Issue #12

to replace the unopened box
that sat in my drawer for sixteen years.
The plastic, storage cart holds
things I don’t use but can’t bear
to toss out – graph paper, dried
magic markers, two-cent stamps,
and greeting cards from charities.

Forty-six years ago, I gave Nancy a ride
when I moved east, all my possessions 
in a Chevy hatchback and my hand on her thigh
as we drove the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
She wouldn’t let me use a condom
and accused me of thinking her unclean but I didn’t 
want to start graduate school dripping itchy puss. 
We dry humped on my modular sofa
my fingers slipping into silky panties.

Odd, how often I slept 
with a sexy adventuress and woke 
next to a cat owner with no common interests.
Those married guys, their jaws clenched 
in exasperation with allergies and litter boxes,
must feel the same. My new condoms
will remain unopened. Probably the last I’ll ever buy 

Jon Wesick is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, Pearl, Pirene’s Fountain, Slipstream, Space and Time, Stick Figure Poetry, and Tales of the Talisman. His most recent books are The Shaman in the Library and The Prague Deception. http://jonwesick.com

From her desolate eyes
and her vapid hair
to all of the emptiness
inside her flesh –
I want every bit of that.
Yes,
and I even want the remorse
of doing it,
the terror of afterward
when all I want
is to leave
and all she wants
is to talk.
From her brain
that requires more expanding
and her smooth,
doll-like fingers
that I think about
touching me
here
and there
and there –
I want every bit of that.
Yes,
and I even want to feel
that regret
a year after
or two,
when I wonder how 
it was
I ever wanted any part
of that.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Love sometimes enters
as a blade, wounding 
so uniquely that 
only the wielder’s kisses
might ease the pain,
though never heal it,
no, never heal it,
as some wounds never close,
even after the blade
has been removed
and returned to its home.

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, The Madness Of Qwerty, A Foetal Heart and Bones Speaking With Hard Tongues. 
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

It’s an old cliche 
about the wind being evidence
of the existence of things unseen 
but watching the porch rocker
keep time
from inside the stillness of the house
it seems obvious
that the old analogy holds water 
especially when every day
our machines discover
some new limitation of our senses
so it’s not even philosophical now
just plain fact
to say that the bulk of everything
happens unbeknownst
which maybe explains
the stubborn impulse to heaven
some place that
based on the example of the wind
surely exists 
some place that we haven’t thought up
stunk up
tore up 
where the magic of our imagination
has not stopped up 
against the horror of our insignificance 
why I saddle that rocker with any number of names 
probably hoping for the kind of distracted touch
that sometimes happens while watching television
someone reaching for the dog 
and instead stroking a leg
conveying love 
unseen during the day’s argument
that energy
implying a source, not human made
the strike of wooden rails on stone
a thin, dead, hollowing thing knocking
at what may be the last to go

Matt Thomas is a smallholder farmer and occasional community college teacher. His work has appeared recently in Cleaver Magazine and River Heron Review. He lives with his partner in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.

Hands that cradled babies, 
fed and diapered; 
Hands that hoed the gardens, 
drove a tractor 
tending stock and crops;
Hands that built a home, 
repaired and furnished it;
Hands that cleared wilderness, 
tamed and gardened it;
Hands that write words, 
which sing 
on continents and pages 
changing hearts and minds.
These hands know God 
through giving love 
and selfless service;
They, one day, too 
will know Rest.

A reluctant carbon-based life-form, Duane Herrmann was surprised to find himself on a farm in Kansas. He’s trying to make sense of that, but has grown fond of grass waving under wind, trees and the enchantment of moonlight. He aspires to be a hermit, but would miss his children, grandchildren and a few friends. His work has been published in print and online, even some of both in languages he can’t read (English is difficult enough!) These include a sci fi novel, eight collections of poetry, local history, stories for children, plus other works. He has carried baby kittens in his mouth, pet snakes, and has conversations with owls, but is careful not to anger them! All this, and degrees in education and history, despite a traumatic, abusive childhood embellished with dyslexia, ADHD (both unknown as a child), cyclothymia, a form of Mutism, anxiety disorder and, now, PTSD.

Waiting for news 
while machines 
pump her lungs.
in a flower 
in my garden,  
the last butterfly. 
flowers:
like feet 
in a bathroom
at night.
burning pale blue
porcelain, fired 
with fallen
crust frost.

DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has nominated eleven times for Best of the Net, eight for the Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)

As if there were a watchful eye
in the sky I’d been more aware
of my every movement like setting
my alarm clock for five minutes to
seven a.m., adding at the top of my
list to beware of our mean neighbor
and always keep important documents
in a tight, secure place. Impute it to
God to fasten His gaze on me, make
sure every detail of my life is conducted
just right: Spam stored in the pantry in
case of covid and famine; closely guard
every cent and possession. I study my
husband’s daily habits of living, keep
them pressed to me tightly. I chase
my stress down with a cup of tea,
and in my only idle minutes of time
I double-check my priorities for
the next day, wishing I’d have time
to admire the beauty of the moon,
a gift from the heavens. But I listen
to the hum of silence all around me,
learn the art of not being seen so
I can go on, unaided with living,
most of my life of no use to me as
if it had been swept away like broken
glass. Before I close my eyes to sleep
the darkness outside reminds me of 
the biggest burden of all: to be practicing
aloneness in a future life, a grim window
I hadn’t passed through yet.

Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller’s Pond, The Tau, Vita Brevis, Cascadia  Rising Review, Old Red Kimono, and Woods Reader. Her books of poetry are available at Amazon.com and her work has been nominated for The Best of the Net Anthology in 2015, 2018, 2020, and 2021 as well as having been nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2020.

I remember that first morning we walked out
the front door into the New Mexico morning.
You were smart enough and thoughtful enough
to pack extra flannel shirts. I used my old
Ektelon racquetball jacket, which although light
in construction, served its purpose well.
The fake gas logs, controlled by a thermostat,
warmed the front room with a gentle heat.
We scurried like bugs at a picnic, searching
for well-packed necessities, toiletries mainly,
making ourselves at home in someone else’s
space, interpreting hand-written notes & typed
instructions read through plastic laminates.
My skin began drying out like a reptile’s
I remember how the electric salmon-colored
poppies displayed one of two stances – upright
calling Maker’s name, or facing the ground,
their exquisite stems unraveling like soft rope.
I remember the magpies, fat & sassy, prancing
at the edge of the yard with military posture.
And I remember how you glowed, released
from the insidious grip of stress & tension.
And then we had a lot of coffee.