ basement. Four traumatized adults and three cats trying to negotiate a grief both shared and alone. My brother’s grey Adidas runners neatly stowed behind the door where he left them the night he died. 

 I had thought we might find a way to process together, but my parents drank in front of the tv every night, and no one wanted to talk. Eventually I gave up and joined their boozy stupor. 

The second move was in July 2013. I had found us a house, a post WWII saltbox with a rent so low it should have given me pause. The shingles were in rough shape, and there was an electric wall heating unit instead of a furnace. This is what’s known as ‘foreshadowing’.

 After my brother, my cat Bella was my best friend. I adopted her soon after I moved out of my parents’ house, and we grew up together. She was a beautiful medium-haired tortoiseshell with green eyes and a throaty voice. We bonded like only two misfits who grow up together can. At night I held her tight to my body like a teddy bear. She was 16 and she’d survived the move from the coast, and the year with my parents, but a month after we moved into the saltbox she got sick and we had to let her go. Summer turned to fall and the saltbox turned out to be improperly heated. We broke the lease and found another rental. Moved for the third time in October.  

***

Boxes line the long hallway, shadowed and eerie. There’s no ceiling light in the oversized living room and we don’t seem to have enough lamps, so half the house is shrouded in darkness. 

 I’m navigating the maze poorly. Hit my shin, say fuck. I don’t know where anything is, and the long painting boxes are giving me ominous vibes. I’ve never been a fan of horror movies but I know the tropes, and it occurs to me why so many horror movies open with the move to a new house. It’s the embodiment of liminal space. Airless and destabilized. A deconstructed house lets the ghosts roam freely.

 Amy’s a sweet baby girl but it’s too quiet without Bella. I've moved away again from the spaces that held my dead and it’s breaking something inside me that can’t be put back together. One night I fall apart completely, wail and scream on the couch, demand my poor husband tell me where Bella has gone. 

“Where do cats go? Where did she go?”

“I don’t know, baby,” he says softly.  

I can’t be consoled. I won’t be consoled. I want to be dead myself. 

*** 

The Facebook message from my friend Matt the following week was surprising. We were super tight in junior high and high school. I used to call him my big brother. But he’d moved out east and we’d lost contact. It happens.

I need to talk to you. Can we talk on the phone?

He's only recently learned about Chris, and he’s so sorry. Sorry that my baby brother is dead, and sorry that we’ve fallen so far out of touch that it took him so long to hear about it. 

I don’t mind. I understand. It’s comforting to hear from him. I only feel close to ok when I’m with people who knew Chris too.

Matt explains that his wife is into what my psychic friend Jen would lovingly call 'woo.' For their anniversary they’d gone to a medium together. 

They were trying to make contact with Matt’s wife’s dead grandmother, when someone pushed her aside. The medium described the interloper’s appearance. It’s my brother.

He said, I bet you’re surprised to see me.

The medium tells them that Chris is there because he’s worried about his sister and her mental health.

Through the medium he says, Don’t worry about me, I’m ok.

 It seems both implausible, and entirely plausible. My brother was sweet and cynical, sarcastic and joyful and loving. His empathy was boundless. If you were hurting he’d do anything he could to let you know you were loved. Pushing an old lady out of the way to make sure I knew he was alright was in character for him, though he'd be apologizing profusely to her afterwards. I want to believe this visitation could be real.

Then, said Chris, through the medium, through Matt, I have the cat.

 And Matt said, “Does that mean anything to you?”

Nikki Reimer (she/they) is a multimedia artist and writer, and chronically ill neurodivergent prairie settler currently living in Calgary / Mohkinstsis. She has been involved with art and writing communities, primarily in Calgary and Vancouver, for over 20 years. They are the author of three books of poetry and multiple essays on grief. GRIEFWAVE, a multimedia, web-based, extended elegy, was published in February 2022. Visit reimerwrites.com.

Poetry by Valentina España Orta

BY VALENTINA ESPAÑA ORTA

Es cara bajo

My body is a hematoma.
I want to kick up sand with my legs 
like an escarabajo, 
dig into the cool earth 
and rest still

underground

get spent in the digging,
stop to feel 
the blanket over the bruise,
tickle me silent.

My sister has been eating frutas maceradas 
left in a jar inside your fridge.
Me voy a comer a mi mamá!
she said on the phone when I asked how she was doing.
You'd always bake that special fruit cake 
for her to eat the whole thing in a day.

But we'd lived too many years in different countries 
and your voice was the only thing I'd eat
so let me drop inside the earth,
drown out all that's become noise 
and hear my body disintegrate
as I find your ash in every river 
— drink all of that water.

Dream Me by Daphne Maysonet

BY DAPHNE MAYSONET

Dream Me

In my dreams, when an emotion jabs low, my nerves ripple from that single bruise of joy or fear. The intensity—how the story feels—triggers my mind, punching a hole through the fiction. This is how Dream Me is born into consciousness. She is moonstruck and comes alive, like a werewolf under cryptic orders. But instead of losing her humanity, she gains it. Dream Me is not lupine, but lucid, interrogating the dream’s logic with an agency that somehow fought sleep’s little death to arrive. 

* * *

I think it happens because I’m too neurotic to give my mind away to synapse-firing fantasy. It’s partly why I don’t do drugs. My imagination is unpredictably hostile. It’s not one through which to take a playful stroll with reckless abandon. Being in my brain necessitates the armor of the faculties to swat dark recollections and wrenching feelings. Having survived a trying childhood, it’s not lost on me that this mind patrol caretaker may be working around the clock to keep me from true life stories for my own good. 

I once went to a trauma counselor who described how his patients acted out their memories with each other in elaborate psychodramas to uncover erased details. I pictured sitting around with other troubled adults in feathered wigs and fake Dominican accents, helping me recast dysfunction and fuzzy abuse in new technicolor horror. I can never imagine knowing more about the casual violence in my family history than I do until the next time my mother or sisters drop another tragic story on me in broad daylight. As far back as I can recall, I’ve wanted to know less. People have asked if I think I’ve suppressed memories. If so, I’m grateful to the superego wolfmadré who’s protected me all these years. Someone should. Might as well be me.

* * *

When I am asleep and Dream Me is summoned, one of two things happen:

1. If the dream is good, I leverage my newfound autonomy to do what I want. And with this wondrous freedom—to fly, to travel to the world’s ends, to swim without breathing—all I ever want is love. Plain, everyday love. There is no greater supernatural force, no more mysterious treasure. The bounty of a dream kiss is always the most I can achieve. Dream Me could write my next billion hours of sleep with romantic endings, and it would never fill the bottomless hole from which all fire to do anything at all burns Dream Me with greed. 

But the second option is when Dream Me really shines. 

2. It goes like this: I’m the bad guy. I have committed some heinous crime—sometimes murder, preposterously bloody ones—and I’m caught. The monster of my own nightmare. Sometimes it happens while I’m already on trial, and other times the transgression has only just begun. It doesn’t matter. My overwhelming fear of what I’ve done is too much. Dream Me awakens in her way, bringing the relief that reality so rarely provides: absolution. The revelation is powerful enough to bring me to full consciousness, and I wake, sweaty in a cradle of bedsheets, birthed into the dumb gratitude of someone experiencing a miracle. A guilty woman walking free.

* * *

Dream Me rejects the church of sleep and has my baby photo on her altar surrounded by white rose petals. Dream Me prays for me to me. Dream Me stretches an impossibly large wing over my entire body so that night cannot see me, and I cannot see myself.

Daphne Maysonet is a Caribbean-American writer whose poetry has appeared in Southern Indiana Review, Chautauqua and The Acentos Review, and whose prose has appeared in alternative newsweekly The Memphis Flyer. She received her MFA from the University of Memphis, where she served as lead poetry editor for The Pinch. She is currently working on a collection of poetry, leading community workshop Memphis Writers and teaching college.

Poetry by Ana María Caballero

BY ANA MARÍA CABALLERO

Birthright

I sat with every good witch in Bogotá  
just to dispel your rage—

Elsa, Elizabeth, Nelly, Camila, 
Lucy, Ernesto, Sergio, and Blasta. 
Upon each cot, upon each couch,
concurring truths voiced 
by deliberate mouths.

For a year, I performed the prescribed tasks:
scrub the joints with rosewater seeped 
in sea salt during tea tree, eucalyptus, 
sandalwood baths.

At home, spray each door with licorice 
mist. At work, sulfate, alcohol, sage 
ablaze on a pan. 

My homework last month to recite 
on the road, the Ho’oponopono 
Hawaiian forgiveness song:
No, you are not pain:
you are my brother, 
my beloved Master of 
Grace.

The future, present, past cast 
by Blasta’s stars. She points to Saturn, to Mars 
in hard aspect in my chart’s family house. 
My sign is Cancer. I am 
gentle, gentle as crab.

Yet, Blasta confirms your cut is not my claw:
just you and I born under every guise—
Husband & Wife, Father & 
Daughter, Mother & Son.
Brother & Sister, our latest run, 
our latest crack, 
at one more slight life 
toward wise.

I sat with every good witch in Bogotá  
just to dispel your rage—

Elsa’s filters, Lucy’s needles, Nelly’s Reiki 
massage. Feldspar, pyrite, your printed name 
blurred by water beneath 
clean glass.  

I brew parsley, beetroot, cardamom, wheatgrass,
and browsed online 
for clay emanations 
of Hindu gods. 

One by one, I trace Elizabeth’s steps: 
on yellow cardboard sketch a musical 
clef, then set seven candles each in purple, 
white, green onto the symbol’s circular cores.
White for light, green for mind to materialize, 
and purple to burn 
emotional sores.

God box, angel cards, universal tarot:
Hierophant beside the Hanged Man both laid 
in reverse.

A tepid yes, then, an absolute no
below 
Camila’s jasper 
pendulum swirl.

Upon the first sign of new sun, 
I murmur the Gayatri mantra’s numinous chant
(Om bhur buvah swaha…)
while at the first sign of new moon,
a hired hand performs a lemon peel stab.

I sat with every good witch in Bogotá  
just to dispel your rage—

Sergio draws my gemological map.
Each gem a pattern, a specific instruction 
dialed by the earth for me to 
extract. 

I call after the second and third amethysts crack—
Dig a hole, he says. Their job is done.
Bury the crystals, return them to land. 

Water slaps by Ernesto’s clan of urban gnomes,
before sitting down to his tobacco ring of smoke, 
water dripping from my head while I read King David’s psalms
until, in the chimney room, 
the black cigar jar finally snaps.

But, when your sickness came, I seek surgical 
help via Lezahlee, the head witch of Carmel—
I swear, I say, I already forgave. 
Besides, my craft is not there, 
yet.

She burps, as she does when she knows:
The tumor is old. This lesson is his, 
not yours. 

True, your tumor is message,
indictment of flesh
from its source. 
But it’s as much mine as it is yours, 

for you are the story
I am born to rewrite. 

Mother likes to tell how, at three, 
I selected your name.  

Forever my birthright—I am bound 
to you 
by spell.

Ana María Caballero is a first-generation Colombian-American poet and artist. Her first book of poetry, Entre domingo y domingo, won Colombia’s José Manuel Arango National Poetry Prize and was second place in the nationwide Ediciones Embajales Prize. She graduated with a magna cum laude degree from Harvard University and has been a runner-up for the Academy of Amercian Poets Prize. A Petit Mal was awarded the International Beverly Prize and was also a finalist for the Kurt Brown Prize, the Tarpaulin Sky Press Book Awards, the Essay Press Prize, the Split/Lip Press reading cycle and longlisted for the 2022 Memoir Prize.