Poetry

Rosaries by Isabella Acuña

Mi abuelo dances to Johnny Cash in a plastic urn.
His dust once defined by base carnality

and when your hair turns earl grey… by emma burden

And when your hair turns Earl Grey,

I’ll be there waiting for you,

canto 23 by brianna vaca

you shared a cell with our father

a postcard I sent taped on the graying brick

one man show by alex thaler

A glass clinks.

The applause begins.

The man takes a seat.

visibility by heaven holford

My home is one room

With flowerpots in the windowsill,

me or my body by michelina smith

i was in kindergarten

when I discovered that

my body

was an object.

love letter to the displaced by ISABELLA ACUÑA

I see them when I close my eyes at the draw of another hateful day,

souls sifting through the dirt of Dante’s fifth circle of rage,

diving in head first by heaven holford

and feeling the water

break at the tip of my fingers

you by kamau nosakhere

When the rough wind

blows through the trees

And the bees

can't reach the future fruit

The blossoms look to you

scared of the dark by alyssa shonk

I didn’t realize she was gone–

She left

without telling me.

Prose

the ocelot by brian gibson

The ocelots were hissing and raking their nails against their crate, exercising their acid young voices in protest. Sylvia had found them from a breeder several hours out of town, living in a trailer surrounded by cages full of squabbling ermines, spider monkeys, brackish peacocks.

summer, jackson by anna helldorfer

Julie was living with ghosts.

They followed her every move, from her dreams, into the waking moments of quiet when her vision would blur and the scene in front of her would change. Sometimes their faces were friendly. Other times—most times—they were the cracked versions of what she remembered. A horrible arrangement of wide eyes and bloody teeth.

summer in adagio by sarah fitchner

It began with the violas. He could barely hear them at first- their soft ringing muffled by a quiet transcendence; thick in the air as if a beam of light cast through fog. Then came the flutes, airy in their nature yet somehow as substantial as the strings. It was written in measures of four, with each note eager to find its next. One, two, three four; One, two three four. One, two, three four; One, two three four. Then, knocking.

2023, the farewell tour by emma burden

She looks at me like there is still hope in the world and that she’s holding onto it all. And laughs and laughs as she ties her Converse. She’s the Union Jack and old CDs and warm quilts paired with the cold side of the pillow. She’s diligence swamped by a mass of red hair. She’s inside jokes and paper money and the smell of pine and woods. Tea, not coffee. Gratitude and empathy and hilarious notions.

breaking point by hayley ng

“December 23, 1944 

Dear Ms. Davis, I imagine that by the time you receive this letter, you will have already been notified of Charles’ dea [small tear in the paper] death. I already intend to travel up to Maine once the war is over to deliver my letter to avoid the censor. I only hope that by the time I arrive, you have not moved and that you would be willing to hear me out. As someone who looksed up to Charlie and thought of him as a brother in all but blood, I hope that my letter may provide you some comfort…

Art