What Did I Love About Being Hungry by Fran Schumer

Fran Schumer’s poetry, fiction, and articles have appeared in various sections of The New York Times; also, Vogue, The Nation, The North American Review, and

What Did I Love About Being Hungry

by Fran Schumer

I fell in love with a kind I could cure
dreaming of Keebler cookies
in the aisles of Waldbaums
the happy elf on the package
my happy mother pushing the cart
with such force, such energy, such ardor.
She bowled cantaloupes down the counter
with an energy I lacked, me —
a stick in a sweater, my arms and legs blue

in the refrigerated aisles, me –
a size two in the puffy, expensive coat
the women bought to keep me warm
when I went away. I never came back.

My sister-in-law said I was spoiled.
She was right. Who would ever love me as much?
The tragedy of first, floating, amniotic love.
I never tasted those stupid, stale supermarket cookies,
fudge, peanut butter, plain, dumb vanilla.
Wanting is so much better than having

All my life I wanted her –
and all that remains is this hunger.

Fran Schumer’s poetry, fiction, and articles have appeared in various sections of The New York Times; also, Vogue, The Nation, The North American Review, and other publications. She won a Goodman Loan Grant Award for Fiction from the City University of New York and in 2021, a Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing poetry fellowship. In 2022, her poem, Memento Mori, was a winner of the Martha’s Vineyard Poet Laureate’s 2022 Contest. Her Chapbook, Weight, was the first runner up in the Jonathan Holden Poetry Chapbook Contest and was published in 2022 by Choeofpleirn Press. A native of Brooklyn, N.Y., she studied political science at college but wishes she had spent more time studying Keats.

Can You Eat the Ashes? by Ericka Clay

Ericka Clay is a published novelist and poet. As a former atheist turned believer, she seeks to write raw, real, relatable books that have

Can You Eat the Ashes?

by Ericka Clay

Pigs and pearls
and little girl dreams
and the nothing
more than what I’m not.
And you,
a
sharp-mouthed
word
birthed by an
empty
belly.
Your flint tongue
set the
grass on fire,
but can you
eat the
ashes?

Ericka Clay is a published novelist and poet. As a former atheist turned believer, she seeks to write raw, real, relatable books that have a heart for Jesus. She’s been awarded several times by Writer’s Digest for her short fiction pieces and is working on her latest novel, A Bird Alone (due to be published January 2024). She lives in Northwest Arkansas with her husband, daughter, and an insatiable need to push buttons, both figuratively and literally.

How Ridiculous That I Am by Kim Hooper

Kim Hooper is the author of six novels, including People Who Knew Me, which was adapted into an episodic podcast from BBC Sounds.

How Ridiculous That I Am

by Kim Hooper

This morning, I fought
with my daughter about
her refusal to take another
bite of vanilla-flavored
Greek yogurt while, a world
away, other mothers fought
for their children to live
another day.

On that small strip
of land, two million people
wait on death row, sentenced
to terror for the crime
of existing. Half of them,
children. So many
children. One killed every
ten minutes, the headline
reads. The post below it—a
joke about the inconvenience
of the end of Daylight Savings.

Dawg it feel like it’s 14pm.

I laugh and then wonder how
such a thing is possible—
how can any human being laugh
now, or ever again?
I am stressed about jury duty
and the Santa Ana winds making
my eyes burn and the dog-sitting
I shouldn’t have agreed to and
the school closure on Veterans Day
when I have to work at my job,
spending hours on Zoom calls
about how to better sell
expensive beauty products
to women who feel inadequate
without them.

How ridiculous that I am
capable of stress when there are
no airstrikes here, no bombs
dropping like meteors from the sky,
when I have food and water
and shelter and the basic
assurance that my daughter
and I will be alive tomorrow.

How ridiculous that I am
capable of brushing my teeth
and taking my vitamins and
bookmarking pad thai recipes
without sobbing about
the chubby baby arms
sticking out of rubble.

How ridiculous that I am,
when so many are not.

Tonight, we will watch
Fancy Nancy and lick popsicles
and I will tell her a bedtime
story about unicorns and
magic and think about
all those children, so many
children, who will never believe
in unicorns or magic
because even if they live,
they’ve seen too much
to believe in anything.

I will let my daughter sleep
with me and she will pull
all the sheets to her side and
I will wake up cold, perturbed.
How ridiculous that I am
anything but overjoyed to
watch her sleeping face,
mouth open, eyelashes fluttering.
How ridiculous that I am
anything less than grateful
for the warmth of her body,
the smell of her hair—fruity
from the detangler spray.

How ridiculous that I am,
when so many are not.

###

Kim Hooper is the author of six novels, including People Who Knew Me, which was adapted into an episodic podcast from BBC Sounds. She lives in southern California with her daughter and too many pets.

The Boy Left In The Attic by Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar is the of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works

The Boy Left In The Attic

by Kushal Poddar

Some nights we don’t hear
the boy in the attic, his feet
and his imaginary obstacle race

because we receive the call
from our son in the other land
where sun’s already varnished
the planks and the laths.

Perhaps we speak too loud
for a short conversation.
Perhaps the child soul in the attic
is the glee our son he left behind.

###

Kushal Poddar is the of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe.

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

NOVEMBER (A SONNET) by William Cullen Bryant

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was an American romantic poet, journalist, and influential editor. Born in Massachusetts,

NOVEMBER (A SONNET)

by William Cullen Bryant

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

###

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was an American romantic poet, journalist, and influential editor. Born in Massachusetts, Bryant wrote some of the most significant poetry in early 19th century America, helping drive the emergence of a truly American literary voice.

Bryant’s most famous poem, “Thanatopsis”, was published when he was just 17 years old. This meditative work on death established him as America’s leading poet. Other notable poems include “To a Waterfowl”, “The Ages”, and “The Prairies”. His poetry often explored nature as a metaphor for spirituality.

In 1825, Bryant became editor of the New York Evening Post, a position he held for almost 50 years. He shaped the paper into an influential platform for anti-slavery and social reform. His commitment to free speech, ethics, and human rights made him an important public figure.

Bryant helped promote and define American literary independence from Europe. He brought Romantic sensibilities to distinctly American topics, settings and images. Along with his contemporary poets like Ralph Waldo Emerson, Bryant gave the young nation a unique and thoughtful poetic voice. Though underappreciated today, his poetry captured the American imagination during the 19th century.

Winter Kitchen by Jenny Dunbar

Quince, the golden peach

Winter kitchen
by Jenny Dunbar

Quince, the golden peach
its essence blooming from glass jars, just sealed,
aromatic, warm,
raw November banished,
retreating through opaque windows,
I close my eyes, taste the air, redolent of the hours,
those carriers of narrative, each facet a glimpse of time remembered,
an affirmation of then and now,

a particle held captive in its amber pool,
the essential blemish,
that grounding mark, reminding me that perfection distracts,
there is always another layer,
a lifting of the lid,
promise of process between seed and harvest,
touching earth,
this year has gifted the maker with bounty,
as if the sands of time ran too fast
we husbanded with acknowledgement and skill,
intuiting the all too precious moments,
lost and found,
as we passed through together
in remembrance of warmth in the soul

Berry Picking by Marne Wilson

Marne Wilson lives in Parkersburg, West Virginia. She is the author of two chapbooks: The Bovine Daycare Center (Finishing Line, 2015) and As Lovers Always Do (forthcoming from Etchings Press).

Berry Picking

by Marne Wilson

You and I went looking last summer for raspberries
and, finding none, were forced to admit
that we have no idea what the bushes look like.
I don’t know your excuse,
but I never needed to look for raspberries before.
I always had them pressed upon me.

Uncle Eilert dropped them every summer afternoon
into his plastic ice cream pail,
not stopping until it was full to the brim.
All except the top layer would be crushed.
My mother said they were perfect
for spooning on angel food cake,
but I wished for perfect raspberries,
ones that hadn’t been ruined by the weight of ambition.

Although today is cold and blustery,
I have beside me some raspberries from Mexico,
whole and complete in their gleaming plastic box,
for they traveled that distance in one single layer.
I want to say their perfection makes them better,
but in fact they fail to engage my attention.
No matter how much I chew them,
they refuse to taste like raspberries should.

It was the pressure, I finally realize,
that released all the flavor of my uncle’s berries.
Too much perfection is beautiful
but may not be worth biting into.
It is the messy things that are full of life and flavor.

Marne Wilson lives in Parkersburg, West Virginia. She is the author of two chapbooks: The Bovine Daycare Center (Finishing Line, 2015) and As Lovers Always Do (forthcoming from Etchings Press).

The house in Leitrim by DS Maolalai

The House in Leitrim

by DS Maolalai

the wet clay
peeled
with sucking sounds
straight
from the spade. I was eight.
my father dug,
wanting to show
that he could bend the world
to city hands. the house
had been
a long time
unoccupied
before we took it; trees grew in the kitchen
and the plaster walls would crumble
to even my
weak touch.

they’d got it cheap,
my parents,
and intended
eventually
that it would be broken
like a dog
and forced to piss
outside. there were spiders
living in every corner
and a long war
was waged against the mice
and the rabbits on the hill.
as a fire escape
heavy stones
were placed on each windowsill
and the paint was done
to keep the damp out of the woodwork
and seal the place
for visitors.

but bad Irish weather
fell down
and crushed minds
like the top of a the mountain behind us.
it engulfed the place
like frogspawn
clumping on rocks.
pride lost;
I don’t know
the last time
anyone
has bothered to visit.

DS Maolalai has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His first collection, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden”, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press, with “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” forthcoming from Turas Press in 2019.

Trains by George Moore

George Moore’s collections include Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FurureCycle 2016) andChildren’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015). Poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, Arc,

Trains

by George Moore

I do not remember locomotives by name.
I see the trains in the Newark terminal

commuters hurrying to board and disappear
into steam clouds and a world beyond my view.

The blowdown and oil smelled of iron scorched
in fires fed by gray men in filthy overalls.

When my father left one days and never returned
the trains continued to carry me outward

by common rails by grease sweat and exhaust
across borders and seas to find myself alone.

The cars ratcheting a beat on the rail seams
sleeping to the rhythm in my mother’s lap.

Conscious of the steady stream of time
sweeping us up and back to the age of steam.

George Moore’s collections include Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FurureCycle 2016) andChildren’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015). Poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, Arc, North American Review, Stand, Orion, and The Colorado Review. His work was recently shortlisted for the Bailieborough Poetry Prize and long-listed for the Gregory O’Donoghue Poetry Prize.

Kitchen Companions by Joan Kantor

Joan Kantor is the author of five poetry collections. She won First Place for poetry in The 2015 Writers Digest Self Published Book Awards for Fading Into Focus

Kitchen Companions

by Joan Kantor

for my mother, who so joyfully shared her kitchen with me

My mother’s been waiting for me
to open the small drawer beside the stove,
where smiling with anticipation,
I reach for the dingy-pink metal measuring spoons
that once were hers.
They clatter and clink,
till firmly cradled in my hands,
they radiate a warmth
that rushes through me.
As time disappears,
she and I silently begin to converse
and proceed with preparations
for a meal she’ll never share.
She’d like me to use her crusty black cast iron pan,
but I’m saving its heft
for the day those tiny spoons
will no longer be enough
to stir her up.

Joan Kantor is the author of five poetry collections. She won First Place for poetry in The 2015 Writers Digest Self Published Book Awards for Fading Into Focus, a memoir focused on Alzheimer’s Disease and family relationships. Her memoir, Holding It Together (a hybrid of poetry and prose) tells the story of surviving a family legacy of mental illness. Joan also took first place for poetry in The 2013 Hackney Literary Awards, has been widely published in literary journals, been a mentor and judge in the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival’s Fresh Voices program, and currently performs in Stringing Words Together, a violin and poetry duo. Her most recent collection, Too Close For Comfort, was published in the summer of 2016 (Aldrich Press).

Sacrifice by Gale Acuff

Sacrifice

by Gale Acuff

Miss Hooker’s my Sunday School teacher and
she says that if you kill yourself you go
to Hell hands down, there’s no hope for Heaven
because suicide–it’s called suicide
–is sin and almost the worst one there is,
the worst one being I forget, maybe
not believing there’s a God at all. Me,
I believe but that doesn’t mean I’ll go
to Heaven when I die, no, I’ve got to
stop my sinful ways, no more chewing gum
in class here and at regular school and
no more cheating on quizzes and no more
not cleaning my plate during meals and no
more talking back to Mother and Father,
especially Mother, she’s not as strong
as Father and can do me less damage
and what that is is cowardice, I don’t
need Miss Hooker to tip me off to that,
so now I’m wondering if I’m not saved
already and don’t even know it, or
didn’t, but now I do, or sort of. But
I don’t feel much like praying or singing,
religious songs anyway, or going
to church and Sunday School any more than
I do now, or spreading the word of God,
witnessing is what our church calls it. No,
what I really what to do is die just
enough to know what it’s like but also
enough not to have to lay down my life
for good and the best way to do that is
bump myself off but only barely. Yawn.

###

I have had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Adirondack Review, Concho River Review, Worcester Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Arkansas Review, Carolina Quarterly, Poem, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. I have authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).

I have taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.

Skeleton by Katie Booms

Skeleton

by Katie Booms

For years, it was a dinosaur
sitting in the big open room of our barn,
all sprawling shoulder and radials,
bold and gaunt, bare caverns and organs,
and we ignored it, except each winter
when a wagon had to be backed in to shelter,
or spring, when we remembered standing there,
shooting basketballs at the net nailed to the hay loft.
Then, it was impractically large, slow-moving,
bound for extinction.

###

Katie Booms is a writer, visual artist, and advocate for community-building. She welcomes collaboration of all kinds and can be found on Twitter as @ka_booms. She earned her MFA at the University of Wyoming, served for a year with AmeriCorps at the Freret Neighborhood Center in New Orleans and currently teaches at Grand Valley State University in Grand Rapids, MI.

Mia Mango by Brandon Ward

Brandon Ward is from Northern California.

Mia Mango

by Brandon Ward

Mia Mango,
Ripe to a family
Of thistle and weeds.
Fruitful in her skin,
Smooth,
Hairing like a new
Born.
Twinning mangoes
At a young age
Grow wise at a sun
Seen soft by a sister
Rooted above.
Mia Mango,
Core as solid as trust,
Truthful in sight.
Sprung from the depths
Of stationary sand traps.
Beached in the back-tracking
Of a wave.
Kissed,
Salty in wind on a sour day.
Shaded by I,
The Sequoias.
The tall in striking
Passion.
Mia Mango,
Grip of a hand,
Perfection in buds.
Blending of no bias,
No sound of a killing joy.
Taste of sweet lust
In a choking hour,
Washed,
Soaked into my skin
Is the juice of your
upbringing.
Soaked into my lips
Is the juice of a
Night in safety.
A night where no
Dreams sever short
In climax to the sound
Of you,
Snapping like a thick
Branch to a passing,
Breaking to the swift
Line of teeth that is
That of the midnight
Hunter.
That which is guided
Is no different in want.
Silent,
Closing in like banks
Of fog in the whistling
Of a death.
Mia Mango,
Grown from horrors
Of drought to a lovers
Tiring clutch.
You,
Sister of twinning mangoes,
I bite you strengthening all wonder till
You are all that is
Inside me.
Place you in the
Stitching that hovers
Over this chemical imbalance.
Pocket buldging out
By the thump of this
Pure nut,
I will plant your grace
In this lover’s garden
And never be without
In another sunrise.
This perfect fit of senses,
Rejoicing.
Mia Mango,
My Mango.

###
Brandon Ward is from Northern California.

I Left the Radio On by Ann Yu Huang

Ann Yu Huang was born in Shanghai, China and moved to Mexico when she was a teen. She graduated from Bernard Baruch College of the City University of New York cum laude and has co-founded the home-healthcare brand Nature Bright Company.

I Left the Radio On

by Ann Yu Huang

I left the radio on for a thousand days, the whisper of
my name, the sigh, the breadth, the thrust on my throat and
the hold of your heart.

One thousand days of joy, happiness and misery,
of blinking wishes, political debates, lights turned-on-and-off,
cats and dogs, wind with oranges, fish and grapefruits, nights and lies.

One thousand days of red velvet, blue sea, green scotch,
dark skin, amplified music, lonely nights, loathsome mornings,
bewildered moments in between them.

One thousand days of sunny lounges, rainy shoes, baby
calling and touching, regretful words, forborne arguments,
budget rooms, rioting car chase, eventful forgetfulness, crazy moods,
ennui and shortcomings.

One thousand days of wandering and finding a place, seeking
the right hour, making jokes, asking for advice, shocking, choking, playing
Monopoly, staging the desk with
a bamboo tree in a heart shape.

One thousand days of picking up mail, jogging alone, craving
Mexican food, jumping for the excitement of loving and living,
emptying the gold fish pond, asking for help, the different kinds of
assistance, the longing, making a home, cooking and reading,

wondering about jealousy and the promise, if
it is going to be another
one thousand days (have
to stop here or I will never!)

###
Ann Yu Huang was born in Shanghai, China and moved to Mexico when she was a teen. She graduated from Bernard Baruch College of the City University of New York cum laude and has co-founded the home-healthcare brand Nature Bright Company. She is currently a candidate of MFA program in poetry at Vermont College of Fine Arts. She has studied with poets and writers Michael Steinberg, Barbara DeMarco-Barret, Nahid Rachlin, Gerald Costanzo, Jean Valentine, Rigoberto Gonzalez, Leslie Ullman, Natasha Saje and Richard Jackson. Her first chapbook collection Love Rhythms was published in October 2012 by Finishing Line Press, and was noted by OC Metro Hot Read section in Jan 2013.

Jazz Water by John Guchemand

Breaking forth, breakneck pace
Triangle tongue flag unfurls, reaches
out humming hands,

Jazz Water

by John Guchemand

Breaking forth, breakneck pace
Triangle tongue flag unfurls, reaches
out humming hands,
long-string-plucking fingers
Rotund deep-sea
hollow instrument brimming with voice

Two young faces, microphone lips
scat―ooh, ooh, oooh, deh.
Quiet screened mask
passed, one to the other
The placid-lake one ripples wide, unruly
shimmering like cymbal
Her rocking-body sister unmasked
shrank and shone―river moon

Stage right
cabled fingers jam jam, soft
sharp, easy
complimenting keys tugging
at rhythm
Dominant drums driving
barely balanced boat
Eyes locked, curtain to curtain
pianist after drummer
nose flared
I’m gonna get you―
Bang bang, bop, boom!