Before I knew I wasn’t a girl by Ren Wilding

I went on a date with a straight man. His voice, when I was with him,
an echo in an empty hallway. I wasn’t there. He worked in a warehouse.
I was in grad school, trying not to assume we’d have nothing to say.
When we parted, I said I didn’t text, still had a phone with no keyboard.
I asked him to an exhibit at the city library, as if putting him in a room
with art would make me feel like a girl. He told me maybe, so I went
alone. I was a collage undone, pieces flaking out of the frame, caught
by another with glue still wet, unfinished. He texted, what are you
doing later? I pressed the numbers to spell stop and I can’t, the answers
to my own questions.



Ren Wilding earned an MA in Literature and Gender Studies from the University of Missouri. Their work appears in Braving the Body, Comstock Review, Palette Poetry, Pine Hills Review, Tulip Tree, and Zoetic Press, and others. They received a Pushcart nomination and are co-curator of the “Words Like Blades” series.

The Key to Finding Love is Fucking Up the Pattern on Purpose by Ren Wilding

You made a big deal about showing me
your Andrea Gibson tattoo, as we drank
coffee at ten pm. It was before I had a tattoo,
when I could still drink coffee late.
You asked me to your apartment for a movie
and showed me your bedroom copy
of The Ethical Slut with the door
wide open. In an alcove, we sat on the sofa
under a blanket without touching.
It was before I’d had sex with a woman,
before I’d had sex at all. Your roommate
walked by, and nothing about this was private.
I didn’t know what you wanted, so I went out
with you again just to see what you would do.



*The title is a line from Andrea Gibson’s poem “Pole Dancer” from Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns.



Ren Wilding earned an MA in Literature and Gender Studies from the University of Missouri. Their work appears in Braving the Body, Comstock Review, Palette Poetry, Pine Hills Review, Tulip Tree, and Zoetic Press, and others. They received a Pushcart nomination and are co-curator of the “Words Like Blades” series.

Beethoven in Snow by Richard Weaver

Like watching clouds
dissolve into animals
the snow beneath my fingers
takes the shape
of a man long dead.
A portrait in white
and winter wind.
January’s sun relenting.



Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.

Home by Vera Kewes Salter

Shoes scattered
by the door

Coats thrown on
the couch

Cat sits on the wide sill
to watch birds

Your coat still
hangs in the closet



Vera Kewes Salter lives and writes in New Rochelle, New York. Her Chapbook In Lewy's Body about her husband's struggle with Lewy Body Dementia was published by Finishing Line Press in February, 2024. She has a full-length manuscript titled Girl on the Underground which starts with her life in London as a daughter of refugees from Europe, and continues with her life in the United States with her African American husband and family.

Caregiving by Frederick Wilbur

We craft word-coffins for our inner necessity,
holding our parents’ hands in hospice quiet;
questions of loss and grief are not asked
as time embezzles riches from us all.

Racing against the morphine drip,
we swear to respect their inconvenient wishes.
We wonder if our gift of flowers consoles them,
too late perhaps, naïve in our hope.

But why are they still blind to our brother’s thefts and abuses?

No ransom for the cruel kidnapping of disease;
days priceless, grief without end,
yet poorer, we turn to leave dissatisfied,
counting our own lives without answer.

Why are they bankrupt of plausible, even cheap excuses?



Frederick Wilbur’s poetry collections are As Pus Floats the Splinter Out, Conjugation of Perhaps and forthcoming, The Heft of Promise. He is poetry co-editor and blogger for Streetlight Magazine. He was awarded the Stephen Meats Poetry Prize for best poem of the year by Midwest Quarterly (2018).

After All, They’re Only Things by Rose Mary Boehm

I always passed that shop window
on my way to work—
my first job as a married mother of two.

Earthenware at its finest:
a decorative bowl with pulled-up edges,
a carafe with a round belly, an abstract
design covering their surfaces.
Slick.
Painted in a fat yellow,
a summer sky blue,
a bright but gentle red,
and some almost black lines
offsetting the colour fest.

This boldness would be perfect
in the reception area in our house,
a focal point of exuberance and joy,
perfect for the middle of that old round mahogany
table with the loose leg given to me by a friend
in the old days, at a time when I had not even a bed
in my new flat.

With my first paycheck I finally bought
the coveted items from the knick-knack shop,
and delighted at the perfect match.

I am not sure what it was that produced
his ire. But one day soon after showing
my pleasure—during a somewhat heated
argument—he looked into my eyes,
no, not a cold stare,
more a look of deep satisfaction,
then he took both bowl and jug into his hands,
holding them aloft over the hard-wood floor,
the knuckles white.
Then he opened his big hands.
Slowly.



Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a ‘Pushcart’ and ‘Best of Net’. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new MS is in the works. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

Breaking Even by Steve Klepetar

I drive home from the casino, having almost broken
even at blackjack, having overeaten at the buffet.

The air conditioning blasts on high and everyone is cold.
All around us the air vibrates with disease.

Someone coughs as the van hurtles through the night.
We have come to the old sign begging us to “Drive Careful!”

and I will. I slow down as the road curves downhill, past
the dangerous crossing, where an open field ends in a pretty pond.

We get out, stand on the little foot bridge.
Lightning bugs plunge toward the water in a fiery dance.



Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is on the editorial board of Right Hand Pointing and Verse-Virtual.

Anne Boleyn - Second wife of Henry VIII (died 5-9-1536) by Richard Weaver

Her last
words
spoken
from
the Tower:
"The
executioner
is,
I
believe,
very
expert,
and
my
neck
is
very
slender."
But not
as slender
as the
blade’s
shining edge.



*From the author's series on the final words of persons of historical note



Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.

Jaroslav Hašek (died 1/3/1923) by Richard Weaver

          (The Fate of the Good Soldier Švejk)

The road lengthens. Death never seems near enough.
The wind points its cold finger at me, acknowledging
my existence. But you, my countryman, see me as the Other.
A presence best buried in the marshes. The frozen regions.
The places where no one ever looks. I’m only dying
naturally, and cannot claim to be surprised that Death has
arrived with a poorly printed invitation in hand. If I could read it,
assuming it was legible, I might accept. But for now I choose
to ignore the typography and arrogance. A man can die his way.
No one, not even Death, can dictate otherwise. Our lives are ours.
Therefore, I will die when and where and how I decide. I choose
to die numb. Vodka is good. An easy favorite. The local choice.
Red wine is nice. Symbolically appropriate. But brandy, if handy,
is better than the rest. I will not be denied this death wish. I am
entitled. Military regulations require “one for the road,” and we all
know what that means. I said earlier something about a long road.
It’s shorter now, the road that is, was my life. Humor a good soldier.
“Give me the brandy! No? You are cheating me!”



*From the author's series on the final words of persons of historical note

Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.

Answer to a Recent Question Regarding Supporting Me and/or Red Eft Review

An incredibly thoughtful and kind poet recently asked how she could support me and/or Red Eft Review. It made me feel seen and appreciated. And I am happy to report that others have asked this same question in the past. So I figured I would write a brief post...

I will never charge poets to submit. I have considered adding a "Donate" or "Tip Jar" option, but I don't see myself doing that as long as I have a job and I am financially stable. 

An easy way to support me and other editors is to buy our books. We are also poets struggling to share our work with the world. If you do buy a book and like what you read, let others know about it and/or consider buying another one by the same editor. 

Below are links to my poetry collections that are currently available online should you be inclined to check them out. 

Thanks, as always, for considering. 

Corey

heads held low 

Passing Cars and a Review of Passing Cars

Junk Drawer

The Weight of Shadows

White Flag Raised

Winter Morning Observations by Russell Rowland

A gentle powdering of snow
overnight, like talc on a baby’s bottom.

Enough to show there are no footprints
outside my door,
or under my bedroom window.

I find that reassuring, as most would.

Still, crows are about, in lower air. Snow
is a background against which
they can remind us that black is beautiful.

“In your own way,”
I concede, from behind my windowpane.

An ambulance happens by
without red lights on: either the urgency
is no emergency, or else EMTs

are heading to McDonald’s for breakfast.

When I open the window, snow lies on
the sill. I write my name.



Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire, where he helps judge Poetry Out Loud competitions. His latest poetry books, Wooden Nutmegs and Magnificat, are available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.

Mabel and the Band by John Grey

On a makeshift stage at the back of the bar,
Mabel Starr and her band belted out
the blues of their sharecropper forbears,
infused with a misery all their own.

Pain so energized, the Cajuns
guzzled beer to it and the Creoles
paid in kind with the sweat of sinewy
dance steps in that squeeze of body and brow.

It never felt better than to be reminded
of the bad times, some down so low
they even clapped hands to the accordion,
or ground their bones against the bass.

The guitarist’s busy fingers
belied his lazy look, as he pitched into a solo
that cased the entire fretboard
and laid the strings to waste.

The drummer, in his cocked red hat,
pounded pigskin like a miner
trapped behind a rubble wall,
so hard, so fiercely, he freed himself.

And then there was Mabel, a full-bodied
woman in a sparkling hourglass gown,
hugging the mike to her breast like a lover,
rasping sweet with a voice from before she was born.

A gut’s worth of delivery, nothing withheld,
chest like bellows, swaying back and forth,
in the ring with everything ever done to her
and punching from the throat.



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink, and Tenth Muse. His latest books, Subject Matters, Between Two Fires, and Covert are available through Amazon. John also has work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories, and Cantos.

Trophy Shot by Howie Good

You kneel in your camos beside a three-point buck,
and grabbing the elegant head by the antlers,
twist it with both hands into an unnatural position
just for the picture, man the hunter, the born killer,
in a classic pose, while all around you, the forest trees,
already nearly bare, reach up as though pleading,
starved for the cold, clean touch of snow.

Howie Good is author of the poetry book, The Dark, available from Sacred Parasite, which will also publish his book, Akimbo, in 2025.

The Woman Named After the First Woman Asks for a Poem on Gratitude During a Farmers Market in July by Michael Brockley

Eva buys a purple hydrangea from the vendor in the turquoise truck beside the poems-on-demand tent. She tells the poet behind the orange typewriter she is grateful for the mornings, after dawn showers have washed away the humidity. She samples couscous with chickpeas at a Moroccan breakfast booth. And welcomes the voices of shoppers that wash over her like the fragrance of garden phlox. With the hortensia blossom fixed behind her right ear, Eva strolls through the market in the company of a light breeze. Appreciating the new friends she makes and learning the names of leashed dogs and cats in papooses. Thor and Aragorn. Luna and Betsy Ross. The poet who types the ode to gratitude compliments Eva on her black dress that is decorated with red flowers. Florets so small they might be any hybrid from the gardens of history or fiction. Eva is grateful on this Saturday morning for her beautiful daughter, whose name, Gina, means “queen.” And thankful for her daughter’s father, as well, who is still alive. On this first weekend in July, Eva is grateful for her own name. Eva, which is a sonnet when spoken by the poet fourteen times.



Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His prose poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, confetti, and 912 Review. His prose poems are also forthcoming in Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and Down in the Dirt.

Existence by Ahrend Torrey

The ground we walk on
in its solidity, what is it
other than a place to exist?

What is existence
if it goes unnoticed—

if we, walking the grounds,
do not stop and hold firm
our bare feet

into wet soil?

To exist, is to feel,
taste, hear,
smell the summer air—

filled with prairie blossoms
and bees...

If bees are still alive,
taste them
with your ears;

reach out, now,
beneath the sun—

Touch them with your eyes!



Ahrend Torrey is the author of This Moment (Pinyon Publishing, 2024). His work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, storySouth, The Greensboro Review, and West Trade Review, among others. He lives in Chicago with his husband, Jonathan; their two rat terriers, Dichter and Dova; and Purl, their cat. Learn more about his poetry at https://ahrendtorreypoetry.wixsite.com/website

A Brief History of Schnickelfritz by Penelope Moffet

My mother named her Schnickelfritz,
mischievous child. A gray tabby
who hummed the world to sleep
with her sweet purr.

One of the pets who lived with us
until we moved and left them.
We moved a lot.
We shed those cats like fleas

and then hatched more. I swore
I’d care for future felines
their whole lives. The two
I live with now are 17 and 15

but they still whisk around
like Schnickelfritzes,
pratfalls and all. They bless me
with their biscuit-making paws.



Penelope Moffet is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems and essays appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Citric Acid, Calyx and other literary journals.

Keeper of the Keys by Penelope Moffet

Biscuit-colored fur
his ribs show through,
dark liquid eyes, Kai is
gentle as a doe but plants
his legs like stilts, looks sidelong
when I tug the leash.

Each day I’m here at one
to take him for a midday
pee and poop and amble.
Eager to go out,
once his bladder’s empty
he’s done with exercise

so we walk in circles, me
coaxing him on, him
pulling back. Sometimes
his white cheeks shake.

He walks up to a gardener,
stands as long as fingers rub
his head, his ears. More,
the chocolate eyes say. More.

Once he ran faster than a man
but now he’d rather meditate
than sprint. He contemplates
each bush, each grass clump,
bit of trailing ivy.
Then he sighs.

Kai means Shell in Japanese,
Sea in Hawaiian, Keeper
of the Keys in Welsh.
Dog built like a deer,
yearning for his bed.
He tries to lead me home.



Penelope Moffet is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems and essays appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Citric Acid, Calyx and other literary journals.

After the Burial by A.R. Williams

An antique mirror browned
at the edges, now hangs in my entryway.

It sees me, pauses, searching for my grandmother.

Brought home after the burial,
rescued from the estate sale.

I clung to constancy, finding only change.



A.R. Williams, a poet from Virginia's Shenandoah Valley, is the author of A Funeral in the Wild (2024) and Time in Shenandoah (2024). Website: virginiapoet.com.

Becalmed by Sarah Russell

Late afternoon in summer,
air so heavy I can’t move,
rumbling in the east and a flash
on the horizon. No birdsong—
fledglings gone from the oak
anchored in red clay. The grass
has surrendered, parched and longing.
The porch swing creaks under my weight,
breathing for me. There are chores,
but there are always chores. For now,
only stillness, asking what is next
without you.



Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net

Bird Woman by Sarah Russell

Nearing the shore at twilight,
she drifts in the wind’s current.
The lagoon below is still
as held breath.
Her eyes skirt the trees,
the marshy undergrowth
for a safe settling.
She tires easily now,
seeks sheltered landings
on timeworn wings,
her flight nearing
an unfamiliar shore
that beckons
with no promises.



Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net