"Rebus" by Amy Spence

in

I think of you in light
Black dag in Midi sun
Coils of inky hair
Abundant torso


But you burrow
In your kleptomaniac flat
Searching for counter space
For a greedy device


Time unfurls its mast
Inca muses Hispano Suiza
A shaft of nor’west arch
White bread Whirlpool Fisher Paykel


Days of dates
That never counted
Hardboiled eggs and Hamsun
Walloon sailor wears civvies


Lofoten or Bruges
Mistaken for anything but what I am
Tugs and kissy kissy
Les yeux bleus


I arrange anonymity in narrow streets
Flurries of fanny packs
Widow’s peak vista
Travelling aesthete


One-sided photos
Neophyte turista
Loitering never
Eastie bolt-hole awaits


A swarthy marauder
Who is sometimes sated
She is his until he is
Par avion

 

Massachusetts-based author A.S. Spence is a Library Assistant and MA, English, candidate at Bridgewater State University.

"This Will Lead to Consequence" by Emma Johnson-Rivard

in

a world is not enough. regardless of cost,
we must evolve past the programing. have you
seen the sun today, my friend? have you bled
enough red? i’m sorry, but no needled threaded
ever so carefully will save you. even graves
cannot stay silent. you will never be enough of them
to pass. this is the true legacy of the plague years, of
our blankets and needlepoint grief. will you bear the names
with me? i have taken the shovel, i will dredge the bones
of myself onto the steps. and when i die, my friend, my
beloved friend, i hope it won’t be alone.
we were here. you have no right to forget.

 

Emma Johnson-Rivard is a doctoral student at the University of Cincinnati. She can be found at Bluesky at @blackcattales and emmajohnson-rivard.com.

"Liturgy of Liminal Spaces" by Cody Draco

in

I was unlike myself and becoming more like the others
accomplishing real world tasks
despite lacking my usual penchant
for reciting lines from the misplaced liturgy of liminal spaces
before attempting astral projection
to spice up the duldrums of drying laundry
because I thought it would be rather funny
to see myself from the point of view
only achievable when out-of-body
imagine a poorly rendered Sims character
bored to the bone from time-lapse automation
waiting for you to come home like a lovesick puppy
I may not have pissed on the carpet
but I found bliss in an unfinished basement
and instead of feeling alone
I securely attached to this redefinition
by forging a brand new identity
in being your adjacent

 

Cody Draco is an emerging queer poet, settled but never stagnant, creatively restless in the rural sanctuary of southern Kentucky, United States.

"Progress" by Arianna Smith

in

The skyscrapers pierced the close clouds; their reflections glittered on the surface of the bay.
“I don’t know anything about San Francisco,” the woman said. Her voice traveled on the water.
The guy pocketed his phone, and his face went dark. “You can learn.”
“Perhaps,” she said doubtfully. “SoCal will always be home.”
"Not for me.” His laugh was warm, even on this cold, damp night.
Your home is beautiful, she'd said at dusk, a year ago, up in that apartment on the fourteenth floor above downtown L.A.

It’s not home. It's just a rental for work, he’d murmured against her bare shoulder later, at dawn. “The place where I stay here is more beautiful,” he added now.
"You don't call that place home, either.”
"I would if you lived in it.”
She didn't blush at his words. Apparently she’d grown immune to the awkwardness of his raw honesty. The sole of her sneaker squealed against the dock railing. “If that's how you feel, then come back and live with me in Long Beach.” He turned his head toward her. The skyline was mirrored in the lenses of his glasses. His voice was low but warm this time. “Perhaps.”
She reached out to him and squeezed his hand.