Small Acts of Subversion by Ann Leamon

We are becoming a police state,
says HCR, who lives across the river.
Apparently, she never
sleeps. Her essays, cited thoroughly
—to rub metaphorical salt
in psychic wounds—
no longer conclude with hope.

She chronicles the collapse
of a culture that tried—for a
faltering, flickering, firefly’s moment—
to improve, to trust
its better angels. The lesser angels
won this round, ICE among the swing sets,
tax-payers dragged to prison camps.
I practice saying, “You do not need
to answer any questions.” My voice breaks.

Animal shelters are full and turn away
owner-surrenders as people
losing their homes find one more mouth
—even a small one, even attached
to a fuzzy face and a wagging tail—too much
to feed. A pet becomes a stray,
crying, hungry, wondering
what it did wrong. I donate dog food
to the food pantry.

My husband fixes houses
for our neighbors, stretches
his tiny budget to cover
windows and doors that don’t close,
leaking plumbing, rotten floors.
I fill the feeder for
woodpeckers, finches.

The one milkweed from last year
has returned in triplicate,
three times the welcome
for the monarchs that matter.



Ann Leamon writes poems, reviews, essays, and technical finance material. Her non-technical work has appeared in Harvard Review, The Arts Fuse, Tupelo Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, and River Teeth Journal, among others. She lives on the Maine coast with her husband and an opinionated Corgi-Lab mix.

Reunion Registry by Shoshauna Shy

Methodist Social Services sends mention
my maternal grandmother suffered
with arthritis, died of diverticulitis,
but there is nothing more.
The adoption agency’s report lists
my mother’s age, height, color of hair
at time of relinquishment.
The Adoptees’ Association tells me to
petition juvenile court for sealed records.
Instead, I fly the under-radar route, apply
to reunion registries, hope my arrow
of request makes data slide into one
vertical slot proving a half-sibling, nephew
by marriage or cousin-once-removed–
even a shirttail one–stretched their bow
and hit mine.
But within a month, all spinning stops.
Triplicate replies stack up and form
a buttress: No Matches Found.
My mother, my father, singly or together
leapt like deer into a tamarack woods
gone golden with sundown in September,
to their ongoing ready-made lives, to
other children they cherish.



Shoshauna Shy's poems have been made into videos, produced inside taxi cabs, and even decorated the hind quarters of city buses. She is also a flash fiction author — but that's a whole ‘nother story!

Knots by Frank C. Modica

My impatient adolescent brain
thought Alexander the Great
got it right when he severed
the Gordian knot with one slash.
I spent many years trying
to emulate his example,
racing through life
as I attempted
fast, easy solutions.

I think about all
the wasted effort;
how I lost so much
with the quick cuts.
I hope I’ve gotten
wiser in my 8th decade
as I pick at the twists,
untangling strands
one at a time.



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

Paid Obituaries by Fran Schumer

No one will pause at the headline

to the obituary I won’t have,
the kind you don’t have to buy,
written before you die.
Reporters actually interview you for those,
bury them later in a place called,
believe it or not, the morgue.
But I prefer the tiny agate notices,
whole novels reduced to a one-inch note,
written about people no one knows,
paid for by loved ones who want
the world to know he loved Mozart,
she bred collies, his roses won a prize.
The same impulse that causes us
to paint, to plant trees,
splash graffiti on buildings,
trash cans, subway cars
rusting in old train yards –
To say: we were here
and we wanted someone to know.



Fran Schumer’s work has appeared in The New York Times, The Nation, The North American Review, and elsewhere. She won a Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing poetry fellowship. Her chapbook, Weight, was published in 2022. She studied political theory at college but wished she spent more time reading Keats.

Why? by Martha Christina

wasn’t a question
asked in my family,
and so remained
unanswered.

Adults avoided
emotional outbursts;
salt tossed over a shoulder
took care of misfortune.

Still, grief arrived
like a poor relation
come for dinner, not
invited, but fed. No one
questioned that presence;
no one answered for it.



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.

With a Predictable Ending by Martha Christina

When my late neighbor
moved from Southern
California to Southern
New England, she
was a new widow.

She told, repeatedly,
stories of her young
and busy life. Young
and busy myself, I
barely listened, but
her stories were
always my own,
waiting to be told.



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.

Anhedonia has an affair with the poet by Alex Stolis

It's not just the pretty words or how he seems to read
her heart; it’s the way he kisses her wedding ring,
says he loves her more than love.

Calls her muse, scribbles in his notebook when they’re
in bed; knows everything she is and everything she's not.
They sit on the fire escape, share a cigarette, the sun a dull

ache, the rattle of the A-train full with commuters dreaming
of home. He’s there-not-there. She can’t interpret the wind,
translate birdsong. They’re left with a rebuke

from the sky, they’re full, yet starving. She knows he’s
a magpiecharlatanthief, feels his words trickle down
her neck. He lies in ways that don’t matter.

When his poems are published, stark black against loud
white; she feels immortal, beautiful; convinces herself
they’re not for his wife.



Alex Stolis lives in Hudson Valley, NY.

Two Horses by Terri Kirby Erickson

Old and sway-backed, starved
and abused, two horses sold
for meat were bought and saved

by my compassionate friend.
Let loose to graze in verdant
pastures, their heads are bowed

like nuns in prayer for hours—
until they can hold no more.
Gently, gently their rescuer

speaks to them, her words like
a soft breeze, her hands twin
messengers of grace and peace.

Now they will call to her, nicker
when she is near, two horses
that have seldom, if ever, been

safe. Watching their ribs sink
beneath pounds of added flesh,
their coats begin to shine like

copper pots, her face is shining,
too, like lighted windows, like
the sun rising, like love that lasts.



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

Scarecrow by Jacqueline Cleaveland

It wanted to stand on its own,
that straw scarecrow
with square pink patches
sewn into its cheeks
to resemble rosy mirth.
It never failed to smile
that black, thinly stitched smile
enhanced by round blue eyes,
that each have a small white dot
painted near the right of its pupil
to mimic a soul’s glimmer.



From Southern California, Jacqueline Cleaveland works as a staff writer for a local university.

Gathering by Jacqueline Cleaveland

I see him again
in my dreams
at a Christmas party. He is the center,

he commands as the host, quietly
in a white tie, his shoes touch
the polished wooden floor.
Grandfather to all, we are in his house—
it is filled with people I do not know,
they’re cousins of mine, I am told.
They laugh with me
as if they know my name.
One sits close to me,
we press thigh to thigh
in a single rocking chair.

Another relative asks me to translate
a love letter written in French, I help her
even though I don’t know the words
away from that room. She thanks me,
and her breath smells of far-away smoke.
There, I see him, amidst his smile
he winks. He knows.
His glasses are still round, his chipped tooth
gleams. I am relieved. “Thank goodness, he is alive.”
That other life where he is gone
is merely a trick.



From Southern California, Jacqueline Cleaveland works as a staff writer for a local university.

Surrender by Jacqueline Cleaveland

I will be forgotten.
Tonight is practice,
for in this darkness,
vanity has no supply.

I slip down
and dissolve,
forgetting
in mind, remembering
in some other way
like how a flower knows
when to close its bloom,
and how fallen, uneaten fruit
understand stillness.

Here, I find faith
to be simple, secrets
deliver hope, amidst
this vastness,
amidst our anonymity,
somehow, I know you.



From Southern California, Jacqueline Cleaveland works as a staff writer for a local university.

184 Days in the ICU by Lisa Olsson

You may be ready to let go
before they are—or it could be
the other way around.

It wasn't you who chose
catheter and cotton smock,
IV and cool bed rail.

Who synchronizes death?

Day and night the same here.
Fluid noise, machine noise
blend into a music.

Now you only stare.
The bone exposed.
How will you tell them when?



Lisa Olsson is a poet, cellist, and painter who lives in Dobbs Ferry, New York. Her debut chapbook was published by Finishing Line Press. She was a winner of the Poetry in the Pavement competition of the Hudson Valley Writers' Center.