untitled - by Megan Kaminski -

for Bonnie Roy

dear Bonnie dear nine a.m.
because seven a.m. is not so dear to me
still sleep-soaked in bed warning off early rays
no wonder I say I love to sleep
let’s imagine I wake to fields of Kansas wheat
or corn stalks baking barely rustling in wind
anything bucolic really rather than the construction
of parking lots and sorority song practice
it’s damp and cool here this morning    my own
coastal longings start a slow slide of earth
westward to you to the city to the sea
perhaps all language is both living and dead
resuscitated in each sentence formed and mutated
in our exchange         a place where we dwell

together    I think of you through cricket-call and refrigerator hum

the grass grows tall and weedy out front

the campanile tolls in the distance 

Eventually - by Simone Wolff -

our toes popped out the weave of jelly shoes
and rolls of puffy stickers got spent on old
notebooks
                   butterfly clips and scrunchies busted
and tore up our long tight-braided hair
nylon barbie backpack lightup velcro sneakers
all our fashions and our juvenilia
have become our trash
                                         we were holes
the world was falling through       fast

Courtney Love is still in my heart
every time I fall through someone else
my plastic ponies trotting off the shelf
I get trashed under skies all violet
singing give the violet more violence
I was a hole but now I’m a meatgrinder

Mosquito Kingdom - by Brooke Ellsworth -

I woke up this morning with so much thirst for life.
I am a dandelion stem by the river.
I thank my sister for swallowing my drone.
Our drone and wonder how many.
Outsiders patrol the borders.
I harvest all my crops.
Yet there is nothing I want to own.
Apart from maybe a seaport.
Under which I’ll deposit my eggs.
I said iguanas lay their eggs.
I was nowhere near the scales of their third eye.
How many spines do you really need.
I have such a channel of gifts.
Down by the coffee plantation.
A girl the color of coffee beans.
He saw the gourd.
And he saw the gourd carved into a shield.
Together we perambulated thru the cattails.
Noted the wizened hag was a murderer from the beginning.
The left eye almost out.
Divesting the white heroins.
The white heroins divesting the lawn—of my funeral.
Drafting the mess of whitish scents of coffee flowers.
A homeland with rivers.
She turns ghostly and reminds us—Sandino nest.
A second girl says her place.
She picks up two stemmed glasses with one exposed arm.
The talk overlaps itself as a widow—Mmhmm, mmhmm.

Can you pass the midnight bread.
Requested Midge.
If there’s anything left of the mills.
After the flood.
Pass along the memetic flow.
After we spill into each other.
The spy who goes out by day complied.
Down goes the nut of the table.
I enjoyed your lectures on homilies.
And you took so long to write you thought some would be saved individually.
Thieves are not a rhetoric.
Before the conifers provoke shorewards.
One has also thought about.
The smell of cheese in the cheese-woman’s boat.
I was the black gap of recluses shored up in hotels.
Which date back to the filibusters when I would sell coffee on the pier.
In the gap we could then name the gap.
The footing of her wolf-mask came closer.
When she approached to give me a marshy warning about the gourd.
Did he hear her secret.
Wulf wulf wulf wulf.

Never had a job I liked.
I said goodbye in English.
I thought it would be a sleeping sickness in the end.
But when it was the pack emerging from the reeds.
Our placement of weakness and strength.
Steeled the head who was meant to take me.
She swept down my arm.
With the watery humanity of a melt.
Assume they are exactly where they appear.
Along with the rest of your pregnant sayings.
The fool in the end is one you have to actually name.
One girl says we are always kissing each other.
Anne the Wolf is nauseated and glides into the field
It was supposedly her turn to be called.

thirteen-ringed transvestree - by Alex C. Henry -

                 _He; the simpler kind of hedgerowed growth
                       whose every foot and planted step
                       expounds a length of character, a meter
                       in trimmed privilege and a piping of reserve.
                                                                                       
                           she; the five foot
                        flat shrub lifted high—
              for every foot a frail trunked heel,
                 in every step a stir. whimper,
         whimper, whimper. inches crunched to
         mulch; crusted leaves to Fall. chaining
       thoughts trail chaining saws and chaining
                               saws trail
                                      r        ust,
                                      t             rail rain                                                      

                                      ,             trail dust_

An Uncomfortable Trip Upstate - by Autumn Giles -

There’s no explanation for our steamy chariot. My loneliness needs real estate or, at the very least, mature fruit trees. The driver isn’t listening, so I’ll mention that I’ve been googling herbs and now I’m a witch. I know what it means when a man starts tucking in his shirt. What I need now is a beautiful woman to bless my body with flower essences. I’ve boiled burdock root and dried bodega rose petals. I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m not running away.