What Light Does
The sunlight is warm and wide
and tender, resting
on the kitchen countertop,
the fruit, the veins in my hand.
The oranges have gone a bit
soft, the apples are delicately
bruised. But they look so new
in the light. I wonder at what
the light can do, how it reflects
off of the old thin scar on the back
of my hand where the cells
have knit themselves back
together. It’s so pale, in that silver
in that sliver, a little brighter than the rest
of the flesh, so finite, luminous,
singing in the afternoon’s hazed glow.
Cassandra Baliga is a recent graduate of Purdue Fort Wayne with a B.A. in English. She’s had work appear in The Red Booth Review, Confluence, and ANGLES, and is a two-time winner of the DeKalb County Snowbound Writer’s Contest. She loves to read, write, and eat too much string cheese, which she shares with her dog Scrufaline.
The Foreign Husband’s First Family Reunion
It is our first encounter and
Paco is unusually distinct,
even as he settles in near me.
His history is whispered,
and all identify him for his
complexion. I wonder if
he knows they chatter
about him; know he speaks
smatterings of English but
prefers silence in a room that
cannot understand him.
Since Kiera McCabe began writing in earnest two years ago, she has worked diligently to find her own voice as a poet. In this time, she has found that she gravitates towards writing narratives grounded in memory, lineages, and identity whilst exploring breath and form. Oftentimes these poems are tied directly to her own experiences as a child in the rural Pacific Northwest.
The Earth Called Back
I used to talk to animals and plants.
I had an imaginary friend: a giraffe named Lulu.
When I went to school and learned science,
they told me to leave Lulu behind,
that the earth couldn’t speak to me.
I studied and read, I took the tests, learned the facts,
and I believed the teachers, until—
I closed my eyes on the mountaintop
and listened to the wind as it brushed
against my hair and skin.
The earth became a symphony of
birdsong and wings flapping amongst the clouds.
Cool mist rolled in and wrapped itself
around my body, singing its own kind
Then I opened my mouth and said hello
to the canyon down below.
The earth called back to me: hello hello
Eliana Franklin is an emerging poet who studies at the University of North Carolina at Asheville, with a major in Creative Writing and a minor in Environmental Studies. She made a New Year’s resolution to practice mindfulness every day in 2020–and that has radically changed how she thinks about writing poetry. She has previously been published in Headwaters Creative Arts Journal.
Winds wrap snow
round our house
this winter night
a white ribbon
we will not
see when morning
sun melts it.
Philip Vassallo’s nonfiction, poems, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in Sewanee Review, Chaminade Literary Review, Southern Ocean Review, and other publications. He received a New Jersey State Council on the Arts Playwriting Fellowship, and his plays have been produced throughout the United States. He is the author of three books on work-related writing: The Art of On-the-Job Writing, The Art of Email Writing, and How to Write Fast Under Pressure.
living like a tree
the bare arms
of the tree reach
but receive little
– except sun and rain
can I too,
all I need to live?
Rebecca Dempsey is a writer based in Melbourne Australia. In her spare time she has undertaken archery lessons, and a year of longsword classes. With 2020, she suspects they could become useful.
We have an apple tree
and we want to farm apples, but
we want them to grow
on their own, ripely sweet
made sweeter by the knowledge
that we didn’t lift a finger.
How do we cultivate?
What are we doing with
All we seem to grow are twigs!
They need sun.
Of course, they need sun.
Maybe we aren’t apple farmers after all.
Adam Coday is a confessional poet who says “hark” and “no-no square” in casual conversation, so he stays home a lot. That’s why you never hear from him.
wailing of the sandhill cranes
like some wounded wraith crying out,
“pay attention! look about!
all this precious plenitude
is headed for the drain.”
Marie Burdett is a young poet currently attending the University of Central Florida as an environmental studies major. In addition to writing, she enjoys birdwatching, swimming, beachgoing, and scuba diving. Her favorite writers include Robert Frost, Wendell Berry, and Mary Oliver. She aspires to be a farmer someday.
My daughter before my eyes
placed her clenched fist begged me guess what was
inside it tugging at my chest until it popped
a plastic button off my yellow collar
It was little enough to fit inside her fist but I knew
it wasn’t that Weren’t all my buttons stitched
neatly in a row below my thorn-specked chin But
this one rolling toward the darkness under the couch
By the dull blade of light what little squeezed through
the blinds and their shadows I could make
out a gold speck a fragment of our breakfast
that morning One insignificant day in the past
when I was a boy the side of a cardboard box
said my future daughter’s heart would be
the same shape as the little bouquet of her fist
Mario Chris is a student in the Creative Writing MFA program at San Jose State University, where he also tutors at the Writing Center. He has poetry forthcoming in the Cæsura 2020 print edition. He lives in Hollister, CA with his family and their Boston terrier, Bosco.
Away from the camp, the rowdy clan of quarrelling cousins and barking dogs, I’m knee-deep in seeded grass and yellow rattle, gathering elderflower clouds by roads my uncles laid just days ago.
I had watched them work: their salt stained t-shirts and combat twilers, tipping aggregate and broiling bitumen in a liquorice path; the air steaming with the wash-day tang of coal tar soap.
I had listened to their Romani ćhib and coded slang from the borrowed van we’d made a home. On my lap, Nan’s almanac pictured seasonal foraging while mirage rivers hazed the new-laid byway.
Now, standing by the boundary post in the bird bicker and swishing cow parsley, dwarfed by early hogweed, I see the path flicker again in fracturing dun wavelets.
Over the scuff of my shoe, under the spring-flaked hawthorn, froglets ripple the lane between wastelands, drawn towards the ditches. I could gather a jar of pets but we Romani roam free and few share our paths.
They cross the road that will blister come this or another summer, that winter frosts will split for new springs to puddle, grasses to seed; ills that other gangs will claim to fix.
Perhaps the wilder places, the atchin tans and landscapes with their hidden patrin, will shrink or be re-formed as manmade spaces barred to trespassers and the old ways will retreat, be reclaimed, or move on.
Twilers, Romani for trousers.
Romani ćhib is the Romani language.
Atchin tans are Romani stopping places.
A Patrin is a sign or signpost used by Romani’s to indicate directions or places. It also means leaf.
Karen Downs-Barton is a neurodiverse poet from the Roma community. She is a Creative Writing Masters candidate at Bath Spa University, UK where her manuscript explores experiences of a Roma child growing up in the state childcare system.
Her work is forthcoming or published in Ink, Sweat, and Tears; Tears in the Fence; Night Picnic Journal; The High Window; Alyss; The Otolith; The Fem Review; The Goose; The Curly Mind; Persian Sugar in English Tea; amongst others. Find her at: https://thepapercutpoet.wordpress.com
A crow breaks from the oak
Canopy, pecks at dried-out
picnic-remains. A woman in
Half Moon Pose, her small dogs
beside her. Her hair matches
the dry long grass through
which the warm wind
pushes toward me
the black butterflies.
Giles Goodland was born in Taunton, was educated at the universities of Wales and California, took a D. Phil at Oxford, has published several books of poetry including A Spy in the House of Years (Leviathan, 2001) Capital (Salt, 2006), Dumb Messengers (Salt, 2012) and The Masses (Shearsman, 2018).
He has worked as a lexicographer, editor, and bookseller, and teaches evening classes on poetry for Oxford University’s department of continuing education, and lives in West London.
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