Contents Sweet Talk Toti O’Brien ............................................................... ……...1 Gracias A La Vida Toti O’Brien ..................................................................... ….2 Flotsam (from Book of Mother) Toti O’Brien………………………………………………...3 John Lennon Rows to Dorinish Russell Thorburn…………………………………………...4 Why I Will Stand in Line for Space Mountain Even Though I Don’t Like Rollercoasters Jeremy Ra…………………………………………………. 5 Living Will Meggie Royer………………………………………….……6 Old Dad Remembers Colic in Australia Michael Riordan…………………………….………………7 We Were Best Friends, Once Sally Quon…………………………………………………..8 Sustenance Mark Hurtubise…………………………………………......9 White(water) Noise D.W. Schmidt………………………………………….…..10 Achilles Was a First Round Pick Kevin Carey………………………………………………..11 In Memoriam Italo Ferrante………………………………………………12 You’re the only woman I think I could marry Ben Westlie………………………………………………..13 Sex & Whatever Else Stan Sanvel Rubin……………………………………..…..14 Haunted Sharon Whitehill…………………………………………..15

Blues Harp Paul Hostovsky……………………………………………16 Sonnets for Belinda Paul Hostovsky……………………………………………17 The Maltese Falcon Carla Sarett………………………………………………..18 One for Sorrow Carla Sarett………………………………………………..19 The Creek that was a River Doug Hoekstra……………………………………………20 Huevos Doug Hoekstra…………………………………………….21 In December at my Cabin (After Tu Fu) George Freek……………………………………………...22 For the Birds (After Li Shagyin) George Freek………………………………………...……23 The Zombies of Shalott L. Ritteler……………………………………….……… 24 Banana Morgan Santaguida…………………………………….….26 Lumpia Veronica Briones………………………………………….27 The Sleeping Lotus Debra Solomon Baker………………………………..…..29 Gratuity Richard Band……………………………………………..30 When the Dunes Vanish Maureen Sherbondy………………………………………31 ART Anorexia Elena Simeonova…………………………………………32

Untitled Artwork Sebastian Taylor…………………………………………..33 Bees Martha Clarkson…………………………………………..34 Ride Martha Clarkson…………………………………………..35 Sara Altman…………………………………………. …Cover Contributors……………………………………………… 36

1 Sweet Talk Toti O’Brien And the word that means joy is but a lament —a soft wail, liquid consonant followed by two diphthongs. The word that impressed the nurse, who took Sis aside and dared asking, “How do you call your Mom? Gioia? What does it mean?” Later, the mortician said he’d recall Mother (whom he knew) by the appellative Dad used all the time, when addressing her. Such a small, tender sound. It means precious. Treasure. It means jewel(s)—those artifacts Mother cherished and continuously praised. Those that during her life were more than once stolen causing inconsolable grief. But it also—or mainly—means joy, which was stolen from the start. Gioia, of which she had so little.

2 Gracias A La Vida Toti O’Brien He is what? Ninety-two, when he first pronounces it? Is my bro already dead? Can’t recall. Is Bro about to die? And how would I have known… He is well into his nineties when he says it. Why? See, I find no reasons for disclosure just as I ignore the causes of… silence? Wait. Things—that did and didn’t occur— shouldn’t be explained. Shouldn’t be analyzed. It’s late afternoon. The house is always dark. It’s hard truly, to tell day from night. Twilight rules, but this time is thicker. A small lamp lights the hallway, placed under a gilded icon niched within a collapsing bookshelf. Bookshelves are everywhere, impeding the passage. Among them, my father squeezes his compact brownish mass. Past ninety, he has to look up at me. Slightly. He holds a book in his left. The right hand is free. Rare thing, he attempts a caress au passage. Doesn’t plan to stop. He’s a man with no time to spare, a straight arrow. Something I’ll never know impromptu moves him. Something I did? I said? I will never know. For the first time, he starts to say “I lo… and he stops, choked by— I know it is the first time, because I choke as well, stoned in place by surprise and by something else I won’t name. Do I resent him for not having said it before? Course I don’t. That one time suffices. Almost exceeds my measure. That half time. He did not finish. Could not

3 Flotsam (from Book of Mother) Toti O’Brien Musty green of worn tiles topping the adjacent roof, window level—aerial meadow suspended in mid-air. Skyward green of the pines, majestic and balmy, tickled by the descant of a sycamore—pale leaves fingering morning breeze. Emerald flame of parrots landing on branches for a brief, furtive kiss. Of these shades, I tell you. Sometimes, you faintly assent. Also, the artificial aqua of the scrubs we wear before entering the hospital room. Uniforms, bringing back a time when you harnessed your children with identical smocks. Never since have we looked so similar. Your sweet, sudden smile at the sound of your old nickname: Rara. And a memory of Grandpa, your father, sighing “I am ready” to the nurse who marched in needle in hand— when death was still something you decoded for me softly, slowly, when death wasn’t your own

4 John Lennon Rows to Dorinish Russell Thorburn He has bought an island out of his fame to hide away in years approaching forty. That nose down in the wind, his septum trouble from too much of everything, his brown hair curls from under his Spaniard’s hat with a string, his ears like large question marks he can’t deny: why am I rowing like an escaped convict to this Irish island, cheeks aflame from the raw touch of the wind’s lashing. All I want is to get to my Dorinish, he murmurs like a ghost swooping from ashen sky, lifting him almost out of the rowboat he had to buy for too much money. He’s got blisters on his fingers, and the splash of strident waves against his weathered prow demonstrates he is moving toward that lump barely visible in the water. They told him he’d have no difficulty with the oars and the mile or so to row, but he knew his son would never visit him here. His blisters are bleeding and he hates this sea he’s on, the gunwale leaking water, so cold on his Italian boots. He beholds his bell bottoms soaked and clinging to his ankles—a skirl of sun over this next part of nothing, rowing himself for a home

5 Why I Will Stand in Line for Space Mountain Even Though I Don’t Like Rollercoasters Jeremy Ra The trouble with falling isn’t the act itself but that it will end. I was 14 and high Before I feigned the coolness to conquer the rollercoaster. The slow drag of the clicking climb against gravity was the worst, the rickety tumble to the zenith— yet beautiful at the top, I was as Lucifer at dawn when he fell to earth and below— more human than I’d ever been.

6 Living Will Meggie Royer Nothing personal, mortality, just light passing through an unanswered door. How many different ways to spell moving on – six feet under, kicked the bucket, bought the farm. A colloquialism for a colloquialism is what makes the worst things easier to say. Or, ad infinitum – what you lose, you lose again and again, forever. A child will ask, with the patience of a child, are we there yet? The answer is yes, or rather we thought we were, the same way bought the farm really means beneath the farm, the same way everything that matters is just a euphemism for something else. Not easy, to explain how life ends, not easy, to carry the dust. Someone has to plow what’s left behind, or be the thing that does the leaving. In other words, if you get there first, I’ll join you later

7 Old Dad Remembers Colic in Australia Michael Riordan Still kicking and fussing: Wakeful half-century-old memories When I pushed you, my first daughter, up a hill Away from your mother who couldn’t stop you from wailing Both of you at tearful stalemate, crankiness puffed out to rage I remember thinking: What is needed, colicky infant, is distance and the damn hill So, I grabbed you and dropped you in your pram You writhed and flopped like a snared tuna in a boat We crossed the highway to dusty, unpaved Duffields Road To bump along the steady incline, the eucalypts shading us as we climbed Scream away, little one Your mother can’t hear you now—and I have a plan We reached the summit and I sat on a rotting stump away from you, precious one As you protested life itself--such a new and uncalled-for circumstance I sat across the red earth road, but close enough to hear you among the frantic magpies Alert, I watched for snakes: the tiger or lowland copperhead And you sometimes fell asleep

8 We Were Best Friends, Once Sally Quon Our roots connect us. Where we come from, the little things we both know – where to hide our cigarettes, the best place to get fries downtown, how the river feels sliding over naked skin. The way our parents ignored us, until yours didn’t after your brother shot himself and the world tipped over

9 Sustenance Mark Hurtubise On stage, the burgundy-robed, white pony-tailed editor shouts to a crowd of a few thousand, “Your micro-poem must be written on a slice of bread, preferably white or wheat. Red ink only. Print.” After standing in line for an hour and 23 minutes, I ascend the three steps onto the stage and hand my poem, inked in red with a felt pen on white bread, to what I now see is a pudgyfaced look-alike Truman Capote or maybe Balzac editor to read my 23-word poem about soul: My soul is like fine crystal, but its high-pitched sound is maddening. It is better dulled when filled with Boone’s Farm Wild Cherry. After reading it, he reaches up, slaps my shoulder and whispers, “Accepted but remember literature is sustenance, not to be misunderstood as toasted loneliness.” He then places the bread, poem down, on my open palm. Returning to the audience, excited my poem was understood, I turn the bread over. Nothing! Even though I used an indelible marker, the poem vanished. Hungry and remembering that “literature is sustenance,” I roll the bread into the shape of an enchilada and eat it.

10 White(water) Noise D.W. Schmidt No one makes this sound, the sound—as Stegner said— Of mountain water. Its deafening roar comes from no mouth. How, then, does it speak to us all? For we all hear it now—you can almost feel it— In memory’s ear, where the sounds of life are never lost. If old Walt Whitman ever walked out into the woods, Here he would find his “nature without check with original energy.” Yes, original energy, we might agree, is the voice That flows and floods, Stirs and sustains, And lifts and leads us Toward hearing.

11 Achilles Was a First Round Pick Kevin Carey He was Buckets. Thetis in the stands for every game wearing his jersey and the jewelry he bought after his max deal. Not good enough for Zeus? she chimes, check out the bling. She’s a proud mama, front row with all the Nerieds fawning— your boy is the greatest. I know, she says. I made him. They take up an entire section the league’s biggest posse. Achilles beats down Hector’s team time after time. 40 one night, 30 the next double digit rebounds, game-winning threes. I’ve seen this movie before, he snipes to the defeated warrior on his way off the court, and I win every time. The playoffs were in the bag, they said. No one can stay with Achilles, it’s like he’s a God. But that cheat Paris, one dirty play and a career-ending injury. Achille’s heel crushed like chalk. Now the star sits at home, still the coolest house on the street, floor to ceiling windows, an infinity pool, polished trophies, game jerseys, basketballs in glass cases behind him on the wall. He sits in the dark watching game films over and over like Gloria Swanson and her silent movies. He’s put on weight, drinks too much wine, and blames Thetis (they don’t talk anymore). When asked about it he says, she didn’t finish the job. Not a closer.

12 In Memoriam Italo Ferrante I, too, got straight A’s and refused to say the c-word in playgrounds and graveyards. I, too, added the noun OREO to my crosswords because of its vowelconsonant ratio. I, too, hoarded books on breatharianism and read them like prescriptions. I, too, Tipp-Exed the letter C from a library dictionary: caramel, carb, cake, cake eater, cakewalk. I, too, survived 22 winters without a taste of hot cocoa. I, too, felt ribs poke against the skin of somebody I couldn’t recognise. I, too, saw grey eyes, puffy gums, skeleton face. I, too, smuggled aspartame into treatment centres. I, too, won an elocution competition but failed to articulate “help me” properly.

13 You’re the only woman I think I could marry Ben Westlie The fire is shooting shards of wood at our feet. We dodged the shots dancing in sparks Fire is a comfortable kind of light. We somersault into the moonlit grass. Faces to starlight. We play a game testing the names of the individual stars in each constellation glittering red-blue-green. Each correct answer removes a piece of clothing from each other. The constellations make more sense when you’re not a child. She said. We lay naked and discuss this old light. You’re the only woman I think I could marry. I said. The stars knew my sexuality before me and the fire knew my flame. All night that statement was in the glow of the moon-shadowed mountains. I want to be a cloud of smoke. She whispered. To be elevated above our lives. Our bodies back-to-back rising and falling inhaling and exhaling in stillness. All I wanted was to be a particle in the air. Sometimes love is just an idea.

14 Sex & Whatever Else Stan Sanvel Rubin There is an evening in Pennsylvania in July with a girl on a porch swing when the sky darts silver and the moon is a peekaboo moon like when you were a boy & Mom held her hands across her face, latticed fingers making her smile appear and disappear & it’s funny or at least it looks funny when others try to make a baby laugh the way he might never laugh again unless he lives to make it to this night of latticed clouds and lust’s imprecision.

15 Haunted Sharon Whitehill Undeniable as a toothache, indelible as a raised scar, those recollections that haunt my most grim midnight thoughts of your last day and night. When I called 911 despite your barked NO!, the medics found your vital signs normal, warned us, due to Covid, against Urgent Care but to see our own doctor tomorrow. Which for you never came. When you couldn’t control your bodily functions, lost your way coming back from the bathroom, too heavy for me to guide or support, and too strong to be physically forced. Your last rational words: Don’t yell at me. Please. When I noticed your grimacing mouth and a turning inward that folded you up like a squeezed concertina but rejected the truth they portended. Read my book. Turned off my light. Fell asleep. And when I woke in the morning, avoided the sight of you in your chair as I dressed, combed my hair, made the bed. Knew without knowing I’d left you to do your dying alone.

16 Blues Harp Paul Hostovsky More like a cross between a saxophone and a five-alarm fire than a Hohner harmonica small enough to fit in the palm of her hand or breast pocket, he was thinking, the fact that she even had breasts almost completely beside the point. Almost. For he had never heard anyone, much less a woman, play harp like that. It was powerful, sexy, intelligent, downright athletic the way she ran her tongue up and down it, breathing hard into the bullet mike, Chicago-style, trading licks with the rhythm guitarist center-stage, bending the notes into shapes that conjured up for him the beautiful catastrophes of train wrecks. He wanted to get her alone after the set, out behind the club, and in the darkness whip out his own harmonica, and play a long train with her, show her his rhythms by starting out slow, then building speed underneath her while she whistled and steamed and moaned on top, letting her juggle the high notes like so many birds in the hand, so many waves upon waves, while he chugged along steady and low, running like clockwork, letting her lead, letting her go, letting her, letting her, letting her.

17 Sonnets for Belinda Paul Hostovsky When I overhear her in the commons complaining about homework (“And on top of everything Professor Wilson wants us to write an effing sonnet by Monday morning”), I sit there sucking my pen. Then I try an opening line: “I write a mean sonnet,” I say, bellying up to her table like a man bursting through the doors of a saloon or whorehouse with an octave and a sestet in each holster. She shows me her teeth, looks me up and down like Mae West asking if that’s a sonnet in my pocket or am I just glad to see her. I’m always glad to see Belinda Moyer whose body is a light-bulb and whose face is a pure light. She bids me sit; wants to talk wampum. “How much for a Petrarchan sonnet by Monday 8am?” I don’t answer right away, so her question just echoes in the silence, the way a good poem sometimes does. “For you,” I tell her, my chin in my hands, pretending not to look at her breasts, “I’ll do it for nothing. Nothing but the pure pleasure of doing it,” I add, looking her right in the eye. She shows me her eye-teeth, picks up a napkin and shreds it poignantly, then leans in close and whispers: “Deal.” She gets an A, of course. But at semester’s end, when I want to collect, and she wants me to collect, I can’t get it up. I’m mortified. She’s mystified. But I want her, I tell her, as she dresses quickly, something in her eyes like pathos when she says, “The evidence says otherwise,” then turns at the door penultimately, resting her cheek on it, and adds, sort of sideways, “But you write a mean sonnet.”

18 Carla Sarett The Maltese Falcon Everything I had to do is done. So I invent pointless chores—sort t-shirts by color, date spice jars, organize drawers of cancelled checks and misplaced sympathy notes. I find a lone postcard of a sunlit turquoise cove. Malta’s lovely this summer, a friend (now a stranger) wrote in 1990; curious, the things we save. My mind drifts to the seven temples of Malta: stone parades of goats, goddess with pleated skirt. I once swam where the two seas meet, I once felt delicious warm water. In under a day, I might have flown to Valetta. Now I walk in dank air and soiled neon, through the streets of The Maltese Falcon. On Stockton, two-bit thieves chased down a fake relic of the Holy Orders. The stuff that dreams are made of, Bogart said as Sam Spade, after he turned his beautiful lover in, he learned how to stop wanting what is gone.

19 Carla Sarett One for Sorrow The Artist’s Daughters Chasing a Butterfly, Thomas Gainsborough It must have been March that the cat died. The girls ran up to the attic, down to the cellar, wailing, until they found it, gray and still. We made a cat’s funeral, I played hymns on my lute, in the midst of life, we are in death. Now, it turns summer in Ipswich: a time for making kites and toy boats, and chasing butterflies—perfect for pressings, my wife says, and my Molly accepts the net. She and her sister edge closer, shadows away from the wings. For mirth, I hear, two for mirth.

20 The Creek that was a River Doug Hoekstra Like a snake in the desert the river moves in deliberation quieter than before as if waiting for a change never anticipating death It used to be much louder, the old man says across the table laden. Saguaro fruit and roasted corn His wife and his children and their children Fingers wiping faces, listening. “It’s no different than it was the day before,” She says smiling, shaking, passing a basket to her left, moving her body to the right closer to the man she knows so well “It used to bark like a coyote or a lost javelina” He says, pounding the table for effect. “It spoke to the rocks and the rocks to us And now all this,” waving his hands Where outside the creek just whimpers Staggered breathing. The twenty-five hour rattle The one that the home health care nurse says will come The one that sometimes goes unheard (for the Tohono O'odham)

21 Huevos Doug Hoekstra Dishes clatter through swinging doors Chatter across the table, next booth, silverware clinks Together. Did you have a nice time in Austin? Overheard. A friend back from riding bikes in the Hill Country, outside of town Past fields of bluebonnets, live music popping on the drag, among the Street people and lost hippies trying to keep it weird. Failing. CNN live streams Roe V. Wade protests coast to coast on The flat screen TV on the wall of the restaurant, as people eat Angry voices chant in unison, pent up generations, no turning back, No turning back, the relentless right wrong again, stone deaf, fifty years or longer Fear of something strange, change, letting go, reality that never was, Holding on to what was written even though it wasn’t written In a way we understand, like the toddler at the front door, bawling at the menu, Filled with raw emotions, the terrible twos or threes or sometimes twenties, I suppose, The waitress comes to take my order, huevos per usual, I know her just a little from Sunday morning, with my paper and my coffee, out of my house for a change of pace I know that she’s a painter because she told me once before, Her family’s not supportive, and she’s nervous about the opening Next weekend, clicking her nails, sparkling and sexy, half-smile, I tell her not to worry, she’s in the game, that’s what matters, Keep pressing on, you’ll get where you need to be, I say, not on the make, just Knowing how it feels when you put yourself out there and need An umbrella to keep you dry from The rain that keeps falling on your dreams

22 In December at my Cabin (After Tu Fu) George Freek The trail through the woods is covered with snow. The creek is also iced over. In a nearby tree, a cardinal looks for food. He must eat. but he has to work for it. In winter nothing is easy. The sun sinks, as if it were looking for a place to rest. I’ve written this with a brain as dead as clay. I gaze out my window. I feel this snow is here to stay.

23 For the Birds (After Li Shagyin) George Freek In the trees starlings chatter. Their behavior is noisy and erratic. Among birds, they’re nasty fanatics. Over their heads, the moon falls like a feather onto a frozen bed. They pay it no heed. Are they like we are? Are their thoughts full of mindless chatter, and like young lovers, do they try to make poems, gleaning meaning from such unpromising matter?

24 The Zombies of Shalott L. Ritteler A poet wrote of a lady fair With glowing eyes and crimson hair Who wove the scenes of the mirror's glare, Who broke her loom and was frozen ere Her boat flowed into Camelot: And all the knights and lords and dames Who read the prow and knew her name Wept for her death, it was a shame, For all of Camelot. But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; What brought her to this solemn place? God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." Yet as he turned to move away The lady rose from where she lay And in a harsh, fell tone did say, "The curse has come to Camelot." Shadowed in her alchemic lair, Fierce Morgan pored over volumes rare. And breathed a spell once written there. The letters stirred, a language rare Had made its way to Camelot. The arcane words a new life gave To all those sleeping in a grave. They made their way, both knight and slave To many towered Camelot. With mottled skin of ashen gray And mold that clings from where they lay And bones that broke as they clawed their way From underground to the light of day These are the dead of Camelot. Who mewl for flesh from living hosts Yet be not man, yet be not ghosts Who ravage every town and coast Are born from lost Shalott. Not pageboy on his ambling steed Nor abbot at his evening creed Nor farmer sowing barley seed Were spared the gnawing, mauling greed Of the undead in Camelot. Beneath the whitened willow leaves And underneath the tower-eaves By garden walls, in galleries

25 Decayed the dead of Camelot. Secured in chambers locked up tight Bold Arthur summoned every knight. “Let us take up swords and wage this fight “To break this curse and restore the light “To the kingdom of Camelot.” And so the daring knights rode out They’d slay this horde, there was no doubt. King Arthur raised the battle shout: “We war for Camelot!” Their weapons scattered rotting brains Their horses trampled bloody lanes Of wave on endless wave of pain Upon the ghouls that plagued the plains And palisades of Camelot. But Morgan whispered another scourge To strengthen the dead and cause a surge Of doom as Arthur was on the verge Of reclaiming Camelot. The first to fall was Palamedes - Who slew the Questing Beast - now bleeds Bit as he rode forth on his steed To fight the dead calamities; He gave his life for Camelot. And as Gawain and Percival Were snuffed ‘neath heaps of those evils Mordred’s fighting spirit grew still. He ran from Camelot. But none can hide from the living dead, For they found the place where Mordred fled, They feasted till their mouths ran red And tore his flesh and guts to shreds Far from the fields of Camelot. And Mordred now reanimating Returned to where they were battling With one goal, to slay his father, King Arthur of Camelot. Yet as the king’s spear made a crack And pummeled through Mordred’s eye sac The bastard drew Excalibur back And gave a final, deadly whack That was heard throughout Camelot. And so Arthur and Mordred died. And Merlin, seeing, prophesied, “Morgan shall fail though she has tried To curse our Camelot.”

26 Banana Morgan Santaguida I had no bà nội––grandmother to teach me, to tell me wrap the baby in her blanket, pinch the dough around the sides, tuck her in. “You pronounce Pho, Fuh” I say like I’ve grown up in the restaurant marinating beef, cutting chives. I say like I’ve been to this country bowing at the temples, praying to my ancestors. The nail salon’s Vietnamese ladies, cutting my cuticles, flutter foreign words, clouding my American mind. I watch their lips and listen, sifting through white noise. It’s Lunar New Year's Eve, I spend the day on the couch watching Friends and eating Oreos. At midnight, I dip the cookie in milk and lick the stuffing. I could learn Vietnam’s grandeur from the back of a lecture, typing notes from an American professor whose father fought in the war. I could learn from my mother what dragons mean and how to celebrate the Hung Kings, but I saw her cut her hand, and the blood spilled red, white, and blue.

27 Lumpia Veronica Briones I’m alone in the kitchen, and Ma is outside in the backyard, sitting on the patio swing, smoking through a box of cigarettes because I told her that I don’t want to become a lawyer, because she sacrificed so much coming here to America, because she told me that that’s not what good daughters do, because I cried, because I bit my tongue afterwards. I’m alone in the kitchen, and my heart is pounding because I can tell she’s angry by the crescendo her smoke makes when she exhales. I’m alone in the kitchen, so I take out the spring roll wrappers and the raw ground beef from the refrigerator. She’ll get hungry soon, and with her hunger, her anger will grow, so I know food is my only solution if I want to make things right again. Ma taught me how to make lumpia shanghai—bite-sized Filipino spring rolls that are popular at birthday parties, Christmas parties, weekly Saturday night parties where everyone plays mahjong and sings karaoke—when I was twelve. She would sit across the dining room table from me, and I would watch her hands, darker than mine, drier than mine, older than mine, as she placed the meat along one side of the wrapper and rolled it as tightly as she could. Then, Ma would place a wrapper in front of me, and watch me with her hawk eyes, watch how much meat I scooped out and laid on the wrapper, how well I pinched the meat into a thin, long rectangle, how much space I left between the meat and the wrapper in each layer. “Sikipan mo pa!” She would yell at me to make my lumpia tighter and tighter or else the meat would fall out when we fried it later, and I would tell her that I’m trying my best, but she would always tell me I’m doing it all wrong, that I’m not doing it in the traditional way that it’s made. She would take my lumpia, unravel them, reroll them up to her standards, so I learned to sit quietly, just watch, just listen to whatever she was saying, and take it all in. As I make this lumpia now, I am a master of this delicate art of tightly rolling and wrapping, and maybe Ma will finally see in these rolls that I am following through with what she is saying, that I am a good daughter, that I am making my immigrant mother proud, that I am a making it up to her expectations, even if they aren’t in the way she was hoping. Of course, this is all a maybe, and I’ve only ever known doubt, so I look down at my hands as they place the meat down and wrap it, and I hope I am right. I hope that it is all exactly the way she wants it to be. I hope that it is as I take a new wrapper, as I place the right amount of meat on one edge, as I pinch it into the tiny rectangle it needs to be, as I start to roll. I hope that it is as I press down to make sure there’s no gap between the meat and the wrapper, but I can hear Ma’s voice in my ear, telling me that it is not enough, that I am not enough. I can feel her critical eyes on the rolls, her hands grabbing them to show me what I’m doing differently, what I’m doing wrong, so I stop after each tiny movement, making sure there’s no error, no air, no way for anything to come out. And if there’s just the slightest bit, I unravel and try again and again and again because lumpia has to be perfect or else there won’t be any peace, and Ma is obsessed with perfection. I am trying hard not to be, but still this is the only way to prove myself to her. Still, I press down on the lumpia to make it perfect, to make it pretty, to make it skinny. Still, I press down to make it into the shape of a lawyer, a doctor, a good daughter. I roll and roll and roll

28 until there’s no room to breathe, no room for imperfection, no room for her critiques. I roll until the wrapper is a straitjacket, tighter than it should be, tighter than she ever could. I roll it so tightly that no meat, no word, no tear will ever fall out.

29 The Sleeping Lotus Debra Solomon Baker Last Saturday, trying to mask the dying ivy and the white weeds sprinkled across my front yard, I bought some marigolds from Hartke Nursery. And, as I dug holes to deposit those beauties inside of their pots, I ached for them, as something this beautiful should not depend on a woman who’d rather be inside reading her Ann Patchett novel, who will disregard, who will disappoint, who will mourn haphazardly, declaring, “I’m just not good at this gardening stuff” as she deposits them into the trash can. There is a gray-haired woman planted underneath a black and white bedspread, asleep on the pavement behind where I am sitting outside of an abandoned church off of Kingshighway Boulevard. It is just me and my notebook and this woman who is meant to be atop a canopy bed or on a leather couch binging a Netflix show, not meant to be here on this 95-degree afternoon, not in this spot on the ground, untended, ignored, waiting for our droplets

30 Gratuity Richard Band I take a fistful of verses down to the diner in the dirty fog. Black coffee, please. Over the bitter cup I make bitter, ruthless revisions. The waitress, thin with years of cigarettes behind her, brings pie. On the house, she says with a bad tooth smile, then lays the greasy ticket down. I start to scribble her some lines boldly on a napkin. But seeing how the day is short, I put the thought away and leave some ones and all my change.

31 When the Dunes Vanish Maureen Sherbondy After the storm, the mayor demands the dunes back. He asks residents of the coastal town to hand over all sand pushed away by wind and rain. A thousand other residents follow suit, lining up with their buckets, bowls, and wagons full of the lost beach. An old man shovels sand from his yard into a pail, then carries the weight five long blocks to the beach. His back injury flares, and sadness floods in. The pail once belonged to his grandson, who has not called or visited in twenty years. Nearing the flattened dunes, he begins to cry. The sand thinks tears mean ocean.

32 Anorexia Elena Simeonova

33 Untitled Artwork Sebastian Taylor

34 Bees Martha Clarkson

35 Ride Martha Clarkson

36 Contributors Band, Richard is a retired librarian and a trustee of the Arras Foundation in Lancaster, SC. He delights in ordering words on the blank page. He collects books by Padraic Colum and sometimes reads them. His work has appeared in South Carolina Review, Kakalak, Poetry South, Main Street Rag and others. Briones, Veronica (she/her) is a recent graduate from Arizona State University and has previously worked as the Interview Editor at Superstition Review and the Associate Literary Editor at Lux Creative Undergraduate Review. Carey, Kevin teaches, writes and makes movies north of Boston. A new book of fiction, Junior Miles and the Junkman, will be out in September of 23 from Regal House books. Clarkson, Martha. Her writing and photography can be found in monkeybicycle, F-Stop, Clackamas Literary Review, Seattle Review, Portland Review, Black Box Gallery, Feminine Rising, and Nimrod. She has two notable short stories in Best American Short Stories. www.marthaclarkson.com Ferrante, Italo (he/him) earned a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Warwick. He is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University. To date, his work has been selected for publication by Dreich, Poetry Salzburg, Impossible Archetype, Sage Cigarettes, Cardiff Review, and Orchard Lea Press. In his free time, he likes to raid vintage shops and slowly learn Germanic languages. Freek, George’s poem "Enigmatic Variations" has recently been nominated for Best of the Net. His poem "Night Thoughts" is also nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His collection "Melancholia" is published by Red Wolf Editions. Hoekstra, Doug is a Chicago-bred, Nashville-based writer and musician, educated at DePaul University in the Windy City (B.A.) and Belmont University in the Music City (M.Ed.), whose prose, poetry, and non-fiction have appeared in numerous print and online literary journals. His first set of stories, Bothering the Coffee Drinkers earned an Independent Publisher Award (IPPY) for Best Short Fiction (Bronze Medal). Ten Seconds In-Between, his latest collection of short stories, earned a Royal Dragonfly Award for Best Short Story Collection of 2021 and Next Generation Indie Book Award Finalist 2022. Hoekstra has also worked extensively as a singer-songwriter with eight albums of original material on labels released on both sides of the pond, musical highlights including included Nashville Music Award and Independent Music Award nominations, as well as many groovy happenings. “A lot of people write songs, Hoekstra writes five-minute worlds” (Wired Magazine). His most recent CD, “The Day Deserved,” was released in the U.S. and Europe in 2021. www.doughoekstra.net Hostovsky, Paul has poems that appear and disappear simultaneously (voila). He lives in Boston, has no life and spends it with his poems, trying to perfect their perfect disappearances. Hurtubise, Mark. During the 1970s, numerous works were published. Then family, two college presidencies and CEO of a community foundation. After a “four-decade” hiatus, he is creating again from the Pacific Northwest like a pregnant bird balancing on a twig. Recently, his poetry, nonfiction, microfiction, essays, and photography have appeared in such places as Pacific Review; Taj Mahal; Grub Street; Sludge; San Pedro River Review; Burningword; Wayne State Review; december; Stanford Social Innovation Review; University of San Francisco, Alum News; Aji Magazine, interview with photos; Aura Literary Arts Review, Artist Spotlight; Penumbra, Editors’ Pick; and Monovisions Black & White Photography, Honorable Mention Awards (2020 & 2021). O’Brien, Toti is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. Born in Rome, living in Los Angeles, she is an artist, musician and dancer. She is the author of Other Maidens (BlazeVOX, 2020), An Alphabet of Birds (Moonrise Press, 2020), In Her Terms (Cholla Needles Press, 2021), Pages of a Broken Diary (Pski’s Porch, 2022) and Alter Alter (Elyssar Press, 2023). Quon, Sally is a back-country blogger, dirt-road diva, and teller of tales. She was a finalist in the Vallum Chapbook Contest for two consecutive years. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies including “Better Left Standing,” Catlin Press 2022. Sally is an associate member of the League of Canadian Poets. Ra, Jeremy is a queer, Chinese-Korean-American poet living in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared or will appear in I-70

37 Review, Cultural Daily, San Diego Poetry Annual, and Glimpse, among others. He was a finalist for the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize and the PEN Center Emerging Voices. He has been a featured poet in various literary events hosted by Los Angeles Public Library and Library Girl, among others. His first collection is forthcoming from Moon Tide Press. Riordan, Michael is Chicago-born and has taught in the U.S., Australia, Singapore, and China, where he was a professor of writing and film studies. His short stories, nonfiction, and poetry can be found in Short Edition, Consequence, Months to Years, Spirituality & Health, Tether’s End, and elsewhere. In 2020, he won first prize for nonfiction in Ageless Authors. He and his wife Mary live in Arlington, Texas. Memberships: The Association of Writers & Writing Programs, The Australian Society of Authors, and Breast Cancer Network of Australia. Ritteler, L. is a New Jersey based human. When not obsessing over Halloween and all things horror, L can be found writing, stressing over whether they've used too much enjambment in any given poem, listening to metal music, and geeking out over coffee. L currently works full-time as their dog's momager, though they occasionally moonlight as a poet and a person without imposter syndrome. Some of their other work can be found in issues 15 and 16 of Ghostwatch Zine. Royer, Meggie is a Midwestern writer, domestic violence advocate, and the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of Persephone’s Daughters, a literary and arts journal for abuse survivors. She has won numerous awards for her work and has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. She thinks there is nothing better in this world than a finished poem. Rubin, Stan Sanvel has published poems in numerous US journals including Agni, Poetry Northwest and Georgia Review as well as in Canada, Ireland, and China. Four full-length collections include There. Here (Lost Horse Press) and Hidden Sequel (Barrow Street Poetry Book Prize). Recent anthologies are For Love of Orcas, Moving Images: Poems on Film and Sharing This Delicate Bread. Born in Philadelphia, he has lived on the north Olympic Peninsula for twenty years. Santaguida, Morgan was born and raised in between the rural corn fields and suburban neighborhoods of southeast Pennsylvania. She is currently a young writer living in Boston, learning about the craft of poetry and, more importantly, learning how to brave the Massachusetts winters. Sarett, Carla is a poet and fiction writer based in San Francisco. Her debut poetry collection, She Has Visions, is out from Main Street Rag Press. New work appears in Pithead Chapel (Best of Net Nomination 2022), Overheard, Harpy Hybrid and elsewhere. Schmidt, D.W. is a writer and teacher who is a professor of English at Modesto (California) Junior College. In his early middle age, D.W. gradually lost his hearing, and he now hears solely through the use of two cochlear implants. His poems have begun to reflect more or less subtly on his disability. He lives with his wife, dog, cats, chickens, and goats on a spread known far and wide as The Belly Acre. Sherbondy, Maureen’s work has appeared in Litro, Upstreet, Wigleaf, and other journals. She lives in Durham, NC. www.maureensherbondy.com Simeonova, Elena (ElsiArt8) She was born in Bulgaria in 1986. In 2012 she decided to come to the United Kingdom and has never left. Two years ago she started her journey as a self-taught artist and she loves it! She has no special object of interest and believes that beauty is everywhere. Her home studio is in Faringdon where she enjoys working in a variety of media with lots of love. Solomon, Debra Baker has been a middle school teacher in Saint Louis, MO for more than twenty years. She has had several pieces published, including creative non-fiction in an anthology, Winter Harvest. More recently, an essay titled Holy Knight, about a chess-based relationship between her son, Max, and a nursing home resident, appeared in Shark Reef. Taylor, Sebastian is a queer, non-binary writer & artist located in New Hampshire. They're a chaotic good Aquarius who eats the patriarchy & heteronormativity for breakfast (when there's no more Cinnamon Toast Crunch). You can find their work in previous or upcoming issues of Polemical Zine, Third Iris, and A Little Bit of Drama. Thorburn, Russell is an old Detroiter. Henry Zender, his great-grandfather, was photographed along the Detroit River at the beginning of the twentieth century. His neighbors were Hungarians, Bavarians, Swiss, Austrians, and French. Thorburn teaches

38 composition and film in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and wonders at the lost art of the moviola practiced by Orson Welles in films like Othello and Touch of Evil. His next book of poetry, Let It Be Told in a Single Breath, will be published in 2024 by Cornerstone Press, Stevens Point, Wisconsin. Westlie, Ben holds an MFA in Poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He is the author of four chapbooks of poems, most recently UNDER YOUR INFLUENCE all published by Finishing Line Press. His poems have appeared in the anthology Time You Let Me In: 25 Poets Under 25 selected and edited by Naomi Shihab Nye and in the journals The Fourth River, Third Coast, Atlas and Alice, The Talking Stick, the tiny journal, Trampset, ArLiJo (Arlington Literary Journal), The Voices Project, Otis Nebula, WhimicalPoet, DASH, MUSE, Speckled Trout Review and Superpresent. Whitehill, Sharon is currently living in Port Charlotte, Florida. She is a retired professor of English who has recently published poems in various literary journals. Earlier, when she was still teaching, she published two scholarly biographies as well as two memoirs. She also has two poetry chapbooks and a full collection of poems.

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