MICHAEL CONNER | LOVE POEM FOR THE NEOLIBERAL AGE

October 6, 2024

Love Poem for the Neoliberal Age

I don’t want to be radicalized by terror.
I want to feed mourning doves
from the palm of my hand in spite of it.

 Steady breathing, no tremors.
Offering what little I can before
all this gets reduced to statistics –

 plotting out the maps and graphs for how
to go on existing. What if, what if.
Negotiating the amount or razor wire
I would crawl through to get around the fence

            (which depends, I guess, on whether or not
you’re still there crawling beside me).

Every year eating approximately one credit card
worth of microplastics. Keeping the accounts current,
dancing through another dehumanizing transactional
relationship. I, you. I, it.

When we return to the dirt together,
how much will remain that hasn’t been spent –

            monocropped into toxic dust, burned out,
depleted of all nutrients?

I don’t want to be radicalized by terror,
But I am willing to die for a small plot of land

where we are the rich, dark soil spread beneath
the echinacea, watching the doves

eat from our daughter’s hand. 

Michael Conner is a writer and public health worker living in Swannanoa, North Carolina. He is the author of Total Annihilation (Bottle Cap Press, 2023). His poems have been published, or are forthcoming, in Hare's Paw, YNST, Neologism, and Spectra, among others. 

AARON LELITO | MUD AND LOTUS

October 6, 2024

Mud and Lotus

Reading passages in the back seat
in a parking lot
after dark.

There’s nowhere else we could possibly go.

Nowhere else for us
but we can’t leave each other yet.
And there’s nowhere for us to go
with everything so heavy,
eyes in diffuse light

piercing each other’s space
and shadows

burrowing in each other’s salt mines and we can’t leave yet,
holding on, eyes gazing
in vacated space.

Headlights go by and make us both nervous.

It’s our comfort to each other,
and we just want to be innocent.
And we know that no one else would be here for us tonight.

Maybe we’re connected so deeply
and maybe we’re just lonely,
holding onto each other’s pieces for a while,
onto the plucked leaves and not the mud
even though we read about what lotuses look like
when they bloom and what they need in order to grow.
I notice the glint of lamplight shaping her—
that we’re capable of changing our behaviors

that we’re capable, too, of merging
and of pulling apart.

Lights flash as a car passes
holding on
holding on
holding on

Aaron Lelito is a visual artist and writer from Buffalo, NY. His poetry chapbook, The Half Turn, was published in 2023, and he released a collaborative notebook/art collection titled If We: Connections Through Creative Process in 2024. His work has also appeared in Stonecoast Review, Barzakh Magazine, Novus Literary Arts Journal, SPECTRA Poets, Peach Mag, and Santa Fe Review. He is Editor in Chief of Wild Roof Journal. Instagram: @aaronlelito

LIAM STRONG | OBJECTIVE TRUTHS, OBJECTIVE TRUTHS

October 6, 2024

objective truths??? objective truths.

like any fable your story
begins with a cup of soup
signifying goodness. positivity. as in:
the audience is prepared
for an unhappy ending. you are not
a rat king of traumas. but the
cherry stem knotted around
your tongue. that’s a corsage
or its skeleton
patient for your fingers. you move
in, you give up date
nights, you check the box for
nonrelationship relationship
sex. your nipples wilt
like amaryllis. your lips bore
inward like piddock. your clothes
inhale baggy. absent of hip,
waist, tight twink
chest. a simple sentence—
much like a one-word
response—is a medal
of efficiency. congratulations. oh how
the robin returns with song
in spring. oh how
your whiteboard above the trash
is an opportunity of stratus. oh
how you can see the window
for the glass, the
pane, the silt
at its eyelashes. oh how
you can be inside a house
full & alive & living
but not be
inside anything else.

Liam Strong (they/them) is a queer neurodivergent cripple punk writer who has earned their BA in writing from the University of Wisconsin-Superior. They are the author of the chapbook Everyone's Left the Hometown Show (Bottlecap Press, 2023). You can find their poetry and essays in Vagabond City and new words {press}, among several others. They are most likely gardening and listening to Bitter Truth somewhere in Northern Michigan. Find them on Instagram/Twitter @beanbie666 and https://linktr.ee/liamstrong666.  

ELLA GRIM | ACCIDENTAL SUMMONING, PARIS METRO

October 6, 2024

Accidental Summoning, Paris Metro

before I was told the unspoken rule
about not looking people in the eyes,
you were there on the bench at Oberkampf
a mesh sac of mandarins in your lap
and yes I glanced twice because it was late
the tiles orange and you otherworldly

the doors split open, rush of hydraulics,
and I found a place to lean in the car
and then you were there next to me,
our shoulders knocking with the sways,
like something drawn from an old film
injecting my commute, a dose of allure—
until the train stopped and you, you got off,
just another girl swallowed by the night

Ella Grim is a poet, zinester, and activist from Duluth, Minnesota. She is currently a senior at Dartmouth College studying English, Creative Writing, and French. She is the general manager of Spare Rib, Dartmouth’s intersectional feminist magazine, and an editor for Meetinghouse literary review. Socials: @subtle_lemons

HARLEY CHAPMAN | SELF-CARE SATURDAY

October 6, 2024

Self-care Saturday

My knowing-better loops elbows
with fuck-it-I-don’t-care
& we choose a linen dress
that shows the silhouette of our ass
in the sun because middling is where we’re at
right now, a little too old for this
but also young enough.
Yesterday I had a conversation
with a woman in her 60s
who had the most perfect eyebrows.
They were not her natural
eyebrows, she drew them on
& she drew them perfect, she did that
for herself. I was buying a rose
that looked exactly like the sun
& she understood that I just couldn’t resist.
Today my sun is blooming
full-faced & skyward
in a beer glass half-filled with water.
I bought it at its peak & by tomorrow
it will begin to droop, edges browning,
firmness overcome by plissé folds.
But for today it is perfect: ripe
& unafraid, the color of a mimosa
or the sunrise over the lake.

Harley Anastasia Chapman holds an MFA in poetry from Columbia College Chicago. Her poems have been published in Nimrod International Journal, Fatal Flaw Literary Journal, Superstition Review, & Bridge Eight Press, among others. Harley's first chapbook, Smiling with Teeth, is available through Finishing Line Press. She can be found on Instagram as @rabbitxteeth. 

GLEN ARMSTRONG | HELP WANTED

October 6, 2024

Help Wanted

Can you help me find somebody to help me?
Somebody to love? Somebody to fix
a sink who won’t overcharge me? Enlarge
me? Make love to me as if waxing a car?

Can you tell me how to vacuum the crumbs
from this new world made of stale bread?
Can you tell me how to shed a few pounds?
How do I go about changing my name?

Why is there an extra beat in that song
by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys?
Would the “red hot rhythm” that it mentions
burn the song up from within without this

little pause? What about other pauses?
Interruptions? Invitations? Requests?

Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine. 

CAITLIN JOHNSON | TWO POEMS

October 6, 2024

Diorama of a Life I Never Lived

I recollect it like a grade school photograph
of a cousin I never knew—unfamiliar
but I miss them somehow anyway.
How are they doing, this gap-toothed kid
with unfortunate bangs that I keep
pressed in the pages of my teen bible?
How do we keep going, even when
everything around us, all of it falls away
like the honey-slow grief of autumn? 
Is this world mine? A whole life looms like
unlikely mountains in the rearview
of a girl who only ever knew the Delta-flat
honesty of the horizon looped around me
like a lasso approaching zero.
I keep mistaking myself for storm clouds.
The strip mall dance club karaoke diner
of lives, one lived over and over
and never learned a damn thing
other than the death of my god.
Maybe I could live it, I hope, in a way
that relieves it of its tenacity, the lingering
scent of old lavender— the hope
for a softer, less regretful dinner.

How I Got Rid of My Mississippi Accent

I was born and raised
on the brink of language,
the way the Mississippi sun
stretches words with heat
and the need to hear god.
Every syllable licks back
at the ones that came first,
the mamaw-soft need
to touch shoulders, sound
like a lady, feel real. I never
heard myself until Joanne H.
said I sounded like
“hillbilly trash.” Monstrous
in this new chromatic millennia
that would never ever ever
kiss a mouth that sounded
like roadside cotton.
Myself barefoot on the bank
of our dirty bayou, alone.
I left my mothers who wanted
me busy in the kitchen
of my own creation. Tethered
to the crude assumptions
I made to soften my own
exit— what does Mamaw
have to do with Me, now
in this mega-mall, hopeless
in a bedazzled sweatshirt
unsure of what woman
I was meant to be?
Delta-flat Mississippi
finds me in the rearview,
and I keep tonguing Home
like almond in my teeth,
chewed up beyond itself,
familiar and bitter.

Originally from the American Deep South and now hanging on for dear life in Ridgewood Queens, Caitlin Annette Johnson is a nonbinary poet, novelist, and artist with a BA in Literature from the University of Houston and an MFA in Creative Writing from Syracuse University. She’s currently working on her first full-length poetry manuscript, Empress in Reverse, which explores navigating motherhood divested of traditional gender norms and the process of excavating oneself as a spiritual experience. Although she’s currently a stay-at-home mom, Johnson channels her creative energy into teaching free writing workshops in her community, where she helps others find their voice—or at least an epic anecdote to share at parties. At home, Johnson juggles the chaos of writing, raising a kid, a dog, and a surprisingly resilient collection of houseplants that refuse to give up, much like their mother. Her art and published work can be found at caitlinannettejohnson.com. 

DEVON BALWIT | SPIRITS AND DIVINE FORCES

October 6, 2024

Spirits and Divine Forces

I’ve got the God-eye and shit,
he said in his ashwagandha t-shirt.

His tatted friend nodded. I veered
off on a side trail but not

before I heard him try to explain it:
how time, for him, stretched out

in all directions, his mind a searchlight.
I would never confess to such talent,

afraid to be asked to predict
elections, the stock market,

the next mass shooting. The God-eye guy looked
ordinary, but

off a fresco, how to recognize a prophet?
Not by his flickering, a residual bit

of the weekend’s solar flare, no doubt.
For days, my challenge has been to separate

hemlocks from Doug firs and white
pines. Grant me no more insight than that.

Devon Balwit walks in all weather and never passes up a botanical garden or a natural history museum. When not writing, she draws and cartoons. She edits for Asimov Press and Asterisk. For more of her work, visit: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet.

MAYA JACYSZYN | THE FIG TREE

October 6, 2024

The Fig Tree
for Nonno

We have figs this year
leading up to the weeks of your passing.

All my life, I knew trees that were barren,
ever since you planted them.
Doleful leaves, prong-fingered,
grew to be brown instead of green.

But not this year, the first year the
trunks thickened like bulging casks, how we
wished you could have seen these prolific
thriving diamonds, Tyrian-masked.

I grieve thinking you left in a time of
so much fullness, and then again,
I wonder if you brought it, during these months of
your spirit being half here and half otherly

knowing the grass was yellowing,
coats calling,
home hills trilling for buckets mid-filled
with mountain olives.

To you, an empty stomach
was always worse than a starving heart.
I feel you in my hands, my palms
stained with fruit never to be hidden.

We do not have figs this year;
they were given.

Maya Jacyszyn is a multi-published poet and the Associate Director of Neumann University’s Writing Center. She received her bachelor’s degree at Saint Joseph’s University where she also served as Editor-in-Chief of the literary magazine titled, Crimson & Gray. More recently, her work is featured in the Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, The Ignatian Literary Magazine,Prime Number Magazine, and Quibble Lit, among others. 

SHARMILA SEYYID | THREE POEMS

June 5, 2023

Poems written by Sharmila Seyyid and translated by Gita Supramaniam

I Am Composing a Song

I am composing a song
I am writing these lyrics to tell the world
Why this contrarian path I tread.
This is my testimony.

I am a fallen woman, they say,
A prostitute...

One can be a slave of love
But to talk about sex is wrong
Bearing a child is alright, they say,
But to talk about the orifice from
Where the child comes is wrong...

Ultimately –
To state it unequivocally
The death sentence has been pronounced on me.

But till the last millisecond
Before my head is severed from my shoulders
I will live.

This is my body
My make-up
My jewellery
My clothes
My foot-wear
My odour
My language
My religion
My love
This house where I live
This road I walk on
This book I read
All these
Will remain mine
And will be what I want
Only thus will I live!

Till the last millisecond
I will live.

Incompatible

They were talking about my body,
My body, that lies there
Where I had cast it away.

They don’t accept me as one of them
Because they do not want to accept that I too
Can have solid views and not budge from them.
The night and the moon do not attract me, I'm not like them,
They are angry with me because I refuse
To be subjected to their black magic
And dwell in caves of inky darkness,
And become a genie - corked inside a bottle.

They do not accept
My determination to not let their strictures
Make me stray from my chosen path.
I want to confront them face to face
When they challenge me and ask,
How will you grow without any sustenance,
Without any help from the world outside you?

Those who have seen my magic wings are amazed.
My simple and plain words
Encircle them like an endless snake;
Unable to free themselves, they struggle
And stumble...

I again reinvent myself,
An even sharper me I see.
There my body still lies
There, where I cast it off.
Once more, I curb my intense urge
To embrace my body again,
Because...
Because I do not wish to become
A genie corked inside a bottle...

That Ancient Village

In those sandy lanes
Lined dense with Portia trees,
In those bright houses from where
Light spills out and spreads,
In the evenings filled with the fragrance of incense-sticks,
In the sound of the muezzin’s call
And in the sound of the foot-steps of the early morning
There, that ancient village still exists.

There, where I was not loved,
Where my pleas were never given ear to,
Where I was made to shed copious tears,
There, that ancient village
Still continues to exist.

Oh Eravur, my land, my soil,
Remind me again of the evidence that I left behind.
The palm-fronds I swung on,
The papaya leaves I used against the drizzling skies
The areca nut palm-spathes we pulled along as chariots
The fragrance of the fresh ginger growing under the banana trees
The flavour of the juicy Willard mangoes running between the fingers
The aroma of the jackfruit pulp that pervades the entire street
Alas! How great is my loss!

My beloved village
I was not tired of you
I did not move away.
When the time for harvesting comes
This crazy state will change
The time will come when you will again
Weave the cloth that’s mine by right.

There is nothing more to be said
For, my footwear I’ve left behind,
There, to stay
For eternity!

Read our full feature on Artist Protection Fund recipient Sharmila Seyyid ➔

ROHAN BUETTEL | CLEARING OUT MY MOTHER’S HOME

May 1, 2023

Clearing out My Mother’s Home

The gift not given joins others
at the bottom of the cupboard,
gradually accumulating,
awaiting the right time
to be brought out, the ideal present
for birthday, christening, Christmas.
The bunnykins bowl languishes,
mother rabbit washing bunny kids
in a large tub. Some out, some in,
some trying to escape, all the playful fun
of bath time, water and suds.
Bunnies scamper round the rim.
The bowl perfectly new
in a cupboard full of things unused,
bought in anticipation
of a grandchild never delivered,
still awaiting the right occasion
in a house now being emptied.
How do we value the gift not given?

Rohan Buettel is an Australian poet who lives in Canberra and whose haiku and longer poetry appear in a range of Australian and international journals.

TERRY JUDE MILLER | ART

May 1, 2023

Art

“You’d think it was a giant
with a vague face
a face you recognize
but can’t really describe”

- Naomi Shihab Nye

it’s like a little parasite
that you don’t mind

so parasite might not be the right word
maybe symbiote

that’s one of the things it does
makes you think one thing

that leads to another thing
and soon the meadow is full

of flowers—all of them talking
at one time—writing their ideas

on petals—flinging their words
in the air—saying look—look—look

and you look and you smile and you cry
and you grieve and you grow nostalgic

that’s why you love your little symbiote
even when it wakes you at 2AM

to whisper something beautiful
in your ear

Terry Jude Miller is a Pushcart-nominated poet from Houston. His works have been published in numerous anthologies.

Twitter: @PoetTerryMiller
IG: TexasPoet
Website: https://terryjudemiller.com

ERIN OLDS | WHILE YOU WERE AWAY

April 24, 2023

While You Were Away

I’d leave the lights on each night you weren’t home,
even in the bedroom,
so they wouldn’t think I was there alone.

I slept with a pillow over my eyes.
Well, sleep is a weird word to describe what I did when
I’d leave the lights on. Each night you weren’t home,

small noises scared me. I’d drown them
with the TV blaring downstairs, deadening the air
so I wouldn’t think. I was there alone

and sometimes I got cozy in a cold shower, afraid
of the air outside waiting to wrap around wet skin. And after,
I’d leave the lights on each night. You weren’t home,

and I would think, safe is a pretty term, a feeling to dream of.
I slipped a ring on my finger, though it wasn’t love,
so they wouldn’t think I was there alone.

I struggled out of blankets, packed my clothes, wrote this poem,
left. And double locked the door.
I’d leave the lights on the night you came home
so you would think I was still there. Alone.

Erin Olds is from Cleveland, Ohio, and is currently an MFA candidate at the University of South Florida.

WILL NEUENFELDT | SHE HAS NOTIFICATIONS SILENCED

April 24, 2023

She Has Notifications Silenced

One purple crescent
sent into sky
where my blue cloud
wafts above, alone,
aware it’s been seen
yet lingers to be heard.
Rain clicks from fingers
before droplets dry
to admire characters
we typed across night
and the stories they
tell twinkle white.
Through the window
drafts of our last chat
whisper in stereo
and lull me to dream
to awake in overcast.
I reply with more
blue into the heavens
so another afternoon
of bubbly clouds scroll by.

Will Neuenfeldt studied English at Gustavus Adolphus College, and his poems are published in Capsule Stories, Months to Years, and Red Flag Poetry. He currently lives in Cottage Grove, MN. IG: @wjnpoem

ZOE ANTOINE-PAUL | ODE TO BOY IN NIGHTCLUB

April 10, 2023

Ode to Boy in Nightclub

All I want is to keep you,
but you are still on the dance floor
and New York City feels like coming down.

An ephemeral march between

pitch black

and too much morning.

You are also there:

blotting memory;

your persistent luster,

strobe lights laced through your skin

flickering

red
green
bright white.

You blur
into Broadway traffic and

I am alone
in Brooklyn again.

[the last call]

3-train sparking past
as the clock strikes 12.

Zoe Antoine-Paul writes about the city, the beauty in the mundane, and everyday internal turmoil. IG: @space.junkie13

LINDAANN LOSCHIAVO | BOARDWALK SODA FOUNTAIN SHOP

Boardwalk Soda Fountain Shop

My bare feet warmed to burning from the sand,
I’d wave to you, obscured by boardwalk crowds.

Did you greet everyone the same as me?

I watched as you’d extend a palm beneath
A ripe banana, tenderly, as if
To ask permission. Or you’d let me tuck
Wildflowers into cleavage held aloft,
Slick, sweaty, suntan oiled, flecked with sand crumbs.

You like it dirty — even though your hands
Are spotless when you mix strawberry shakes.

You’re wondering how sugar hits my lips,
Eye my reflection showing that pale crack,
Tanned flesh that’s poured inside blue fitted jeans.

Now you’re hunched over the cracked countertop,
Sweeping a butterknife across burnt toast.
“I’m just so hungry. I’ll eat anything!”

Your words and steady gaze have made me blush.
I drop five dollars in your jar and leave
Without my shake because I’m staying here
Two more weeks and imagining how we
Will taste right after, mixed in with the dark.

LindaAnn LoSchiavo: Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a four time nominee for The Pushcart Prize, has also been nominated for Best of the Net, the Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars. Elgin Award winner, "A Route Obscure and Lonely," "Women Who Were Warned,” Firecracker Award, Quill and Ink, and IPPY Award nominee. Messengers of the Macabre [co-written with David Davies], Apprenticed to the Night [Beacon Books, 2023], and Felones de Se: Poems about Suicide [Ukiyoto Publishing, 2023] are her latest poetry titles. In 2023, her poetry placed as a finalist in Thirty West Publishing's "Fresh Start Contest" and in the 8th annual Stephen DiBiase contest.

LindaAnn Literary: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHm1NZIlTZybLTFA44wwdfg https://messengersofthemacabre.com/

socials: @Mae_Westside

TRAVIS STEPHENS | RAISED BY WOLVES

Raised by Wolves

my mother is dying
breathing labored, forced
to seek a cool den
the damp earth a refuge
a hole.
We wait nearby, my brothers
who won’t look me in the eye
each watching the wall,
who will be next?
A glance away
let the loud
snarl murderous thoughts
while we others
carry the grudge.

I shiver, understand as always
my teeth rotted and dull.
Even my father, that son of a bitch,
kept his bite until the end.
I was always ignored
last to marrow
filching bits from
other’s old kills.
earn your keep.

We are a large litter
six males, one female.
My wife, baby girl,
always the cute one,
marveled at my brothers
“you have the same eyes,
and the nieces too”.

I’d like to believe
the next generation
is tamer, a little more wag
a little less bite.
But I have seen the way
their own young
start at noises, regard
new puppies with more
than affection.
I have begun to eye small houses.
I don’t need much;
a bowl, a patch of sunlight
& dirt walls closing in.

Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. web: zolothstephenswriters.com

CAT DIXON | AFTER THE RELAPSE

After the Relapse

Hopefully by the time you read this, I’ll be over the state line, miles away with luggage in the backseat. My scent will linger on that carrot pillow, on the couch, on your sweater I left on the chair. You’ll wonder how I escaped—by boat? By plane? By the orange hot air balloon in the distance? This car is registered to my father. He had me keep it in case I needed it. The magic of the highway—the speeders and slow drivers, the texters and wanderers—never allows a moment of rest. Each flashing headlight is a train crossing and each passed exit is a mirage. There’s no interruption to the race. I wish I had music to pass the hours, but this car wasn’t made for CDs or tapes—only Bluetooth, and I chucked my phone after I cracked its screen. I’ll be going 90 with a cyclone in my hair—nothing to drown out the wind except hope, but that hummingbird has eaten out my chest. By this hour, you’re in the shower—water or tears? The magic of the bathroom is how it’s sacred with its growth of mildew, its coarse hairball clogging under the feet, out of sight, out of reach, its enticing medicine cabinet filled with bottles of remedies to ailments you’ve never suffered. Recovery is a long road, they say, and I wish you easy speedbumps, but I won’t be there to retrace your steps, to clean up the mess, to opine about current events or how you react to stressors. Hopefully by the time you open this letter, I’ll be almost to Kansas—beautiful Dorothy with her red shoes, innocent girl in blue. I wanted a dog, but never got one—my father said I had an allergy. Was it true or just an excuse? Perhaps I’ll never know. I will never know the zaftig bosom of a mother during a fever, incessant nag, the body swap, the unconditional love. We both lacked what we both lacked—both pulled into a whirlpool, a tornado, while everyone stood by and laughed or rubbernecked. Up ahead the cars will slow down for an accident. The firetruck, coppers, tow truck will spin their lights. Perhaps help is only a call away. Whenever a lonely addict calls for help, she ends up ambushed, pinned to a bed, silenced, guests only allowed if they called ahead. Heads turn to survey the wreckage, a blue sedan versus a white van. The airbags deploy. Unfortunately, we were born without those. Nothing to cushion the crash—our heads greeting the dash, our ribs cracked, our fists against the metal. No jaws of life, no one qualified to perform the necessary measures. The nursery zoetrope kept the gulls in endless flight—even the illusion of movement, of relationship, of time reversal trapped us, enamored us with those wings. Let me fly! We cried reaching up. Let me fly! We once whispered into the empty rooms of our youth. Maybe by the time you read this, my car will have broken down. Maybe my quest will never end. There’s an untapped vein under these words, an arm unbruised, a magic not yet cursed. Take this letter, roll it up—a new kaleidoscope for you to peruse.

Cat Dixon (she/her) is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review and the author of six poetry collections and chapbooks.

MATTHEW ELLIS | FRENCH IMPRESSIONISTS

French Impressionists

I long to wrap myself in the canvases of the French impressionists
Let Sisley and Monet hold me as I weep

I’ll plunge into the Loing or the Seine itself,
into ultramarine and cobalt blue
I’ll wade into the waters of Giverny,
lie amongst the water lilies
madder red and cadmium yellow against emerald, violet waters

I’ll hide in Eragny with Pissarro
in the blossoms of orchards,
white to peach,
blending into the viridian ‘round poplar trees sparkling with autumn hues

Matthew Ellis (he/him) spends his time teaching yoga and following creative pursuits in music and writing. You can follow him on Instagram (@matthewellismusic3) or visit his website (www.MatthewEllisMusic.com).

YVONNE MORRIS | NO REASON TO GET UP BUT GET UP

No Reason to Get Up but Get Up

I’ve been reading the pretty, suicidal poets—
hallowed and hollowed, richly bred for pain—
Anne and Sylvia shared a New York taxi in the rain,
discussed therapy and where they’d left their latest lipstick stains.

On a Sunday in January, I can’t leave the gas running freely
in the kitchen, I’ve only got cats as hungry as fleas—
in the garage, four wheels await escape from a dusty TV.

You see, I’m in awe of those women whose fine hands loaded
their pockets with stones, who staggered in the sun,
whose blue veins were exposed
because I’m only green willow, vine and shoot—alive.

No taste in my mouth compares to the sweetness of berries.
My heart doesn’t break with a thought, an awareness,
as fatal as some fairytales would end.

I’ll pick up some ice cream instead.
So I struggle into my jacket and out the door,
choosing to leave regrets—like the bed—unmade,
slipping by the black dog that drags its chain.

"No Reason to Get Up but Get Up" was published previously in Mother Was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press, 2016) and The Lake (Sept. 2019)

Yvonne Morris's poetry and fiction have been published in a variety of journals and zines. Her current chapbook is Busy Being Eve (Bass Clef Books, 2022).