The red roses my father gave me.

by Zunaira Butt

The gentle hand of my father grabbed my hands;

as mine grabbed his neck,

clinging to his back,

I tried to make out words,

but his voice only echoed in the warm cage of his chest,

they couldn’t reach past the tiny fingers plugging the soft canals.

My tiny fist wrapped around his rough finger,

little feet skipping,

trying to keep up with his giant steps,

my eyes soaked in the kindness dripping from the corner of his mouth,

when he blessed a stranger passing by,

the sweet drizzle left sticky marks on the face in the young blue lake.

He scooped the water onto my soapy hands,

trying to get the dirt out from between the fingers,

once clean, he dried them off with his white shirt,

clipped the nails short,

still trying not to let the rivulets flow,

but the red buds bloomed in defiance like a bride’s henna;

on the back of my hands and up my arms,

and up, still, my throat until they grew roots in my throat,

until the soft red petals were all that fell from my lips.

---

From Lahore’s shadows, Zunaira’s words emerge, shaped by trying seasons with quiet grace. Her verses, guided by life’s rhythm, offer comfort where others cannot. Writing in a once-foreign tongue, this first whisper marks the beginning of her literary journey, stepping into a world of shared expression.

Stonecoal Creek

By Skyler Lambert

O’ Stonecoal Creek, precious stream of the Besoco hills, how you carry generations of sweat and blood and coal dust, the toil of men who dug these mountains inside out. How you hold the tears of hill women who watched their husbands and sons and grandsons and brothers go underground to die; you, Stonecoal, are the wives and mothers and grandmothers and sisters, the steady hands that cook and care and pray too much. With every mountaintop blown to shreds, every mine excavated, every death, you, Stonecoal, keep churning.

O’ Stonecoal Creek, you were there, ebbing next to my father as his life expired, your murmur rocking him to forever sleep. Did you feel his heart aching on your banks? Did his final breaths rise on the winds above you? Was his spirit carried away in your trickling touch?

---

Skyler Lambert grew up in the coal camp of Besoco, West Virginia. His writing is published or forthcoming in Appalachian Journal, riverSedge, Meat for Tea, and Hedge Apple. Skyler serves on the board of a community arts incubator and shares a home with his partner and three pets.

The River

By Nick Conrad

                                                         the Paria River                   

The unmeasured moment suddenly

a chasm, a slot canyon, deep, narrow,

down which I raced, a river of tumult,

a flash flood careening off wave worn walls

bouncing into and out of dead-end

box canyons spilling storm driven through narrows,

a whoosh of air signaling my approach

as I churned on through each too snug slit,

each slim egress, each choke point, the rock

too smooth to afford handholds and me

brimming skyward, spinning spinned spun,

a canyon roar, gravelly voiced,

that started as an echo down

from the north edge of Bryce, a murmur

spilling out of Little Henderson,

a gurgle from Water Canyon, as mumblings

from once dry washes that soon were not just

mere meanders, but, a babbling made louder

by Tropic Ditch Falls, by the waters

from Mossy Cave and Glory Cove,

that rambled on out of Cope Canyon,

banking through Amphitheater

and Cottonwood Canyon, joining

in time Little Creek, the Henrievile--

itself a shout down from Shurtz Brush Creek,

from Paria Hollow--a surging

cacophony from Wildcat Wash on

past the Kodachrome Cliffs, joining

Rockspring Creek’s garrulous churning

waters tumbling on down past Deer Creek

Canyon; by Deer Range, a river 

guarded by the Toadstool Hoodoos;

the bone dry flats of Telegraph Wash

as if shattered anew its splintered

passes soon rain drenched washes dawdling

at first but soon dwindled down straights,

claustrophobic channels of swirl

and eddy, of riotous confluences

such as Buckskin Gulch where petroglyphs

told tales of hunters and the hunted,

of closed canyons gaping like knife wounds

to the east, of the Twin Buttes to the south,

of dinosaur claw tracks exposed

on a distant plateau, of spent cliff

flotsam stranded on Bone Yard’s slope,

of Chihuly-like wave canyons,

of Top Rock Arch eyeing The Alcoves

etched multitudes as I screamed past,

flooding the broadening canyon,

rumbling on toward Lee’s Ferry; there,

a muddy sluice, riffle quickened.

By Nankoweap, a fury long spent.

---

Nick Conrad’s poems have appeared recently in Acumen (U.K.), Blueline, Cloudbank, North Dakota Quarterly, Plants and People Journal, Red Rock Review Literary Journal, Stand (U.K.), and Third Wednesday. A poem of his was included in Magma Poetry Review’s (U.K.) special Anthropocene issue. His first book, Lake Erie Blues (Urban Farmhouse), appeared in 2020. His podcast for All Write in Sin City aired in 2021.

Self-Portrait as Anna’s Hummingbird

by Jen Karetnick

An American sentence acrostic

The largest of the smallest,

best in class for backwards flight,

flyswatter-hued throat—how

is such bustle even viable—vivid-

coated, a touch of brave

with a bit of bullshit, maybe

a symbol but might be a herald,

color-fast in rain, shies from

that which brings the wrong gaze or

bugs a perennial traveler,

can’t resist the neo-nectar, will never

take for granted the native license

in the art of levitation, hover,

and standstill.

---

A 2024 National Poetry Series finalist, Jen Karetnick is the author of 12 collections of poetry, including Inheritance with a High Error Rate (January 2024), the winner of the 2022 Cider Press Review Book Award. Forthcoming books include What Forges Us Steel: The Judge Judy Poems (Alternating Current Press, 2025) and Domiciliary (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2026). See jkaretnick.com.

Massive Mornings

by Angela Townsend

I wake overwhelmed more often than not. This is no fault of the mornings. They are merciful, predictable, tumbled smooth by underground rapids. I need them to be the same, or my electrons will lose rhythm and fly loose into the night.

The list is all rubber bullet points, buoyant and brief. Reassure cats. Say Lord’s Prayer. Thyroid medicine. Feed cats. Wash. Brush. Plead with bangs. Surrender. Scoop litter. Dress. Breathe. Email. Wash teacup. Reassure cats. Praise the Mercy for coffee. Surrender.

The world must be remade every morning, but I am made of dandelions. No matter how many times I hit good soil, I will blow weedy and frizzy tomorrow. It all feels enormous. I cannot handle it, until I do. The cats and the Mercy laugh. I laugh. I look in the mirror and remind myself to research headbands.

It is a fine thing to wake overwhelmed more often than not. It is entirely the fault of the mornings. They are fat caterpillars that undulate like cosmic disco larva. They are rude and proud and remember the beat.

The provisions are ludicrous, an embarrassment of gems. I have been looking at my cats’ shaggy pantaloons for years, yet I thrill again. They are Little Lords Faunteroy in nutmeg stripes. Spearmint Colgate makes my teeth smile at each other. My apartment is as pink as ballet. The water is as warm as I decree. This is the coffee that the Lord has made. My mother exists.

The world is remade every morning, and I wonder how anyone gets through the first hour without falling down ten times. I toddle through starry sameness. I will be excited tomorrow. I cannot handle it. The saints and angels laugh. I laugh. I finger the knots in my old desk and remind myself to touch more trees.

My mother became a psychologist when I was thirteen. She tells me I have been blessed and “tasked” with a busy brain. My mother will not use the word “cursed.” That is not what words or mornings are for.

I was the child who worried about the man sleeping in front of the pizza parlor. I also worried I might sleepwalk into the kitchen and drink Pine-Sol. I praised the Lord of polliwogs and gingersnaps but required a poster declaring “There Is Nothing God Cannot Handle Today!” over my amnesia.

A morning will never be less than too much for me. It has been hijacked with yeast. It only knows the word “yes.” It will double in size tomorrow.

---

Angela Townsend works for a cat sanctuary, where she bears witness to mercy for all beings. She is a multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, and her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Chautauqua, Pleiades, SmokeLong, and West Trade Review, among others. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar.

Come Again Another Day

By Rachel McKinley

You are picking dandelions in a rainwater lake, squishing the sopping petal in my palms, gifting me your wonder. I am a hippo, you say, barefoot bottom-walking, not swimming, because you don’t know how to do that yet. The water is murky now, churned by the exploration of trampling feet, curious hands. Your Crocs float; so do your brother’s sandals. Your sisters’ rain boots, haphazardly launched into the deep, are drying out on the pavement, as best they can. The water line inches up your body, invisible at first on your bare knees, creeping slowly to your thighs, your waist, your shoulders as you make friends with the water. The fabric clings to your skinny frame, a makeshift bodysuit that makes you seem taller and smaller at the same time. You discover air bubbles, fill your shorts and shirt, delight in the capture and release of what you (usually) cannot see. Your sisters, still potty training, scream that they need to pee, so we call a temporary halt, make plans to return in the afternoon. You cry at the caution that the puddle may be gone by then, may be absorbed into the ground, food for the dandelions, grass, and clover under the surface. I feel at home there, you say. As I dry your tears, I confess my fear of losing things, too.

---

Rachel McKinley is an MFA candidate and Graduate Teaching Assistant at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks. When not writing, reading, or homeschooling her four children, she enjoys hiking and attempting to keep plants alive.

Clouds

by Jeff Fearnside

When I was young, I wanted to climb

to the high places—

feeling life large in me,

in command of the views,

for the bodily satisfaction

of having climbed.

I’m now satisfied

to lie on the grass

and watch the clouds.

The distance from me to them

is exactly the same

as the distance from them to me.

Yet how insignificant I must seem

to them, and how astonishingly

grand they are to me.

Forms appear, morph:

now a loon, now a bat, now a flying monkey

from The Wizard of Oz.

A potato. A dog. A snail.

The Horsehead Nebula.

A ladies high-heeled boot.

They constantly move, change,

sometimes light, sometimes dark,

sometimes stretching their filaments

until they break

and disappear.

Yet even unseen

they’re still there,

dispersed, waiting

for the right conditions

to regroup and materialize.

A cloud is nothing

if not patient.

More forms appear.

Their shadows intermittently

engulf me.

Then they stitch themselves together

like cheesecloth over the sun,

straining its rays,

creating a single shadow

that engulfs everything.

To truly know

the immensity of things

one must be unafraid

to be small.

---

Jeff Fearnside is the author of two full-length books and two chapbooks of prose and poetry, most recently Ships in the Desert (SFWP,2022). His work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including The Paris Review, Story, The Pinch, Los Angeles Review, and The Sun.

Fresh As a Rose

Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar, Translated By Aysel K. Basci

Fresh As a Rose

Its every moment fresh as a rose

Made of glimmer and ivory foams,

Sleepy, wuthering summer morns,

Southern winds, and back-to-back dreams.

Dissolving, as if tulle,

On the shoulders of timid waves,

Its secret hidden in the air,

This blast, this spring… Mad kisses

And smiles hiding coral glasses…

How many sunsets did I watch on this shore?

Within the faint-violet clouds

How many bloody suns agonized

With the anxiety of distant mossy gardens;

Voices, like unreachable horizons,

A boat, burning in treacherous tides,

Pigeons, flying from our palms,

Fate that never leaves our sides.

---

Bir Gül Tazeliği

Bir gül tazeliği içinde her an

Fildişi köpükten ve parıltıdan

Mahmur, uğultulu yaz sabahları,

O üst üste rüya, cenup rüzgârı.

Ürkek dalgaların omuzlarında

Tül tül dağılanlar, sırrı havada

Bu cümbüş, bu bahar... Çılgın öpüşler

Mercan kadehleri gizli gülüşler...

Kaç akşam seyrettim bu sahilde ben

Bulutların solgun menekşesinden

Kaç güneş çırpındı kanlar içinde,

Yosun bahçelerin uzak vehminde;

Sesler erişilmez ufuklar gibi

İmkânsız sularda tutuşan gemi,

Uçan güvercinler avucumuzdan

Ayrılmayan kader baş ucumuzdan.

---

Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar (1901-1962) was a prominent Turkish poet, novelist, literary scholar and essayist, widely regarded as one of the most important representatives of modernism in Turkish literature.

Aysel K. Basci’s translations appeared in The Common, Washington Square Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Los Angeles Review, Columbia Journal, Adroit Journal, and elsewhere.

The Egg

By Beth Hendrickson

The ocean spreads glistening white until it hits a circular limit. The white wave sizzles onto the black heat of its shoreline. It halts because there has only ever been one being of infinity, and this white ocean is not it. A sun rises like a biodome. Like an apricot. Like a golden boil. Around the sun, the wave’s white edges flutter like the loose cheeks of a 100-year-old nursing home resident who is rolled to the dining room, given a cake with a single candle representing a century of flames, and told to blow it out.  In the wheelchair, her body fills space to allotted limits. Her edges crisp, blacken, and crinkle in the searing heat of her finite being. Someone has brushed blush circles onto the white oceans of her downy cheeks. In the end, both are alike—the white ocean with a bulging sun now setting, cooking, in its middle, and the woman sitting in the wheelchair. Both will be consumed, when it is time.

---

Elizabeth has been a riverboat deckhand, violinist, rock climber, and middle school math teacher (in no particular order). She was long-listed for Jericho Writer’s 500 Novel contest and has received National Scholastic Writing Awards. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA with her husband, two daughters, and a strong-willed dachshund.

a Noite

by gerrie schrik

a noite

Você já viu a Noite? Bem-visto mesmo? Sim? Então você sabe que as vestes macias dela são cinzas e azuis. Que mudam com a lua, o tempo, as estações...

           Na hora dos grilos e sapos encontrei com ela, ela me pegou pela mão e andamos na mata. Ela estava vestida de primavera; um azul profundo, cheio de vagalumes. Não sei se pelos movimentos dela, pelo vento, ou pelo voo mesmo, mas era uma dança de luz. De algum esconderijo uma Mãe-da-Lua estava chamando. Um Curiango respondeu. E a mata respirava verde. Mariposas boiavam no perfume de flores pálidas. O tempo ficou líquido. Mas o que mais me lembro é aquele azul profundo cheio de vaga-lumes.

dama da noite -
o luar coberto
de perfume

---

Night

Have you ever seen the Night? Really seen her? Yes? Then you know that her soft garments are grey and blue. That they change with the moon, the weather, the seasons…

            At the time of crickets and frogs I met her, she took me by the hand and we walked in the woods. She was dressed in spring; a deep blue, full of fireflies. I don't know if for her movements, for the wind or even flight, but it was a dance of light. From some hiding place a Potoo was calling. A Nightjar answered. The woods were breathing green. Moths drifting on the perfume of pale flowers. Time became liquid. But what I remember best is that deep blue full of fireflies.

lady of the night - 
moonlight covered
with perfume

---

Gerrie Schrik is an educator and translator who received an award for the children's story 'the Colours of Flowers' and had poetry published in Portuguese. She loves hiking and birding and lives in a small food forest close to a stream in the Piracicaba River Watershed in Brazil. Honouring and acknowledging the Guarani and Kaingang, the traditional custodians of these lands and waters.

Sea Change

by Sarah Fawn Montgomery

I am no longer

a woman who can

breathe underwater,

tread rising tide,

trade my voice

for the chance

to walk on land

pretend to love

a man who doesn’t

understand the void

of a cold open sea

strongest abandoning

the surface to survive

further in fathoms

that would burst

a body from inside

vessels wrecked as ships

made myth simply

because they could not

persist and I do not

want pearls for eyes,

prefer to wade alone

towards death’s ferryman

without proper payment.

---

Sarah Fawn Montgomery is the author of Halfway from Home, Quite Mad: An American Pharma Memoir, and three poetry chapbooks. Nerve, a craft book on developing a disabled writing practice, is forthcoming with Sundress Publications, and Abbreviate, a short collection of flash nonfiction, is forthcoming with Harbor Editions.

Watch for the Small White Flowers

By Amie Potter

Should I teach my daughter how to forage–to spot, for example, 

the Pennsylvania bittercress that might spring up as hope

to nourish her after a nuclear winter? 

Look for the leaves. They’re pinnate. Watch for the small white flowers. 

That kind, too, you take. See the fine hairs on the stems? The red veining?

(Or would a good mother lend purpose to chaos?)

Here are the seeds from the milkweed. Feel them. They’re like the scales

of a silken fish. Keep them. If anything happens, it is your job

to bring the butterflies back.

---

Amie Potter is a writer, gardener, and overly enthusiastic community college English professor. Her poetry deals with nature, trauma, and the underbelly of the domestic. She has also been published in The Hopkins Review.