‘I Feel Like No One Will Love Me’

Pt. 1

Pt. 2

Pt. 3

Pt. 4

Pt. 5

Pt. 6

Eliza Scudder (she/her) is a writer who creates comics, flash fiction, short stories, and poetry inspired by her life. You can find links to her work via instagram @elizascudderwriting.

‘Pillow Dates’, ‘Sidewalk Stamping’ & ‘Yellowed Head’

Janice Kim is a Korean-American writer living in NYC. She takes photos regularly as a practice to keep appreciating the innumerable details every day that otherwise might go unnoticed. She believes that it is all about how you see.

Pillow Dates

Point and laugh, which I deserve.
I depended on my fantasies,
never realizing they could
slip or stride away at will.
Missing misty mistresses
long and frequently visited
at twilight or pre-sleep and
they performed to my script.
I cannot, even in fantasy,
couple with potentialities.
In self-guided pillow visions,
teasing shadows blow away.
Once, always in sight and touch,
love and lust objects are gone.
When intimacies might be fatal
even thoughts scream, “Peril!”
When tipsy, tired or loose, I
directed tiny thrills to play.
Now I cannot override the real
to command performance.
Love and lust become impossible.
Dreamed-of liaisons fade to sheer.
Could-be flings leap quickly
months, perhaps years, away.
The simple-minded joys
of pretend cannot survive plagues.
Where can the joy be if we never
know the next possible when.

Sidewalk Stamping

Pre-dawn in Woodbourne,
a suburb lush of tree and bush
tucked in the crotch on the inner city.
Two of us stand apposed, mom
skunk and I, the armed and the big,
with no intent to go at the other.
Under sodium-vapor streetlight,
my skin was wan Talbots green.
Mom toddled and waddled ahead
of her string of Steiff-worthy kits.
All were fuzzy, two thin white stripes
on each black ball body. Hers was
big as a grapefruit, her offsprings’
the size and shape of apricots.
Often she and I had eyed each other
early as we passed 40 feet apart.
She led her necklace of babies
through my backyard, then
my front yard, and finally crossed
the street as every morning they
shopped for breakfast foods.
That day though, she was bow-legged
at my front gate, caring little that
my car was beyond her raised tail.
Vectors and solid geometry
seemed not to be her forte.
She stamped each front paw in turn
as a warning. We shared a stare.
What devilment dared my stand?
I channeled the striped mom, stamping
(while remembering tomato-juice
baths I rubbed into our howling
Maine coon cat to de-skunk him).
Perhaps it was the dark and quiet,
my relative size or our familiarity.
She went still, then waddled South,
passing, and not gassing, me.
Fortune can in fact favor the bold.

Yellowed Head

McCarthy came with the house,
He long roomed as other seamen.
Dad gave Johnny the townhouse
only if McCarthy could stay put.
Now he walks with two canes.
His days mean sitting in his one room
on the shabby North slope of Beacon Hill.
On the second floor over Hancock Street,
McCarthy smokes cigarettes, often
with a friend who smokes cigarettes.
The never grand, well-past-old house
is deep into its third century
with white door frames inside,
all except to McCarthy’s room.
Nicotine and tars seep and curl around
that door header all the day and night,
painting the once-white a light gold.
Har, golden from Old Gold smoke.
His friend brings cans and airy loaves
and, of course, he brings Old Golds.
McCarthy leaves his room twice a year
— not for Mass (and he has no family).
Rather on St. Patrick’ Day he takes drink.
He climbs a stool for two stouts at The Red
Hat.
Then again he hobbles out on Election Day
— a vote for some Irishman he knows or
knows of.

Michael Ball scrambled from daily and weekly papers through business and technical pubs. Born in OK and raised in rural WV and SC, he became more citified in Manhattan and Boston. As one of the Hyde Park Poets, he has moderate success placing poems in numerous online and print journals and anthologies, and being a feature at several arts centers. HeartLink published his Leaving the Party chapbook in 2024.

‘Home Base’

Faizan Adil is a Lahore-based Pakistani visual researcher and contemporary documentary photographer. He has been working as a freelance photographer since 2013. He teaches photography and media studies as a visiting lecturer at a university and college.

Home Base

Everything’s harder under the weight of a storm after a loss. Even the crossword taunts.

2 Across: Eight-letter word for an unlikely winner [ underdog ]

5 Down: Nine-letter word for when weather impacts the start of a game [ rain delay ]

When I worked days, as a doorman for one of the city’s most desirable apartment buildings, I’d complete 50% of the daily puzzle before the morning rush. I’d save the second half to solve with Bea, my wife, after my shift and over dinner – usually through dessert, strawberry shortcake was her favorite, orange sherbert was mine. While some steal bases, Bea stole my heart from the minute I met her. She was a fabulous cook, pulled all the stops, and loved all sorts of challenges – pencil games, martial arts, and, especially, baseball. A home-cooked meal and an evening solving mysteries with a Bruce Lee film and a match on the black and white TV (in either order,

Channel 6 our regular stream) was a home run for her and I.

1 Across: Six-letter word for reaching first base. [ single ]

4 Across: Six-letter word for making second base. [ double ]

7 Down: Six-letter word for a hit that brings a batter to third base. [ triple ]

Ten Down: Nine-letter word for the position between second and third base. [ shortstop]

Now, due to cutbacks, the building is short staffed. I cover nights and I’m struggling with clues and questions lobbied to residents who are unusually tight-lipped. I’m not making any excuses, but I miss Bea something terrible. Bea, who knew everyone from the times she’d volunteer in the mail room, would be on top of everything if she were still here, but she’s gone. She made friends like fast balls make home runs. What we thought was a bad case of the flu turned out to be something much worse. There were no warnings and no predictive positioning. No second chances at the plate. She rallied hard, fought through multiple innings of diagnosis and treatment, but now I bat alone. With Bea’s passing, I’ve marked many endings.

Sixteen Across: Three outs mark the end of an ____ (six-letter word). [ inning ]

Twelve Across: Seven-letter word for an uncaught pop-up. [ dropped ]

Outside, the skies warn in shades of uniform gray. I hope this warm front doesn’t make the stadium go dark this weekend. I’ve already got the TV dial turned and the antenna tuned.

8 Across: Seven-letter word for heartbreak. [ illness ]

Eleven Down: Thirteen-letter word for heavy rains. [ stormy weather ]

I love my job but some days it’s hard to hear the sirens. They’re the pulse of a city but also a reminder of storybook endings cut short. In Bea’s final days she promised she’d stay somehow, someway. I’ve gotten nothing. No signs, no pitching clues. Only crossed signals and radio static. I haven’t been able to finish a crossword in the months since she’s passed.

Eleven Down: Six-letter word for a few feet past home plate. [ dugout ]

I’ve tried to dig myself out of a dark place, and the building’s bustle keeps me focused. I swing at each new day, but a sign from Bea would be a welcome boost and surely accelerate my forward-focused progress. Thankfully, my job requires a keen degree of curiosity and camaraderie.

“How was the Board meeting?” I ask 5B, careful not to let the game, a Yankees versus Phillies
replay after a rain delay, on the small black and white TV distract me from my own home team. I
study past games in between resident greetings. Now, it’s playoff season and everyone’s busy.

“Catch you later,” he calls as he leaves. His suit flaps wings like the parakeet that once escaped
from 14G.

As lead doorman for nearly forty years, I refer to my residents by apartment number. My job’s a blend of Trivial Pursuit and Hollywood Squares. Discreteness is prioritized. I’ve met movie stars in bathrobes and CEOs with a penchant for old films. I trade Agatha Christie quotes with literary residents and sports statistics with their better halves. I know my residents backwards and forwards. They’re high-flying hitters, some high-rollers, others place their bets closer to their chest, who love their cats, dogs, and Door Dash dinners. Together they’re more eccentric than most. The building’s my home.

Ten Across: Six-letter word for a group of ballers. [ roster ]

9 Across: Twelve-letter word for a popular sweet and savory snack. [ Cracker Jacks ]

6 Down: Six-letter word for a popular apartment dog. [ Beagle ]

Eleven Across: Six-letter word for a popular ballpark dog. [ Weiner ]

“It’s your sister’s birthday,” I yell over a crowded city street.

“Shoot, I almost missed it,” he responds and grabs his phone. “Thanks for the save!”

3 Across: Five-letter word for someone who knows their players well [ coach ]

8 Down: Seven-letter word for a team leader. [ captain ]

I do what I can to mediate – from pants that need pressing to cohabitation compromises requiring blessings. Mostly, generational exchanges. Residents joke that if the building were to disappear,

I’d have everyone’s underwear, clean and dirty, secure in my back pocket. However, faster Wi-Fi, robot-driven laundry, even cheese and caviar vending machines, leave me uneasy. With more residents working from home and new rules that allow for door-side deliveries, the lobby’s quieter than it’s ever been.

To keep busy, I vacuum flaws like a mother, or my Bea, would. Instacart (and any impending apocalypse) can’t beat my response rates. Besides safety pins and Safeway aspirin, I stock coins for lost teeth and a carousel of greeting cards. My wife, Bea, may she rest in peace, taught me to plan. Neither of us saw her illness coming, we chalked up her coughs to a nasty allergy and a price we’d pay for the lovely florals – daffodils, daisies, and a hint of hyacinth from the residents in 20A, but I’ve learned to refine my peripheral vision and practice what she preached. She colored my world, now I persist and try to color within the lines of what’s left for me – this apartment building.

I hail a cab for Ms. T, a voting member on the co-op’s board, from Penthouse B. She’ll be down momentarily. She has Glee Club on Thursdays.

“Sing loudly,” I say as she settles into a waiting cab, but she’s quieter than usual.

The air’s chilly; I return inside. At my podium, there are two manilla envelopes – stamped IMPORTANT. Someone must have misplaced them while I was curbside. Solving mysteries isn’t in my job description, but most days, I collect lost items for bins in the backroom. The building had one murder, years ago. The police chalked it up to a domestic dispute and the Board still refuses to confirm the apartment number.

Bea was always intrigued. She wanted me to solve the crime. Lord knows, I’ve tried, but all clues have been striking out. Each time I thought I may have hit a winner – a double, maybe even a triple, I’d fall flat and return to the dugout. Now, especially since Bea’s been gone, beyond random conversations, mostly on rainy days when the residents can’t get out to play, probing for details hasn’t had much chance to play. Recent concerns are much more mundane – lost dry cleaning, dirty looks, burnt pot roasts. Despite the regular hum of the building, I’ve never received a signal from Bea that she’s still watching the game unfold – not even a bunt or a hint of her presence. Maybe, maybe one of these days.

As much as I miss Bea, my days are long and full of action. There’s always a curve ball to catch and redirect. Given our residents’ high profiles, I regularly bait visitors fishing for celebrity digs.

I protect my residents’ privacy like a bird protects eggs. Some joke that the combination of my heightened attention to my resident’s peculiar preferences, my love of the seventh inning stretch as well as the game itself, and my ability to entertain myself with crosswords during extended rain delays make me a loyal hire. I always respond the same – “You digress! Those qualities are the same that got me hired here in the first instance. I have no desire to test a new bat.”

2 Across: Four-letter word for Material of most baseball bats: [ wood ]

Twelve Down: Three-letter word for a regular spectator: [ fan ]

During a lull in my duties, I retrieve the envelopes and prepare to place them, along with a shoe, a copy of Janice Lee’s The Piano Teacher, and a Stephen King paperback with a missing cover, in lost and found. I rotate the larger of the two parcels and look closer. My name’s on the backside. It says not to open until after my shift is over. It’s not quite closing time, but I’ve never been good at waiting for a surprise. There’s no time for excuses, but I much prefer a game of slow and steady singles to a bottom-of-the-ninth rally. I pull apart the adhesive -- inside are dismissal papers. A letter from Ms. T. tries to explain -- a new board, making change. I stop reading and struggle to catch my breath. Some trade, I think.

Bea always said I trusted too much. Eyes on my residents, I’ve been caught off guard as I
guarded; lost, not to be found. I refuse to accept defeat. I smooth the fabric of my vest and puff my chest, just a little. I’ll fight the dismissal. I know the condo’s rules better than anyone. I deserve two weeks’ notice. I’ve got a pension, as well. It’s vested.

Something’s definitely amiss. It’s too late in my season for this type of high stakes trading
drama. I don’t wish to debate but I feel slighted by fate.

I look closer at the other package -- this one is unnamed but suddenly strikes me as important in the context of the day. In contrast to my usually reserved self and willingness to wait patiently for the next play, in the spirit of this disconcerting moment, what might be my final inning, I pull at it. The seal is already undone -- inside are two tickets – prime seats, right behind the dugout, to the weekend’s play-off game. It’s a big deal. The city’s been abuzz with anticipation. The game’s been sold out for days.

Fifteen Across: Eight-letter word for the oldest Major League Baseball (MLB) Stadium still in use,

Park [ Fenway ]

Fifteen Down: During an average MLB season, each games averages between 90 and 120 of this eight- letter word [ baseball ]

Suddenly, I have an idea. I had promised Bea I’d solve the murder mystery but never did. If I can solve the mystery of the ticket, and make sure it’s delivered to its intended recipient, perhaps the Board will rethink parting with my company. And perhaps I’ll get a message from Bea. Either way, she’ll enjoy the story – if she’s listening. I hope she’s got a front row seat in Heaven, sneakers cleaned of excess soil, head covered from a scorching sun, watching over me.

1 Down: Six letter word for the type of ground rule called when a player tries to use their hat to stop a ball on the ground or in the air. [ triple ]

2 Down: A special type of ___ is used to prepare baseballs for MLB games (three-letter word) [ mud ]

I quickly get busy. I make a list and plan my calls. Instead of cracking clues in the daily crossword, I
collect clues like Bea would. She’d love this game. Her favorite part of living in this building were the
residents’ stories, anonymized of course. She always knew who was on first. Second and third,
too.

I start with Apartment 1, a baseball regular. I toss some clues, careful not to give anything away.

“Hey, It’s Mr. B., from downstairs. By chance, will you be needing anything this Saturday?”

“What? Saturday? No. I’ve got my niece and nephew visiting for brunch. The deli’s going to have everything delivered. We’re going to watch the game from my couch – all three of us.”

Apartment 5 enters the lobby.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” I ask innocently.

“Headed upstate,” she says. “It our anniversary.”

“Enjoy the scenery,” I reply thinking of Bea. She’d always make a fuss of days that marked something special. Even foul balls sometimes turn into unexpected catches. We too would have had an anniversary coming up, but I try not to think about that much.

“Would a pre-order of a bouquet of wildflowers be okay?”

“You know it!” she says as she heads out the door.

I continue to hunt.

Ms. F. walks by.

“Excited for play-offs?” I ask.

She looks confused. “What do you mean? I gave up tennis when my knee went out.”

“Don’t forget to make your semi-annual check-up,” I urge. “Months fly by more quickly than the pigeons can pounce on discarded crumbs.”

Despite multiple innings of pitches looking for the envelope’s intended recipient, I know nothing more about the tickets than when I first started my shift. I also feel increasingly down about how my time on the team has transpired.

Bea would enjoy the mystery. She always rooted for the underdog. I can imagine what she’d say.

“Don’t give up Bennie, the game’s got nine innings for a reason.”

She loved baseball as much as I do. I return to my podium, check on the replay that’s still streaming, then continue to pitch in a
steady way.

I ask questions.

“Just checking; trying to be proactive. Have I reached a resident expecting a delivery?”

“No,” they reply. “Not today.”

I drop clues.

5 Across: Four-letter word for an acknowledgement before a game. [ wave ]

3 Down: Nine-letter word for baseball during a storm. [ rain delay ]

Fourteen Across: Eight-letter word for a game-day greeting. [ play ball ]

Nineteen Down: Fill in the blank, four letters. Going to the ___ game [ ball ]

Seventeen Across: The call when a ball touches a player’s foot, three letters. [ out ]

“In a betting mood?”

“Is this the resident who dislikes curve balls?”

I drop baseball puns and hints at playoff runs.

I ring the penthouse, but Ms. T’s husband doesn’t answer the phone.

In apartment 12D, I field further, but catch nothing.

A small dog, unleashed, runs across the lobby.

“Play by the rules, please!” I call as the Board’s accountant runs after his poodle. I’m low on bleach and my knees don’t much enjoy up close stain removal these days, but the building has to take priority.

I drop more clues and ask more questions, but I catch nothing. All the residents seem otherwise occupied or disinterested in an inning of conversation or the playoff game. I’m thirsty – for truth, energy, and a reason to make them want me, but there’s no time for a break. Not today.

7 Across: A pitcher has twelve __ to pitch after receiving a ball from the catcher when bases are empty.

Seven words. [ seconds ]

Twenty Across. A caffeinated drink typically seen in a high-rise lobby, six words: [ coffee ]

Twenty Down. A caffeinated drink typically seen at a ballpark, four words: [ cola ]

Eighteen Across. An inning with a stretch, seven words: [ seventh ]

Not only does no one seem interested in stealing a base, no one seems to know my time in the role is limited. It’s getting late.

As I begin to close up shop, most of my team home for the evening, Ms. T. returns. Her umbrella is still open as she enters the lobby. I’ll need to wait and mop up any puddles before someone gets hurt.

She moves quickly, as if she’s looking for something.

“Come on...”

“Where is....”

She mumbles and refuses to make eye contact, but I intercept and confront her head on.

“That was some curve ball,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she continues to press and push through the collection of items at my stand. “Please, where are the envelopes I left. I need the larger one back.”

“And the tickets, too?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“What do you mean? I’ve spent the past few hours trying to find their intended recipient.” Ms. T. stops moving and looks right at me.

“Bennie, those tickets are for you. They’re from your wife, Bea. Didn’t you see the sticky note – it said to keep both envelopes and not open them until later? Did you read my entire letter?”

“No,” I say sheepishly. “I stopped as soon as I saw I’d been fired.”

I pull the letter back out and smooth its creases. It pains me to reread, but I continue. My eyes well like the rains in Hong Kong come monsoon season. Bea always wanted to visit. I always had an excuse not to get us tickets. Ms. T. explains. “Bea gave me the money and made me promise to get you tickets, she insisted on two, for the next playoff. She knew she was nearing the end of her run. She also knew the home team would go to bat again. It was her hope that the two of you could go on your anniversary. It’s Saturday, you know.”

“I know,” I say, as tears well. My right hand shakes. The light strikes my wedding band and there’s a slight rainbow at my feet. About a foot away, on the floor, I see the blue sticky note, waiting.

“You know, through the years, she often wished for a playoff game on a Saturday, as it’s always been your day off. She wanted it to be a surprise. She said she was sad that she didn’t have enough cash for three.” Ms. T. laughs as she, too, wipes away tears. Bea and Ms. T. were the best of friends. I’m in shock. It’s a sign from Bea. Like the code between a pitcher and a catcher – we always made, and make, a great team.

“And now?”

“I’ve got some news,” Ms. T. says as she takes a tissue from her pocket and dries her face. “I didn’t go to Glee Club today.”

“No?”

“Instead, I met with our Board of Trustees. I threw some hard ball. They’ve agreed to reconsider our budget. I’ll need that envelope back please.”

Sixteen Down: 9-letter word for plot twist [ surprise ]

“I already opened it.”

“Bennie, the sticky note said not too.”

“Too late,” I reply, more confused than ever.

“Oh dear. Well, it said not until the end of your shift for a reason, even if not a good one. If things didn’t go our way, I didn’t trust myself to not break down. I’m sorry, I should have planned to tell you face to face.” She casts her eyes down. All pitching signals concealed.

“I never thought I’d be sent back down to the minor leagues,” I say, feeling confused.

Thirteen Down: Five-letter word for a come back win: [ rally ]

Nineteen Across: Four-letter word for a sprint to first base. [ dash ]

Fourteen Down: When a catcher meets a runner at home plate, Seven-letters: [ collide ]

6 Across: Four-letter word for a tip out of play. [ foul ]

Thirteen Across: A comeback win, eight letters. [surprise ]

9 Down: Eight-letter word for a game for everyone. [ baseball ]

As her face contorts like a well-used uniform, I scan the ground. There’s a note – a blue square, it must have fallen off.

My thoughts are increasingly both less and more crossed. My tongue is at a loss. Tied in time with the playoffs a message from my Bea. Finally.

While the long game might not be for the faint of heart, Bea and I embraced baseball and played with heart. “If you build it, they will come,” I’d been told. While growing up, I wanted to know who “they” were. Now, I know better. Bea’s my game, and life, saver.

I stole a base. And then another. I think I can see home plate.

“So, no pinch hitter?” I ask. “No trades or reneged offers?”

“You’re still our first draft pick,” Ms. T. smiles. “Always have been. You and Bea are dear friends.”

My crossed words come undone as I process this unexpected comeback. A win amidst loss. Binary depictions of defeat melt like Rolos when in the sun past one. This building is mine and Bea’s favorite stadium -- We are one. I watch as Ms. T’s eyes travel then settle on the black and white TV.

“I sure hope you’re not goofing around,” she laughs.

She scolds in a joking way. I know she’s as much a fan of the game as I am.

“You know me better than that. And thanks for saving my spot on the team. You’re a good
friend.”

“I miss Bea terribly,” she says.

“Same,” I reply, then ask, as a doorman who loves baseball, his residents, and his wife – “Will you go to the game with me? Please. For Bea. I may not have gotten the ticket she wanted, but I now have two for tonight’s game. We’ll do the crossword in her honor.”

“Ready. Set. Let’s go.”

Jen Schneider is a community college educator who lives, works, and writes in small spaces in and around Philadelphia.

[11001 – 11101] & [11201 – 11300] & [14701 - 14800]

John Beckmann

[11001 – 11101]

After the exceptionally wayward
courtship of Fernando & Teresa
marred the commune’s continuity
like a lithe bubble with hazy complacency,
its once conversant nightingales forsook
elated frolic for studious prescription
& underwent credulous trespass.
Now eagles loft to discordant guitar
& mania stamps their blurred yet alluring
halo with perplexing footstep. The
feathered reel & the membrane revels
slap, lending unfavorable awkwardness
to reciprocal despondency—asatirical
impostor seasoned with hoary taint.

[11201 – 11300]

Saintly Osiris accompanies Wizard
on his traverse of infinity, twofold
likelihood adrift upon ferment
immeasurable. Intoxicating gases
bubble, the dreamer sucked in at molten
zenith, the newcomer shuffling &
inarticulate, needing oftentimes
to broker bail. Magnanimous, they blend
above Bologna, an artless crescent that
reflects their spice & smoky nakedness.
Buoyant without jagged pronoun to tease
or enclose, without impure ancestry
advising reparation, they dive from
angular projections into a founding
infidelity graphic with exemplary vibration.

[14701 - 14800]

Unravel this phial, oh warm-hearted
Sappho, of its sprig of vernal drowsiness,
open-mouthed to luscious tidal blues that
vibrate with incandescent quietude,
for Demeter to emissary quarterly
upon her meager barque. Tillage of twos
& cancelled presidents, bedclothes blood-
shot with the nag & squeak of propagate,
drummer at the typewriter of a cleaner
metamorphosis: What foreword defines
such untenable circumcision to probe
the inimical markings of a sacrilegious
& bullying celibacy?

Peter J Grieco is a poet, song writer, musician, former professor, and retired school bus driver from Buffalo. His collection of ekphrastic verse, "The Blind Man's Meal," is available from Finishing Line Press.

‘When I Wish I Was A Knot’, ‘Summer Storms Are Exhibitionists’ & ‘It’s a $300 Fine If I Don’t Cut My Backyard’

David Summerfield’s fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and photo art has appeared in numerous literary magazines/journals/and reviews. He’s also been editor, columnist, and contributor to various publications within his home state of West Virginia. He is a graduate of Frostburg State University, Maryland, and a veteran of the Iraq war. View his work at davidsummerfieldcreates.com

When I Wish I Was A Knot

They’re:
vintage spools;
discarded twine;
a rat king’s crown;
thrift store necklaces;
cloud-hugging contrails;
tossed around paperclips;
hand-me-down Christmas lights;
calcified remains of a prehistoric mother-to-be;
prematurely torn hair in a dollar store scrunchie;

Summer Storms Are Exhibitionists

the electric pulse meets in the middle
between the forlorn lovers of earth and sky
lost long ago before records could remember
and their excitement climax is exerted
in a brilliant blast of jagged light that sears
through unwilling, unwitting victims
witness to the exhibitionist ways
of nature’s smitten heart
and the rumbling thunder that floods
ears open to the whispers of hidden
birds protected in their nests
but instead subjected to the screams of joy
heaven and hell have come together for

It’s a $300 Fine If I Don’t Cut My Backyard

a sadness rocks back and forth
with the shuffling and
tension building in the arches
and soles of
feet coated in socks the colors of ashes
wiped in mourning
as the morning comes
and the dew settles upon the decapitated
stalk of freshly wacked grass and
plants designated weeds
by the city council
long before I moved in and let my yard
grow wild
around me
where my dogs played hide and seek
running like predatory antelopes
and I can’t help but cry for the loss
of lightning bugs as their innards
twinkle in the grass
mutilated by strings moving the speed
of helicopter wings
that took insect wings for their own mechanical gain
and I can’t help but ache for the loss
of safety that the
wild rabbits native to the midwestern suburbs
as their ground cover is removed
their barrier between life and
my dogs’ overenthusiastically deadly teeth
and I’m left with soon-dead seeds
in the canvas crevices of
sawdusted sneakers
and I hold the borrowed weed whacker
hoping that the battery lasts so
I don’t have commit atrocities against nature
for much longer

Kelly Lynn (she/her) is a queer author originally from northern Maryland but now lives in east central Indiana, where she lives with her two polar opposite rescue pooches and one rehab horse she calls Pony Boy. She holds a double BA in Creative Writing and Communications from Susquehanna University where she attended college six years late as An Old. Her first published poems are forthcoming or recently published with Gabby&Min, Moonstone Arts Center, and/or TPT Magazine. In her free time, Kelly pretends to write her debut novel but mostly just watches YouTube.