Embryonic

Our secret so young
we sign it all evening

around the table
across the room

a lift in your eyelids
or turn of my lip
this language coded
as our DNA

fusing
inside of your body

too soon will begin
the task of translation
Let them stay unaware
and your eyes be my oceans

(I could swim your deep green
oceans teeming with life)

Let my hand tether yours
steer us safe to the kitchen
where harbored we’ll whisper
of crossings ahead

and name the new worlds
just edging our sights


Ryan Apple

Ryan Apple lives in Lansing, Michigan. By day he is occupied as a music professor and financial aid director at a small Christian college. By night he is a churchman, a husband and father, and when time allows, a guitarist and poet.

Interview #03

What did you mean
when you said we all
are sometimes born
in rainstorms?

His vowels sound like white wind blowing through empty bottles,
it’s so harsh, in the light of every missed day.

Drenched in the sour wet of public school, we found
each other for want of magic. We learned spells

and played body games. We walked in silence and fucked
with our shirts still on. I’m glad that the rain came when

it did. It left me clinging to him, it left me so alone. The
sky was blood scabbed black and my skin was hurting.

Heavy land under heavy sky with willows in our chests;
I never thought God could be so loud.

I put my head in his lap and he played
with my hair until he forgot my name.


Jacob Fowler

Jacob Fowler is an elementary school teacher living in Oakland, CA. He recently graduated Pitzer College with a BA in English and Psychology. His poetry has appeared in Barren Magazine, Ghost City Review, Riggwelter Press, and The Otherside Magazine. You can find him on Twitter at @jacobafowler.

from day to night

the shrill voice of a foreign bird against the traffic,
a line of preening house martins on a wire,

our courtyard itched by a dry leaf,
scritch-scratch as the breeze pushes it along.

cars whoosh by with ridiculous purpose,
homes left empty, beautiful, purposeless.

a distant siren in the summer Sunday;
perhaps someone has died today, lying on the beach
with a cappuccino.

the evening breeze comes silent; only the gentle sway
of a vine, its tiny unripe grapes dangling.

music hurled from a car we cannot see, blasted
by a person we do not know,

one dog after another breaks the night
woofing and whining;

if I didn’t love dogs, there’d be big trouble.


Lisa Reily

Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry and stories have been published in several journals, such as Panoply, Amaryllis, Riggwelter, River Teeth Journal (Beautiful Things), and Magma. Lisa is currently a full-time budget traveller. You can find her at lisareily.wordpress.com.

orbit

dead satellites scattered above the atmosphere
literally left to their own devices
begs its metaphor to be spoken
but i’m bad company for space
which is a shame since
there is nowhere else i’d rather be
than on a sheet of metal
bumping against other sheets of metal


Annabelle Kang

Annabelle Kang is an English Literature student at Concordia University in Montreal. She mostly writes poems about mental illness, being scared or scary, and food. You can follow her on Instagram @annabellekang.

Massive Retaliation

With this pill, I feel
purple, royal,
and bruised

I have a cape, no
a costume, no
a spaceship

And this may or may
not be my face,
only a screen.


Ben Nardolilli

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.

after you left

my heart became a honeycomb
unoccupied            my breathing
echoes weakened

I droned in monotone vibrations
undecipherable

began to pace around the yard
in hexagonal patterns
unsure of where to
stop


Laurie Kolp

Laurie Kolp’s poems have recently appeared in the Southern Poetry Anthology VIII: Texas, Stirring, Whale Road Review, concis, Up the Staircase, and more. Her poetry books include the full-length Upon the Blue Couch and chapbook Hello, It’s Your Mother. An avid runner and lover of nature, Laurie lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, three children, and two dogs. You can follow her on Twitter @KolpLaurie, or Facebook here.