Wrong by Martha Christina

I mistake the small moth,
wings folded, unmoving,
for a bit of dried leaf stem
in the basin; but when I
reach to remove it,
it opens its wings
reflecting sunlight
and life.



Martha Christina has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press). Her work appears in earlier issues of Red Eft Review, and recently in Star 82 Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Tiny Seed Journal. Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Bristol, Rhode Island.

in the hotel, on the eve of district playoffs by Natalie Schriefer

the others are sleeping.
through a slit in the curtain
you watch the rain. past
midnight, it peters off
like an ellipsis, the silence
between


            window plinks


                           lengthening.
you’re nervous. the parking
lot is dark. in the shadows
you can imagine anything
you want—yet you never
imagine yourself winning.



Natalie Schriefer, MFA is a bi/demi writer often grappling with sexuality, identity, and shame. She loves asking people about their fictional crushes (her most recent are Riza Hawkeye and Gamora). A Best of the Net nominee, find her on Twitter @schriefern1 or on her website at www.natalieschriefer.com.

Honey Bee by Ruth Holzer

You stagger on the stepping stone,
losing strength in autumn’s chill.
At times you tumble over on your back,
and struggle to right yourself again,
to resume your futile crawl.

Where now your single-minded flight
toward the seduction of an unfurled flower?
Where now the gift of golden dust you bore
back to the hive? Can you remember
the summer when you hummed,
when you danced among your sisters?

This is where all your labors tend.
Useless and alone, you must drag
your brittle body back and forth
until you weary yourself
and cease, for there is no one here
to crush you out of mercy.



Ruth Holzer's poems have been widely published. She lives in Virginia.

Foraging by Frank C. Modica

Grandpa knew the best places
to gather bundles of dandelion leaves
to feed his family.
He bypassed easier pickings
closer to home, trash-polluted plants
in crowded neighborhoods for
green fields in distant cemeteries
at the ends of streetcar lines.

Before coming to America
he ate the wild dandelions in Sicily—
often his only meals,
so he rejoiced to see the bountiful
fields in America, free for the taking.
He harvested them young,
once yellow blossoms opened,
the leaves tasted sharp and pungent.

Some years jobs were scarce,
the bosses tight-fisted.
He’d work long hours
for low pay; empty pockets
for streetcar fares.
When he could finally forage,
he closed his eyes to the yellow
blossoms emerging in overgrown yards,
along curbs, in empty city lots—

After the long ride to the cemetery,
a bitter harvest.



Frank C. Modica is a retired teacher. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sheila-Na-Gig, Red Eft Review, and Willawaw Journal. Frank's first chapbook, What We Harvest, nominated for an Eric Hoffer book award, was published in the fall of 2021 by Kelsay Books.