Forsythia Chronicles by Russell Rowland

When the bushes go up with a shout

like pyrotechnics set off at ground level,
we step aside as Moses did, to see
how they can blaze yet not be consumed.

At twilight, these are often the last
things glowing, so we suspect their brilliance
is more than reflective.

It is hard to chronicle the bushes without
wandering into biography;

to pass a long row of them and not detect
emotions like bees in the blossoms.

Why does a man trim the branches back—

what cutting anger, taken out
on their exuberance? It might be the solace
of control, at least over something.

And that woman who breaks off
a twig in passage, to set in water back home:
who is that in remembrance of?

One who died, at last year’s blossoming?



Seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.

Dogwood Flowers by Terri Kirby Erickson

From a distance, it seems
as if an eclipse of White
Spring Moths is fluttering
around the trunk of a dog-
wood tree—each bright
wing the color of Chantilly
lace. But when the breeze
moves on and the tree’s
slim branches cease their
trembling, one might think
that time itself has stopped.
Now, every moth-like flower,
at the pinnacle of its beauty,
seems suspended in midair—
as perfect as a photograph
or a memory we hold so tight,
nothing in this world could
ever tear it from our hands.



Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.

Possible Bag by Richard Weaver

No one remembers how it started. It simply was
something that always happened. Part tradition,
part necessity. We never traveled without knowing
that each stop would be a series of repairs, a never-ending
journey of fixing things. A life spent answering
the questions of probability. My father found pleasure
deep in darkened televisions aglow with new test-patterns
of life and silent radios given voice again. He never tired of trying.
I knew from him that nothing was impossible. Every solution
was somewhere at hand. In the fingers. In the mind.
The patient offering of time. As a child I often held the work light
steady, though not always steady enough, while he searched
the arcane schematic for pathways towards life, or I held the meter
while his probes sought out an electrical pulse. He still tells the story
of the time I took apart a manual typewriter and 30 years later
it still sits in pieces in his workshop, a shining lesson in the method
of “how not to.” My sons bear witness to this, I have made them
my accomplices, just as my father did me. They are quick to believe
in the magic of simple tools and slow to accept the impossible.



Post-Covid, Richard Weaver has returned as the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. His work has also appeared in Conjunctions, Louisville Review, Southern Quarterly, Free State Review, Hollins Critic, Little Patuxent Review, Loch Raven Review, The Avenue, and New Orleans Review. Richard is the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005) which has been performed 3 times in Alabama, and once at Juilliard in NYC. 3 poems appeared in Alabama Poets (1990). He was one of the founders of the Black Warrior Review and its Poetry Editor for the first three years. Richard's poems are forthcoming in the Alabama Anthology (2023) and his 195th prose poem was recently accepted.

Saying Uncle, Saying Father by Richard Weaver

          In Memoriam, AFD, Jr.

I called you Uncle sometimes
though at times I wished
it could have been Father.
I did my best to understand
my father in you, what he became
in your presence. Your absence. Death
has not taken that from me today.
Today, when I make bread for my family,
my hands think of you as they work
the dough into biscuits or bread.
Fred bread they called it, the many loaves
you baked and gave so that others might have.
I add the iced water now and ride a memory:
17 miles off shore, bill fishing, 6’ to 8’ foot swells,
a bottle of port shared between lulls. A sailfish
spotted before we turned to outrun the squall
back to shore. Captain Donnie pogoing
the Mam’selle North towards Dauphin Island,
shouldering the waves aside. The hull shuddering
as the twin Mercs hurled us from wave to wave.
Landing with a thwack. My brothers both sick
at the stern. Teetotalers to this day.

As children we once rose together
into the blue beauty of a summer's day.
My brothers and I in the silver cocoon
of your twin-engine Cessna.
We rose from the thin edge
of a horizon we knew safely as home,
lifting beyond the fireball of the sun.
Looking down we accepted the toy
movements of miniature cars and trucks,
our trailing shadow, a winged dream
as it passed over trees and water towers,
the squared shoulders of buildings;
a first glimpse from heaven. I think
of the black and white photo taken that day:
3 small boys with matching
blond crewcuts, your dark hair
against the backdrop of the plane.
A miracle we never questioned.



Post-Covid, Richard Weaver has returned as the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. His work has also appeared in Conjunctions, Louisville Review, Southern Quarterly, Free State Review, Hollins Critic, Little Patuxent Review, Loch Raven Review, The Avenue, and New Orleans Review. Richard is the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005) which has been performed 3 times in Alabama, and once at Juilliard in NYC. 3 poems appeared in Alabama Poets (1990). He was one of the founders of the Black Warrior Review and its Poetry Editor for the first three years. Richard's poems are forthcoming in the Alabama Anthology (2023) and his 195th prose poem was recently accepted.

Ardor in the Outback by Jean Ryan

Each autumn in the Australian Outback,
a hefty lizard called the shingleback skink
hauls its armored body across miles of terrain,
searching for the love of its life.
Eventually, inevitably, it locates her scent trail,
and they spend several minutes engaged
in a ritual of licking and mating.
For the next eight weeks they knock around together
before the male turns tail and resumes his solitary existence,
leaving his pregnant consort behind.
The two carry on this way for up to twenty years,
neither one inclined to look elsewhere for company.
If the female happens to perish while they are together,
the male will stay with her body, nudging it now and then
in despair or bewilderment—who can say?

It is not the lizard’s monogamy that surprises me—
many creatures live devoted lives—
it’s those ten months of separation,
the unwavering hunt that follows,
the odds of finding one tiny scent
in that rocky, empty wild,
as if the shingleback skink
is here in reassurance,
in proof of faith.



Jean Ryan, a native Vermonter, lives in coastal Alabama and believes that retirement is highly underrated. Her writing has appeared in many journals and anthologies. Her debut collection of short stories, Survival Skills, was published by Ashland Creek Press and short-listed for a Lambda Literary Award. Lovers and Loners is her second story collection. https://jean-ryan.com/

Twilight of a Mild Day by Martha Christina

Earlier, in bright sunlight,
two yellow crocus opened
while I sat inside,
no longer a new widow,
but still breathing winter.



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.

My Older Sister Remembers by Martha Christina

Before I was born, our father
set up a ping-pong table
in the hall outside his office
at the school where he was
the principal. They both
laughed and laughed as he
taught her how to play.

By the time I was old enough
to go to that school, our father
had the same job, but he was
not the same man; our family
was not the same family.

Our mother recovered, physically,
from a case of encephalitis, but
her memory was affected, and her
moods became erratic: she was
quick-tempered, often violent;
sometimes catatonic. Ping-pong
or any light-hearted diversion,
only someone else’s memory.



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.

Surety by Martha Christina

Sure of food,
sure of shelter,
house finches
fill the feeder’s
perches, fill
themselves,
then disappear
into the shelter
of wisteria.
Mind the birds,
my grandfather
would say, how
they fill up, then
disappear when
a storm is coming.



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.

Reliability by Michelle Reale

The crucifix on the pale wall will cast a shadow that dances. The fruit in the bowl will age with grace. The black thread and needle will find their rhythm. The pills in the old-fashioned coffee saucer will find the right mouth. The foot in the shoe will clench like a claw. The mottled and misshapen eyes will twitch. The seer on the television will predict and we will blindly believe and follow. The old man two houses down will heave himself onto the ambulance gurney. He will not return. The fragile heads of flowers will droop dejectedly on their stems. The days will grow impatient and exhausted. The night will have us toss and turn with eyes wide open. Birds will fold themselves into their iridescent wings. Dinner will burn in the pot. Mothers with great anxiety will pace wooden floors with wailing infants while their partners will grind their teeth into dust. Piebald dogs and wolves bearing grudges will whine with resignation and loneliness. The evening news will drone yet paralyze us with fear. Spots will appear on the hand that trembles. The weather will have its way with us. We will verify unintelligible words for those who need it. We will stigmatize those within the domestic sphere appropriately. The weather will have its way with us. We will forget what it is we ever wanted to say. We will make room for what we no longer need but still want. We will peek over the high walls from the place we carelessly and begrudgingly call home.



Michelle Reale is the author of several poetry collections, including Season of Subtraction (Bordighera Press, 2019) and Blood Memory (Idea Press), and from Alien Buddha Press is her prose poem collection, In the Year of Hurricane Agnes. She is the Founding and Managing Editor for both OVUNQUE SIAMO: New Italian-American Writing and The Red Fern Review.