when maggie smiles
by Meredith Benjamin
maggie’s smile is a poem
about a balloon floating over Sedona.
it makes you want to learn the names of birds
— not just toucans and herons,
but quotidian finches who live in the yard.
when maggie smiles,
the war is over
and neil armstrong lands on the moon.
when maggie smiles, it pierces you;
maggie makes and unmakes my wounds with her mouth.
her smile is an ocean,
the light from the birthday candles,
the reason you don’t want the world to end.
Meredith H. Benjamin is a second-year Political Science student at Grinnell College. She is originally from the east coast, but has found herself in Colorado, Arizona, Georgia, and Iowa in recent years. She loves volleyball, curry dishes, The Ezra Klein Show, and anything Taylor Swift. Her work has been published in Polyphony Lit and the Grinnell Underground Magazine, and is forthcoming in Agapanthus Collective and the Grinnell Review.
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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “when maggie smiles”? “when maggie smiles” is a product of infatuation and distance. It is about a beautiful woman at whom I used to gaze and hear fully-formed lines of poetry suddenly crash into my head. I wrote these phrases down as they came, but when I actually tried stringing them together as a poem, I couldn’t get it right. I set the poem aside. Half a year later, I tried rewriting “when maggie smiles” and to my surprise, found success! No longer obsessed with capturing a feeling in its exactitude, I was able to focus instead on the process of writing. The experience highlighted the creative partnership between inspiration and its unsung sidekick: distance, without which, I suspect this piece would remain unfinished to this day. by Carol Taylor My two year old tumbled into the water As an artist I’ve always had to write for catalogs and statements, but as a poet and writer I am a very old “newbie”. My high school English teacher, poet Kay Smith was very encouraging. I was awarded a prize in grade 11 for a narrative poem. But then, Art was my love and I never felt smart enough to really “write.” So years pass, I am still a visual artist and potter and now a “writer” with a few projects on the go. My book Capturing Crime (30 years of court sketches), published by New World Publishing out of Dartmouth, NS, was nominated for an Atlantic Book Award 2021. My art work is in the National Art Bank (works on paper), NB Art Bank, McCain Collection, Saint John City Hall and NB Library collections among others. I have created four clay murals, all are installed in NB schools plus Figurehead installed over the Germain St. entrance to the Saint John City Market. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Near Death Effect”? Nightmares of this incident have haunted me off and on for years. I have tried writing what happened, but it either seemed contrite or maudlin, so I gave up and figured that at some point it would come together cleanly. It did. The child is now a 45 year old gentle, tall, strong man who seems to have no ill effect. However, he doesn’t swim much! by Ciarán Parkes Try not to breathe into the social distance, then of oxytocin flooding through your brain in case of symptoms. Ciarán Parkes lives in Galway, Ireland. His poems have appeared in The Threepenny Review, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, and other places. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Try Not To Breathe”? Living on my own during Covid meant long periods without any human contact. I remember reading how-to guides to safe hugging online, and wondering how all that oxytocin would feel like. The poem wrote itself very quickly. by Zoe Dickinson oh! now the moon and Zoe Dickinson is a poet and bookseller from Victoria, British Columbia. Her poetry is rooted in the Pacific coastline, with a focus on local ecology and human relationships with nature. She is the co-Artistic Director of the Planet Earth Poetry Reading Series. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “visit”? I wrote this poem imagining what the Ancient Greek poet Sappho would think of a West Coast winter. For about half the year on Vancouver Island, everything is permanently dripping with rain. It took some getting used to when I first moved here, but over time I began to see the beauty in it: how water, like light, has the ability to change the way we see things. by Anthony Warnke Curious about the large chili, I refuse to capitalize google like I refuse to capitalize oh my god, the chili Anthony Warnke’s poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, Cimarron Review, North American Review, Salt Hill, Sixth Finch, and Sugar House Review, among other publications. His chapbook, Super Worth It, is forthcoming from Newfound press. He teaches writing at Green River College and lives in Seattle. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Chili”? This is one of those poems that materialized in its final form in one sitting (if only every poem arrived so easily). I had recently gone to a Wendy’s for the first time in several years before writing it. The poem is a little knot of the politics and pleasures of everyday consumption. by Shyla Shehan In my rearview, billboards blur into dust The gum on the bottom I declare outloud to noone, If the raven flies I invent a great idea melter The next billboard urges me to turn left. Shyla Shehan is an analytical Virgo who holds an MFA in Writing from the University of Nebraska where she received an American Academy of Poets Prize in 2020. She is a co-founder and editor at The Good Life Review and currently lives in Omaha, Nebraska with her husband, children, and four cats. Her full bio and published work are available at shylashehan.com. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Fifteen Billboards”? The original draft of this poem came from a collaborative exercise in a poetry studio class. The initial lines were therefore distinctly those of the poets involved and somewhat disparate. However, despite this, the poem seemed to hold a unified meaning for me and the different voices lent themselves to the common experience we all have with voices in our heads and meandering thoughts. I felt compelled by the poem and had a strong urge to hone in on this notion while putting more focus on a singular speaker as she drives past billboards and they “blur into dust” behind her. by Merrill Oliver Douglas They shared a room a girl could reach into once drained of its life glass eyes glued Merrill Oliver Douglas is the author of the poetry chapbook Parking Meters into Mermaids (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her poems have appeared in Baltimore Review, Barrow Street, Tar River Poetry, Cimarron Review, Comstock Review and The Briar Cliff Review, among others. She lives near Binghamton, New York. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Apartment 3”? I’d been thinking about the apartment in Brooklyn where we used to visit my grandmother when I was small. Growing up there, my two aunts had shared a tiny bedroom, while my father slept in the living room until he went off to serve in World War II. I’d originally meant to put my father in the poem, too. Did he sleep on the couch? Where did he keep his clothes, school books, baseball mitt? (Did he have a baseball mitt?) But my aunts and their shared room asserted themselves. My father will have to wait for his chance in another poem. by Carla Sarett that guy I dated we touched once I saw her shot naked like an lover a dancer he’d his shiny new sofa in a chilly decade face but her her face turned Carla Sarett is a poet, essayist and fiction writer based in San Francisco. Her recent poems appear in Blue Unicorn, San Pedro River Review, Dust Poetry, Prole and elsewhere. She awaits publication of her novella, The Looking Glass (Propertius) in October, and in 2022, a full-length novel, A Closet Feminist (Unsolicited). See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “open question”? This piece “open question” began with my memory of an image– the naked woman. I am fascinated by our relationship to images, and how they situate us in the world. I worked on it as a prose poem, and failed to get the sense of displacement I wanted, and then decided to shape it so the lines themselves are more puzzling. by Jen Huang All I ask for I want our hides whole and no inner gambits, red plumes to write her name The tidy monstrosity working to clean up I want closed doors The sun at its set distance, Jen Schalliol Huang lives near Boston and received her MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her chapbook was printed through The Kenyon Review, and her work has appeared in Flock, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, RHINO, The Shore, Shenandoah, Sou’wester, and elsewhere. She is a reader for [PANK], was nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize, twice for Best New Poets, and once for 2020’s Best of the Net. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Lauds”? “Lauds” originated after a year of miscarriages. I took notes and wrote down lines at the time, which is a practice I’ve had for decades now. More recently, I came back to these files to see what scraps could be developed further. This poem felt like an invocation, a wish for the day, and so I titled it with a name for ritual morning prayers. “Lauds” can also mean praises, in a certain context, but the speaker isn’t here to exalt anything — not the body nor survival, not the external world nor refuge, not even the passing of time. Nonetheless, there is a sense of security returning to the body of the poem, which is, ultimately, the object of the speaker’s hope. by Michael Buckius Bedside, I bring you chicken nuggets Michael Buckius is a writer and filmmaker from Lancaster, PA. He earned his undergraduate degree in Film and Media Arts from Temple University, and his MFA in Creative Writing from Northern Arizona University. His work has appeared in Ghost City Review, Masque and Spectacle, Shrew, Write On, Downtown, and elsewhere. His first chapbook, Future Sarcasm, is available now from Tolsun Books. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Bedside”? The poem is about an opiate-addicted couple. The main person in the poem realizes that they can’t live like this forever, and the only way to move forward is to break up. The bringing of the chicken nuggets amounts to one last grand romantic gesture before they move on with their lives. by Jeff William Acosta I lay my body in a field of bougainvillea Jeff William Acosta is a Filipino poet from Ilocos Sur, Philippines. His works appeared or are forthcoming in 聲韻詩刊 Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, The Dark Horse, CAROUSEL, Olit and among others. Find him at jeffwilliamacosta.weebly.com See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “this is where it ends after a tooth extraction”? I wrote this poem after I got my first tooth surgery. While in the process, my tongue keeps touching my swollen and bleeding gums as if mourning or the gap makes my tongue want to fill what is lost, even when my dentist said that I shouldn’t. There is uneasiness. There’s this want like lust that lingers for hours. And for two days, I imagine myself just lying on the ground, on what my deathbed will look like—I think of death, of love and of someone that I used to know, and that the only thing I can do is remember, which is the closest thing to forgetting. by Ellen June Wright Such a pretty word for See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Abattoir”? Inspiration is everywhere. I am a great fan of British crime dramas. One of my favorite shows is Vera, and in season eight, episode 1 a body is found in an abattoir. The word which is French fascinated me. It’s a pleasant word to say. It feels good in one’s mouth and such a beautiful word for a slaughterhouse. The incongruity seemed ripe for poetry. by James B. Nicola tornado has passed * every month too warm * One more person. Yow. * stroll. dog approaches * getting in trouble James B. Nicola is the author of six collections of poetry, the latest being Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense. His decades of working in the theater culminated in the nonfiction book Playing the Audience: The Practical Guide to Live Performance, which won a Choice award. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “On Trouble”? I suppose that sheer irascibility had a lot to do with the evolution of “On Trouble”—not only in life, but in art, drama, and literature as well. Oftentimes, I have imagined Shakespeare poring over a copy of Aristotle’s Poetics and saying to himself something like “Whaddaya mean a tragedy has to respect the ‘Unities of Action, Time, and Place?’ Fuhgeddabout that.” After all, Aristotle wrote over eighteen centuries earlier and was codifying what Greek dramatists had been doing yet another century before that. So Shakespeare interwove sub-plots galore, cast royalty with rowdies, spanned decades, and took audiences from Rome to Egypt, from Cyprus to Venice, and from Denmark to England and back, all in a heartbeat. The theater wasn’t called the Globe for nothing. The form of “On Trouble” was born and bred by a similar response—of mine. This time, to haiku purists who eschew such mundane means as capitalization, punctuation, interjection, rhyme, enjambment, stanzas, sections, and dramatic scenario. As we say in the theater, “No rules, only tools.” Such a philosophy might get one in Trouble, of course, but is the only way we ever come up with Something New, whether a nonce stanzaic form or a nation. Besides, though syllabically similar, “On Trouble” does not claim to be “haiku” at all. I like to think of it, rather, as “ameriku.” by Ja’net Danielo that fell from Ja’net Danielo is the author of The Song of Our Disappearing, a winner of the Paper Nautilus 2020 Debut Series Chapbook Contest. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Radar Poetry, Mid-American Review, Gulf Stream, Frontier Poetry, and 2River View, among other journals. Originally from Queens, NY, she teaches at Cerritos College and lives in Long Beach, CA with her husband and her dog. You can find her at www.jdanielo.com. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Mutilated Is the Word ”? This poem was written a little over a year after having a bilateral mastectomy on a particularly bad day when I was struggling to accept this new body I find myself inhabiting. I remembered that after my mother had had her mastectomy, she said she felt mutilated. While I feared that I’d share her reaction, ultimately, I did not; instead, I experienced the surreal feeling that my body had broken up with me, swiftly and without explanation. This poem seeks to capture that. of perceiving an assaulted woman’s trauma Thing you put away to the side. Never to You’re conscious that this has been going on and again want us to do something. didn’t see. We’ve finally unraveled systems misfortune, nor of the prejudice or the misogyny. by Neha Maqsood Neha Maqsood is a Pakistani multi-media journalist and poet. Her poetry has been featured in numerous literary journals and magazines, including Ambit, Kenyon Review, Strange Horizons, Aleph Review and Gutter Magazine. Her debut poetry book, ‘Vulnerability’ was awarded the 2019-2020 Hellebore Poetry Scholarship Award and will be published by Hellebore Press in 2021. You can follow her on Instagram and Twitter @ItsNehaMaqsood. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “We’re Tired”? I wrote the first draft of the poem towards the end of 2020 and I don’t really believe that I wrote it; I think that the words essentially sought refuge from my mind and spilled out onto a Word Document on my computer. My frustration about the pandemic revealing the different gaps between communities – healthcare access or sexism within family settings and the workplace – and the aftermath of the Black Lives Matter, make up the essence of the piece. The poem also captures a personal sadness and an exhaustion about being a writer of colour. Us writers have stories beyond the colour of our skin; of love, life, loss, ambition and rejection, but we’re only ever considered within certain boundaries and labels society has seemingly imposed on us. I like to believe that this poem will be the last time I ever write about race or it’s implications within global society, but unfortunately, I don’t think it will. by Sean Cho A. If I was not American In Korea K-pop groups must still serve I am not very tactical and hate loud noises. It’s a shame, really, I want to write verse about my favorite No one can argue with blacked out windows I am thankful to be here Sean Cho A. is the author of “American Home” (Autumn House 2021) winner of the Autumn House Publishing chapbook contest. His work can be future found or ignored in Pleiades, The Penn Review, The Massachusetts Review, Ninth Letter, Nashville Review, among others. He is currently an MFA candidate at the University of California Irvine and the Associate Editor of THRUSH Poetry Journal. Find him @phlat_soda. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Poem after writing an email to my birth mother”? I’m really interested in truth vs. authenticity in poetry, and to me, (especially overtime) truth becomes valueless in verse, yet authenticity feels vital. (Did Robert Lowell really see those skunks???) by Michael Spring after the show she enters no iron rings or blades to juggle no dazzling lights and faces, no human eyes in this room there’s nothing Michael Spring is the author of four poetry books and one children’s book. He’s won numerous awards and distinctions for poetry, including the Turtle Island Poetry Award, an Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and a Luso-American Fellowship from DISQUIET International. Michael Spring is a poetry editor for the Pedestal Magazine, and founding editor of Flowstone Press. His chapbook “Drift Line” was published by Foothills Publishing, 2020. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “the acrobat”? “the acrobat” was inspired by a Cirque du Soleil performance. I had the chance to attend (about 20 years ago) During this performance I watched an acrobat/ contortionist perform. My seat allowed me to see the exit tunnel. I watched her smiling for all of our applause (and hunger), then she practically floated off the stage and disappeared into the darkness. This memory, along with a writing prompt for the words “acrobat” and “closet” got me to write this poem. by Rachel Nix The idea of us at length Rachel Nix is an editor for cahoodaloodaling, Hobo Camp Review, and Screen Door Review. Her own work has appeared in Juke Joint, Pidgeonholes, and Sundog Lit, among others. She resides in Northwest Alabama, where pine trees outnumber people rather nicely, and can be followed at @rachelnix_poet on Twitter. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “ Differing”? There’s a lot of ‘I think’ that appears in arguments and conversations, largely as a reactionary response and always as a feeling or opinion. This poem came about when speaking wasn’t doing the trick in a situation with a friend who wanted our connection to evolve into something past platonics. The thinks became pointed and sharp when verbally spoken, which at times got confused as a sort of passion. For me, it sometimes caused regret in us knowing each other past our initial encounter—mostly from the guilt of lacking clarity, also for the hurt I never wanted to inflict. This was my attempt to unmuddle things with juxtaposing our positions while also owning my own fault in the confusions. by Kelvin Kellman Between heaven and earth, lagoon and dry land, Kelvin Kellman writes from Nigeria. He’s had works featured or forthcoming in Green Briar Review, The Blue Mountain Review, Hawaii Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Solstice Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “20:10:20 Massacre”? On the 20th of October, 2020, youths in Nigeria who have never seen a country work, as the country has an enduring history of corruption, bad governance, mortal extortion and arrogation of power by a rogue element of the police, took to the streets in peaceful protest demanding better governance and police reform. The government in response, sent soldiers to open fire on the protesters. Scores of youths had their lives snuffed out and many were left lethally injured. Being part of the protesters, to say that I am livid does not about cover how I feel on account of the unsavoury turn of events; how the degenerate civilian government led by a former general to whom dialogue is alien, responded with bullets to youths demanding accountability. More so, I had comrades lose their lives in the most gruesome manner. It could have easily been me who got hit that night. It is my hope that with this poem, which I wrote that very night and edited the following day, I’ll find some form of closure, and that the departed wherever their spirits lead, know that they did not die in vain. I hope also that this poem expresses the wanton devilry exhibited by the current Nigerian government. Because even now, days after that bloodbath, the president has refused to address the shooting. by J.C. Todd everywhere perfumed outside hospitals prick of salty mist J. C. Todd is the author of five collections of poetry including Beyond Repair, forthcoming in 2020 from Able Muse Press, and The Damages of Morning, a 2019 Eric Hoffer Award finalist. Winner of the Rita Dove Prize in Poetry and twice a finalist for Poetry Society of America awards, she has received fellowships from the Pew Center for Arts & Heritage, Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, and Bemis Center for Contemporary Arts. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Coronal”? For the first month of shelter in place, I composed a haiku-a-day during my daily walk, responding to something corona virus-related I’d seen or experienced. The second month, I fooled around, grouping the haikus into short sequences, each one is titled “Coronal.” If I was digitally competent, I would have created a random sequence program but I’m not, so they were grouped my conscious mind.The Near Death Effect
I reached out and grabbed his tiny fingers.
Cool water and a big grin
he churned the wavelets toward me
Let me go, let me go mummy I can do.
I swim, I swim!
Mary on my left asked me a question as my child pulled his fingers away.
Yes I said, I’m going.
I turned back and saw his little body floating face down
flying toward the underside of a tipped raft
wading through wet cement I reached his foot
and lifted him to my eyes and heart
Try Not To Breathe
until the hug is over. Point your face
over the other person’s shoulder, gazing
step back into it. Try to make it quick
as possible. Feel the afterglow
from such close contact. Smile behind your mask. Wait ten days or so
Cautiously repeatvisit
how water
brings all the
pieces
of the world
closer
to each other!
enters the maple’s dripping,
empty branches
streetlamps
stroke yellow
into glazed
asphalt.
The Chili
I google Wendy’s nutrition.
as an act of defiance
god when I text you:Fifteen Billboards
I pull matches from my skirt pocket.
Pizza Hut. I wanted something else—
a wild origami, a rare Pokemon.
A message from beyond—an arrow.
My mother doesn’t lie—she tells the best stories
and named her anxiety Desire.
of my bright red converse
reminds me of your recent promotion
and pronouncement.
Our sacrifices will be worth it.
at 3:36 PM, I’ll stop. This seizure
of bedazzled ideas, rhinestones
and plastic pearls make my head spin.
Just let it all go. Please.
that melts fast so you don’t have to shovel
your way out.
Again.
Maybe I’ll drive south
to a town where the Home Depot
doesn’t stock shovels for snow.
Or to a town with no Home Depot
or Ace or Lowes or
Pizza Hut.
Why did she name me Red Riding Hood?
Turn left and you will be…
wherever you are.
I watch as it disappears. Apartment 3
so narrow that from twin beds
pushed to opposite walls,
her sister’s dream and take
what she needed:
a dollar
once
a lipstick
once
a furred animal
to drape on the collar
of a black cloth coat,
in arrow-shaped head,
tail caught in a steel clip
where teeth would have been.
open question
maybe
twice
maybe not
before
in black and
white
Irving Penn his
ex-
hung her
over
in the East
80s
I can’t recall
his
slim back
arched
down I wonder
whyLauds
in a day
is zero blood.
and untrespassed.
faulty, giving up the ghost,
across your history
that is the body,
its own mistakes
none of this,
and sealed windows.
each bone assuring bone.
Bedside
The unemployment rate has fallen again
and it’s starting to make us look bad
We sigh, the dream is over
You light a cigarette
and pass me the pack
Tomorrow we will initiate
divorce proceedings
We will divide the Venetian blinds
vertically
find smaller windows
and become nostalgic
about horizontal patterns
of light through the smoke
the grease on our fingertips
the crumbs on an empty plate
beside the bedthis is where it ends after a tooth extraction
petals as I would if I am to be draped
in lilacs—no inch for mechanical body
nor all the moving parts cocooning
my shadow, or the ocean waves rising
and falling inside the concaved gums
as I bite down this gauze full of rusting
iron and copper scent. I have never been
so lost in an image where my tooth clings
firmly on to the jawbone. The tongue
remembers the touch as if it was meant
to rekindle the skinship. Now swallowing
has never been this so tormenting: whenever
I open my mouth, it means something
is missing: you whose name I never get
to hear often by the ear but lives beneath
the memory of the lipsAbattoir
a slaughterhouse
rank with blood
and the stench
of unsellable parts—
burned.
It’s from the French—
‘to fell’
like a tree cut down
or a life in shambles
like a shanty after the storm
every board scattered.
Ellen June Wright is a poet based in Hackensack, New Jersey. She was born in England of West Indian parents and immigrated to the United States as a child. She attended school in New Jersey and taught high-school language arts for three decades. She has worked as a consulting teacher on the guides for three PBS poetry series called Poetry Haven, Fooling with Words and the Language of Life. Her poetry has most recently been published in River Mouth Review, Santa Fe Writers Project, New York Quarterly, The Elevation Review, The Caribbean Writer and, is forthcoming in, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora. Her work was selected as The Missouri Review’s Poem of the Week for their website. She was a finalist in the Gulf Stream 2020 summer poetry contest and is a founding member of Poets of Color virtual poetry workshop in New Jersey. She studies writing at the Hudson Valley Writers Center in Sleepy Hollow, New York. Ellen can be found on Twitter@EllenJuneWrites. On Trouble
all you kept in, outside now
except for yourself
every day mercurial
every moment, risk
Truck too full, illegal now.
Short, moist, hot breaths. Ow.
owner leashed oblivious
scrouch—fast—Pet the dog
going to heaven in spurts
how I love readingMutilated Is the Word
my mother’s mouth—
blade on the tongue—
after her mastectomy.
When my time came,
I said to the surgeon,
I’m not ready,
by which I meant
not for the blade
on the tongue
but the knife
my body would take
to itself, for that final
moment—uncinematic,
not in the rain, not
looking me in the eye,
but just a shapeless
voice on the phone:
This is where
it ends for us. We’re Tired
Through the sheen of a hand-held device.
To scrutinize global divide, through some-
allow your mind to drift there again –
because you were there for a long time.
forever with your kind, but they didn’t
listen then. Now they have listened anew,
But we are spent – compelling you see what
Was there, which you snubbed or perhaps
and kingpins before our eyes. We will put
our phone to the side and write now. Not of
But of parables which came before the hue of
our skins came alive. Poem after writing an email to my birth mother
I would be at war.
their required 2 years of military service.
I am grateful there are words
to make poems with.
how we have overused “best”.
Korean restaurant on Lake Michigan Drive
and how it is serves objectively the best boglioli.
and a sign that reads:
Closed. Thank you for your
years of support.
and also very sad. the acrobat
the walk-in closet in her bedroom
turns the lights off and shuts the door
no ropes to balance upon, no bears
to dance with, no zebras to mount
upon her as if she were a sandwich
for all that hunger
to jump though, fly from or into
there’s only Differing
seems dishonest.
We were meant for more,
you think/I think
less of our decisions,
& wonder why it is
we always overthought
everything. We fought
constantly; only to
rehash what we never
even meant. This is how
lies are mastered:
repetition of reasons
& excuses. In truth, I
could’ve never been what
you wanted/I wanted
to be nothing more than
a single night of regret.20:10:20 Massacre (an anonymous order)
no greater sting had I grieved before today, when
Lagos, soaked up in blood, wept for her young.
It began with demands. For rights, for space, air;
for living in one’s country without dread.
A fear of a lie, a fear of bullets, a fear of death,
in the hands of folks saddled with the duty of protecting.
In lieu however, they besieged us with guns and bullets.
And that mantra, spewed out of their crooked tongues:
I will kill you and nothing will happen! We assembled with
requests, to be heard, asking to live as humans and not game.
But we forget, the general in his labyrinth recognizes nothing
in the least human, only cattle. Before the soldiers, they cut off
the lights, cut off the cameras, and then killed the billboard.
And in a trice, men in olive green jumped out of trucks and opened fire.
Over 60 people perished today. Lucy died with half her head missing for
asking a better country. Men: fathers, brothers, with chests and guts
blown open, laid shoulder to shoulder singing the national anthem
until they expired. The Governor pleads innocence.
The command, he says, are forces beyond his direct control.
The army snatched away bodies but denies complicity.
The president, still silent, received an emir in his province
with fanfare. Leaving us asking: who gave the order? Coronal
lilacs, roses, I forget
the air is viral
and markets, refrigerator trucks
cool tulips, corpses
seaside weather of my cheeks
underneath the mask
Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.
Matter Press recently released titles from Meg Boscov, Abby Frucht, Robert McBrearty, Tori Bond, Kathy Fish, and Christopher Allen. Click here.
Matter Press is now offering private flash fiction workshops and critiques of flash fiction collections here.
Submissions
Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now closed. The reading period for standard submissions opens again September 15, 2025. Submit here.
Upcoming
05/04 • Leath Tonino
05/11 • Chris Pellizzari
05/18 • Chris Clemens
05/25 • Clayton Eccard
06/01 • TBD
06/08 • TBD
06/15 • TBD
06/22 • TBD
06/29 • TBD
07/06 • TBD
07/13 • TBD
07/20 • TBD
07/27 • TBD
08/03 • TBD
08/10 • TBD
08/17 • TBD
08/24 • TBD
08/31 • TBD
09/07 • TBD
09/14 • TBD
09/21 • TBD