‘I Am the Undertow’, ‘My Memories Live in Ashtrays’, ‘The Sand That I Am’, ‘Serene Storms’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

I Am the Undertow

The birds sing above me

urging I retreat

as I swim breaststroke

in a river

that cannot project me

forward

In my peripheral vision

I notice her

diving beneath the surface

plunging deep into

temptation

before reasoning

can circle overhead

I do not swallow

more than a mouthful of air

before I find myself

barreling down her trajectory

abandoning my

airborne adversaries

Submerged in the passion

of my pursuits

the song of the warblers

is drowned out by

the sloshing of seduction

relentless in its efforts

to overwhelm my eardrums

My Memories Live in Ashtrays

In the comfort

Of my living room

I light up

Might as well

Inhale these toxins

To rid myself of

Others

With each drag

There is a greater

Demand to

Withdraw

But I must

Poison the grief

That sits

In my lungs

A tray beside me

Holds discarded ends

Of recollection

There they live

Trapped in soot

Covered creases

A reminder of

Memories that

Never finished

Burning

The Sand That I Am

It is sand that

Rains down glass

The beads

Of an hour

Dropping to

Their death

As am I

For I too

Am sand

Measured by

The minute

Often stuck

In unreachable

Crevices

Once I was

Stone

But I was

Broken down

Weathered

For the better

I am still unsure

It is sand that

Serves

As a vessel

For rebirth

Is this

The sand

That I am

Serene Storms

I awake to

summer’s storm

pecking at my window

in the early hours

of morning before

the sun tries to

peek from behind

clouds concealing

its shine. A calm

washes over with

the rain tapping

on roof shingles,

creating a concord

that coincides with

rumblings of the earth.

There is no light aside

from brief illuminations

casting shadows

of shaking trees

on shutters bearing

the wind’s rage.

Calamity prevails

outside, but within

my heartbeat settles.

I am delighted by

this interlude.

Alyssa Troy is an English teacher in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. She received her B.A. from Rider University and has an M. Ed. from both Cabrini and Eastern University. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Blue Unicorn, Cool Beans Lit, In Parentheses, 300 Days of Sun, The Road Not Taken as well as other journals and magazines. She is the author of Transfiguration (2020).

‘On the Gobi’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

On the Gobi

steaming goat’s milk
&, supple buuz dumplings
as sunlight streams through
the ger: there are camels
to be milked, floor to be swept
cattles and horses to be attended
before dusky sunset
when gobi is painted crimson
& we dance in the fading light

Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. Her poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottlecap Press and her most recent chapbook, Remnants, came out in 2024. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) came out November 2023.

‘Call for Navigation’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

call for navigation

I should hire someone to memorize
the streets in my city,
my hometown that i never learned
my way around, I still find strange
sounds that could be gunshots
or could be shouts,

I should figure out which
intersection holds that
ironic embassy, learn the location
of the closest grocery store,
maybe I’ll speak to the manager
get all the labels torn off the food

so I don't have to look at them

maybe I should buy a house
or get a ride, I don't think
walking tired and sleepless for
hours is good for my heart,
it's not good for my bones to
be lost in my head,
someone should tell me what
to do, who to speak to, to buy
myself a life, I thought I was
taught everything I needed
to know but somehow still ended
up back home, now it doesn't

feel right.
here, see this flier just posted, covered
in the most nostalgic, happy
polaroids I could find
in my two pockets, advertising a
position as a navigator.
advertising a position
to hold the taxi door for the
better things that always drag behind
but can never walk through in time.

Chris Taylor is a young writer of poetry and prose, hoping to connect with others through their own experiences as a queer person and as someone with mental illness. Their free time is filled with family, their dogs, and electronic and alternative music.

‘On the Verge’, ‘Heredity’ & ‘Galveston Bay’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

On the Verge

I discover myself on the verge of an unusual mistake,
whether or not to lean in to the breeze and simply
be carried away on one wind or another to some place
or another where little girls and their mothers sip
nectar from bright white blossoms and there is beauty
in the simplicity of a spear of summer grass.

And it is this that sits, itching at my ears:
What has become of the young and old men?
What has become of me?
Where do I end?
Where am I going and where have I been?

And perhaps it is I, not this bird who beats inside
my chest, that is a bit too tame. Crack the bone of
my breast and peel back the sick and the hurting
and let this one stretch her wings, and maybe
she will be carried away on one wind or another
and I will find myself set down beside my mother,
her soul cool and composed before the horizon
of a million universes.

Heredity

I am half my mother, sipping sadness in the shadow of the moon, but I am not half my father, not
his fists nor his frown.

The other half I am something else, world-rich, filling myself up with all of the things I am not: a
handful of cigarettes, a mouthful of pills, a glass of cold water, a condom, a cat sitting on the
sidewalk corner.

Galveston Bay

What a waste that you came to this slum of a place where we dance and we chase and we drain
out the lake of the grapes and the gray haze of last summer’s grace, where we laugh and we rage
and paint shame on our face, where the girls all in lace with their gay little gaits place a handful
of snakes in a vase and take eight ripened dates off a plate. They wait with their hair all done up
in braids, but the dates taste like paste and the snail on the doorstep is late to the race so they’ve
wasted a day waiting ‘round for their fate. In the garden they’ve taken the down-the-road saint
and hung him by his hands from the spoke of the gate, pinned him in place with a nail made of
jade while they pray and burn sage and it rains in the glade. He goes up in a blaze and in the fray
of the flames they’ve mistaken an angel and misplaced their praise so they cry and they bray but
their wails are in vain -- come the morning what’s left is a gray bit of clay.

Mikayla Silkman is a writer and editor from southwest Connecticut. She predominantly writes speculative fiction and poetry, with the occasional foray into the creative essay. She is also an independent copyeditor. Her work has been featured in Western Connecticut State University's The Echo, Catholicism Coffee, The Hallowzine, and the 2023 CT State Literary Anthology. Mikayla is a devout Roman Catholic, an SVT survivor, and a proponent of literature and the arts. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, playing video games, and cooking. She is currently a student of Western Connecticut State University's MFA in Professional & Creative Writing program. She and her husband, Gordon, currently live in Bethel, Connecticut, and have a rescue dog named Oobi.

‘Fallen Gods’ & ‘Ophidian's Tongue’

Fallen Gods

Gods do not fall gracefully and delicately,
With fire and destruction, they crash and burn.
When you spend your life in beauty and power,
You are not given that luxury when you are cast away.
With chains of bronze, you are led away
Faces you once laughed and sang with, now smirk at the opportunity to take your place.
Gods do not fall with grace,
They poison that which surrounds their crater.
When cast from on high, to live with worms in the mud,
You are given no courtesy,
No clothes to hide your divinity.
No weapon to fight off the dogs of hunters.
You are spared none of your gifts, lest you crawl back up.
A God does not land lightly,
Even when falling, a God is grandiose.
The heavens light up, in cheer of your departure.
The cheering of old friends fills the air,
For the gods do not fall gracefully.
You are cast away, to become entertainment until the world unwrites itself.
The golden ichor of their blood, withers, crimson and dark.
Your face loses its perfection, becoming blemished and bruised. Your wings once snow white, fall into darkness, shrouding your once grand beauty.
The perpetual light above your head fades and shatters.
For gods, do not fall.

Ophidian’s Tongue

If I had but a single wish, to beseech the genie, to ask the star,
I would go back, and tell myself,
Not to sip.
The cup you drink from, is poisoned.
He’ll pinch your nose, and tilt back your head.
Drink up.
He’ll whisper soft as rebar and nails.
Little one, you’ll learn
He lulled you into submission,
With each sip from that blasted cup, he bound you,
Tighter and tighter to him.
He said, through him, you’ll fly and touch the sky,
I already know the ending of that story.
So, I’ll clip my wings, and scatter the feathers like autumn leaves.
Because even after all this time, you still think I remember the smell of you,
But it's you who lusts for another taste.

Colin Donnelly is an unpublished writer, looking to start expanding his roots, and gain more experience in the world of publication, with the hopes to someday become a full-fledged author.