Six Poems by Luke Johnson


of my nana

with an afghan
on her lap

and asking
if I see the boy,

the one she lost,

by her bed
and begging

for water,

quietly singing.



of my sister

both her arms
in summer air

and squeezing

like an orange
in her teeth,

the bees
still busy then,




of the rotted oak
I’d climb inside

to calm on days
when daddy

found his rifle’s

how I’d fall asleep

to flies vibrations
and wake

at night
to my name

being called—
my mother

flicking a match.



is a pill my
mother lost

in the drain
and her

for more.

A blue kite

into yellow—



of a bag of quails
dragged through gravel

and my dad
above them smiling

as he plucked
the feathers

then slit
each belly open

so the heart
could splash

inside a bucket
and darken

as the hours
fell like aphids

from the apple blossoms
and gathered

around my feet.



of my dad
too sick

to stand
on New Year’s Eve,

how he

to find
my fingers

and asked,
if ever, I

think of cardinals

a window

in the dark,
a deep whistle

through sky.


Luke Johnson lives on the California coast with his wife and three kids. His poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Narrative Magazine, Florida Review, Frontier, Cortland Review, Nimrod, Thrush and elsewhere. His manuscript in progress was recently named a finalist for the Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis through Four Way Press, The Vassar Miller Award and is forthcoming fall 2023 from Texas Review Press. You can find more of his poetry at or connect at Twitter at @Lukesrant.

Two Poems by Rachel Rinehart

Uncle Herbert’s Bat Mill

It’s gone now, of course, ceded to blackberry canes
and stinging nettles, the sour scent
of sawdust subsumed by evening primrose
bubbling a doublewide’s new skirt.

The white ash trees, too, begin to hollow out
and soften in the jaws of jeweled beetles,
though the saw’s long sold or lying
vine-snagged in some defunct junkyard.

Who knows what Uncle Herbert heard
in the crack of Mazeroski’s bat that fall,
laid up drunk in the logs clutching his transistor,
dreaming of diamond dust and mink oil,
the hot sun on leather.

Perhaps he mustered an afternoon
lingering under the trees of his courtship,
lush and light dappled, his hand snug
between bark and the lithe arch of Grace’s back,
groping for the smooth, wood-singing spark
of a Hank Aaron two-run dinger.

These boozy hallucinations
Aunt Grace endured at a distance—
down the road in her kitchen apron
with a washcloth and a cup of cool water,
the Maytag ready to wring the salt crust
and whiskey from Uncle Herbert’s flannels.

All this, it’s been years.
The benders and the trees sacrificed
for The Series, the mill saw screeching
like radio static as it carved up slats
to send to Louisville for sluggers,
billets beveled and hewed to the grips
for Mickey Mantle and the Say Hey Kid.

Somehow, yet, old trees beget both bats
and record books, bedfellows, these,
on the long march down the West Kentucky hills,
logged to pay a few months on the mortgage,
or for a last-ditch round of chemotherapy.

Checks folks cash with a long look back
to that other time where Aunt Grace, still waiting,
puts up the last of her preserves and closes
her cupboard on the season.


Old Breaks

Your wrist gives way with late December,
bone shards like snowburst along an old fissure.

When you call, I am stumbling between boxes,
moving again—back to the city
and its pharmaceutical haze, needles glinting
in the grass like sparks woven through tapestry.

“At my age,” you say, “there will be no surgery,”
and as you laugh, I can hear you
nonchalantly toeing that galactic chasm
across which there is little use for wrists.

Between us harried angels dodge cell signals
that carry our voices to each other.
The connection spits and fizzes
like singed feathers.

Out home, the new year heals over quietly,
as plowed furrows under snow.
The Earth roars on in its old treads.

Tomorrow, I know, you will pull your coat on
with your teeth and shake food into a bowl
for cats that coalesce like vapors out of barn stalls,
rangy familiars mute and unblinking.

You tell me you knew a man once
who roused his family just before midnight
and led them all in their night clothes
out the back door and round through the front,
frost stinging the little ones’ ankles.

Later, in the cold, early hours
I hear the neighbor woman settle on her stoop
in the false dawn of the street light
to sing, of all things, The Hallelujah Chorus,
like some old-time mystic or prophetess.

When it is over, how graciously
we fall back in our tousled beds
snug in the ebbing heat of the old year.


Rachel Rinehart’s poetry collection The Church in the Plains was selected by Peter Everwine as the winner of the 2016 Philip Levine Poetry Prize and was published by Anhinga Press in January 2018.

Death of a Child Who Never Was by Sarah Mackey Kirby

Death of a Child Who Never Was

I need to bury you, this mind-figment
that can never become.
Into a place where you lose meaning.
Some former dream, diminished.
A white dwarf star succumbed to light pressure,
helium-swallowed core, collapsed but somehow
still shining inside my narrative,
each evening’s reemergence unwelcome.
I want you, who never was,
to stay distant and vague.
Unrecognizable, obscure music.
Disconnected as chartreuse, the color and name.
Some untenable heel-dug position
decomposing at last under the weight of proof.
Leave me. Fall cooling into the wilderness,
canopied under treetops. Capitulate to this gravity,
and descend into the thickened woods at dusk,
where I can no longer author your voice.


Sarah Mackey Kirby grew up in Louisville, Kentucky. She is the author of the poetry collection, The Taste of Your Music (Impspired, 2021). Her poems appear in Muddy River Poetry Review, The New Verse News, ONE ART, Ploughshares, Third Wednesday Magazine, and elsewhere. She taught high school and middle school social studies until a few health surprises changed her path. Sarah is an always-teacher-at-heart and a forever second momma to hundreds of students. She and her husband split their time between Kentucky and Ohio.

Fragment by Amorak Huey


If, in a given moment, I am not being touched —
in that moment, I would swear to you it has been decades
since I was touched, indeed I have never been touched.


Amorak Huey is author of four books of poems including Dad Jokes from Late in the Patriarchy (Sundress Publications, 2021). Co-founder with Han VanderHart of River River Books, Huey teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. He also is co-author with W. Todd Kaneko of the textbook Poetry: A Writer’s Guide and Anthology (Bloomsbury, 2018) and the chapbook Slash/Slash (Diode, 2021).

First Love Debunked by Andrea Potos

First Love Debunked
               for Win

It’s the second love
I remember, the boy
who baked a banana cream pie
from scratch
for our first dinner,

played a Brandenburg concerto
and told me that,
with orange juice, it was the best
hangover medicine,

the boy who whirled me around Milwaukee
in his red convertible MGB, and,
like a cliche come true, ran out of gas
on our first date.

The boy who, whenever
he came to pick me up,
paused before his rearview mirror
to straighten his wind-messed chestnut hair,
a gesture a girl might do, I’d watch him
through the sunroom window, he wanted
to be beautiful for me,
he landed on my doorstep like a prince, written
in a better story.


Andrea Potos is the author of several poetry collections, including Marrow of Summer and Mothershell, both from Kelsay Books; and A Stone to Carry Home from Salmon Poetry. A new collection entitled Her Joy Becomes is forthcoming from Fernwood Press this November. Recent poems appear in The Sun, Poetry East, and Lyric. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin.

Four Poems by Sarah Carey

All You Can Fit In A Suitcase

Three tanks, an all-weather sweater
for layering, thermals. Leggings, a pair

of well-treaded boots for forced marching
in this hypothetical, which imports me

into your country like an unwanted pest
or an exotic species.

In the sides, tuck rhinestone toe-posts—
for sparkle, like champagne, like leisure-to-go—

or my mother’s diamond solitaire
with the story of my father’s postal route that bought it

and the grief they carried
when the bloom fell off the rose

sewn into a parka pocket. There’ll be room left
for my native birdsong on a flashdrive,

notecards with embossed gold leopards
right below the fold, as from the depths

of territory I can’t bring myself to navigate,
I’ll pen what’s left of my salvation

in the lining, like a legend you can follow
mapping how caged hopes burst free

like the restless wild cat dimmed
in memory, a handy guide to hold the world

in hand like the bird you know
and the heart you can’t,

closer to the vest than any secret.


What You Don’t Know Can’t Hurt You

If the baseball on a chair in someone’s office
represents a teen at home or a love of game

or where fun falls in the intersection of rules
and gray matter, hope for the old vestiges

of selves. What to make of anyone’s lack
of family pictures. What a masked face holds back—

breath, what you’d finally say if you could or would stay
married to restraint. If you play safely for keeps,

my first move doomed from the start. If you imagined
I moved at all, or in which direction.

If anyone claimed to be the wiser for their strategy.

Who could have known of the darkest year
before the darkest decade in 536, or how a volcanic eruption

could trigger a new ice age, the end of life
as anyone knew it. Churchill said those who fail

to learn from history are doomed to repeat it
we remind and remind and remind. Over and over

we revisit the scene of our crimes, whatever was done,
undone by our little treasons. Whatever evidence

remains behind. No touching. No room left
for heart. Meanwhile a colony of ants

overtaking my garden gobbles the sugary bait,
fake poison they will never recognize,

and die and die. Who knew? If looking back
we’ll reframe our murderous instincts

forgivingly in our best light. If we’ll both-sides regret.

If the brightest star in Orion knows its name
when you’re guessing it in today’s crossword,

a reminder that light lives, thousands of years
beyond our near annihilation. If you understand my curiosity

or would feel obligated to answer if I asked.
If you have learned yet fantasy

football, or can pinpoint your priorities. What it means
to win a battle with oneself. As if we don’t know

to open a certain door is to strip away pretenses
of innocence. As if we could ever go back.



Every town in eastern Colorado has one—
a silo, a silver sliver of granaries
clotting the landscape, harbor
for hundreds of tons of wheat. We plow
through every sleepy four-way stop, bisect
each major artery, often one
and same, ubiquitous, grateful for quiet
feeders where the world looms straight
ahead. Heartland. Endless roads, far from forlorn,
hold us—a testament to our rootlessness.
We can see forever ahead. Kansas,
sunflower state. Settlers used buffalo bones
to plant and harvest, I discover on my cell
when we find a signal. Tell me what you know,
I say, besides the fact that tasseled crops
we pass on either side are corn.
You shake your head. Farther west,
in Yellowstone, bison claim the park road
as their own. We stand our ground,
are never charged, keep well away from wildlife
like good tourists. Drawn to fame in South Dakota,
we traverse Wyoming scrub to view
Mount Rushmore, squinting at gray granite faces
we should know, though never keen on history.
We’ll share our own: we love the land,
remind ourselves, then look away.


In Florence, in the Summer of ’69,

we learned the taste of saltless butter
served with rolls as big as fists
at the villa where our father taught,

heard the word diesel for the first time
when he bought the black Mercedes
to sightsee in Naples or Rome

or for the longer drive to the train to Zermatt
where chalets and flowerboxes taught me quaint
and longing could burn both retina and heart,

drew me back to the alps in my thirties
to verify. In our flat, we learned the cost
of soft drinks at the supermercado

where our stepmother shopped for the week,
how not to assume we’d always have
our small indulgences. At night, gelato

of no price or peer among the novelties
we would select two generations later
from the freezer aisle, back in the States.

You’re never too young to be an orphan,
someone said, and the world returns
both seen and unseen in our innocence:

now we know Neil Armstrong
walked on the moon and David Bowie floated
in his tin can high above the world

while we followed the burning
smell of garlic, oregano, extra virgin
olive oil to the pizzeria

stared up in awe at the Ponte Vecchio
moved through time on cobblestones
into our father’s shadow, merged with our own.


Sarah Carey is a graduate of the Florida State University creative writing program. Her poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in Five Points, Florida Review, Zone 3, Redivider, River Heron Review, Split Rock Review, Atlanta Review and elsewhere. Her book reviews have appeared recently in Salamander, EcoTheo Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal and the Los Angeles Review.

One of the Many Reasons I Married You by Ona Gritz

One of the Many Reasons I Married You

Remember the boat my son built
in his mind when he was eight—
sturdy and sea-worthy, though not
with more than two people in it?
Every few days, he’d climb in,
have us join him,
and ask me to choose.
What he didn’t yet know
is that I’m the daughter
of a woman who gave up her children
for a man with no place
in the skiff of his heart
for kids who weren’t his.
I will never be her, I told myself
over and over. So whenever
he asked, it was you I threw
into the churning waters he imagined.
And you, who as a boy his age
nearly lost your life in a camp-side lake,
drowned as often as you had to
for him to feel safe.


Ona Gritz’s collection of essays, Present Imperfect, is out now from Poets Wear Prada. She is also the author of Geode, a Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award finalist, On the Whole: a Story of Mothering and Disability, and a middle grade novel, August Or Forever, forthcoming from Fitzroy Books in February. Ona’s poems have appeared in Ploughshares, River Teeth, The Bellevue Literary Review, Catamaran Literary Reader, and previously in One Art. Recent honors include two Notable mentions in Best American Essays, a Best Life Story in Salon, and a winning entry in The Poetry Archive Now: Wordview 2020 project.

What We Can Gather by Gabby Gilliam

What We Can Gather

I can see you trying so hard to look happy
clenching your jaw when you smile
grimacing at the pressure on your loose teeth
willing yourself to have fun though
your dinner of pills roils in your stomach

but you dragged yourself
out of your house to sit
with me on this sofa.

Blue jays will weigh nuts
comparing heft before filling beak
with the largest available meal

the way you weigh options
which last memories you want
to take with you––what smiles
to leave behind for us
so hungry for more time with you
our mouths filled with as many
minutes as we can carry.


Gabby Gilliam lives in the DC metro area with her husband and son. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Tofu Ink, The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, Deep Overstock, Vermillion, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and Equinox. You can find her online at or on Facebook at

Two Poems by Tamara Madison

One Thanksgiving

My daughter, I know,
will not be coming
all the way from school
in New York. Then my son
says he’ll spend the day
with his girlfriend’s folks;
he can’t make
the long drive down
for our favorite holiday.

Ah, I say to myself.
They hurt you
when they enter this world;
they hurt you again
as they leave your side.

I take my solitary self in hand,
invite some lonely friends and plan.
So strange, without my daughter’s
kitchen skills, my boy’s
toasts and cheer and help.
I make the meal myself this time;
I even make the pies.

The friends arrive,
the wine is opened;
we gather around
the golden bird,
beets glistening on a bed
of garlic-studded greens,
the cranberry sauce
I always make
with marmalade
and lemon zest.

The moment I set
the last dish down,
the front door opens
and my lad walks in,
with his love on his arm.
My astonished face,
my friends will tell me later:
the embodiment of Thanksgiving.


Staying With My Sister

My sister’s husband says they can’t
go out to dinner anymore — there’s nothing
to talk about. He asks me to stay with her
while he goes to a conference.
I am glad for the change of scene
and to be with my big sister who has shown me
so much love all my life. I take her
to a restaurant — there’s plenty to talk about:
the menu, other diners, our parents.

My sister used to love to cook.
Now I’m the one making meals.
She wants to help, asks if she should
peel the garlic. Sure, I tell her, not thinking
as her husband might, of the perils
of the paring knife. I busy myself
with the rest of the meal. When I turn back,
I see she has peeled both whole knobs:
the cloves cluster like a trove of pearls.

Tamara Madison is the author of the chapbook “The Belly Remembers”, and two full-length volumes of poetry, “Wild Domestic” and “Moraine”, all published by Pearl Editions. Her work has appeared in Chiron Review, the Worcester Review, A Year of Being Here, Nerve Cowboy, the Writer’s Almanac and many other publications. A swimmer, dog lover and native of the southern California desert, she has recently retired from teaching English and French in a Los Angeles high school. Read more about her at

Fargin by Joan Mazza


At last, a term for the opposite
of schadenfreude, Yiddish word
for a joyful feeling of sharing in
another’s happiness, success,
and wealth. Instead of taking
pleasure in another’s scandal
and humiliation, we celebrate
their accomplishments—not
just a book published, but one
on the bestseller list. We’re
thrilled to hear of the classmate,
neighbor, or cousin who got
elected, awarded a Nobel or Tony,
won the race. We don’t compare
ourselves or begrudge others’
triumphs as we plod in mediocrity.
We pass along their elation, spread
the Internet news, say, Congrats!
I’m happy for you! and mean it.


Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self, and her poetry has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, The Comstock Review, Prairie Schooner, Slant, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.