person Lannie Stabile, one poem

Lannie Stabile, a Detroiter, often says while some write like a turtleneck sweater, she writes like a Hawaiian shirt. Works can be found, or are forthcoming, in The Hellebore, Kissing Dynamite, Cauldron Anthology, Likely Red Press, and more. She is penning a novel and chapbook and holds the position of Project Manager at Barren Magazine.

Twitter handle: @LanniePenland
Writer website:


Explaining My Introversion to a Genocidist Sympathizer

My mother spoons strangers into the living room / like heaping mashed potatoes / She has been fasting all year / and her jaw is unsnapped / ready for gravy boats of colonizers / She places strange hands on the bird / says they’ve earned carving rights / just for invading our small country

My mother minces the cloves of her ears / stashes them in the breadcrumbs / with a dash of salt and pepper and blind eye / She will never understand / amid all this feast in my belly / I am starving

My mother awaits the fleet with armfuls of corn / golden and without nutrients / like currency / Every year she offers more / of herself / and they stalk our home / with bayonet eyes / and musket hands / Ever present / they grow in the fields now / god-like and vine-like / crawling all over my body / convinced they can convert our heathenry to a new world / in which we’re swallowed

My mother does not sow grains of solitude / so her artful fingers cannot taste / the poison in the soil


person George Salis, one poem

George Salis has sold stories to The Dark, Black Dandy, Zizzle Magazine, and elsewhere. He has taught in Bulgaria, China, and Poland. He is currently working on a maximalist novel titled Morphological Echoes.


An Echo Echoes Pharaohs

An echo, not the first, metamorphosed by way
of physical ripripples up
from the table of a lost supper.

The caustic causes?
Kamikaze in WW3.
Below, a comical boy who entered through the exit of a tablecloth cave, invaginated.
Enema of venomous nebula.
Above, the mold-man-cloud’s maw opens in feverish famine.
Bivalve drowned in sodium.

All is cause
before cause
after cause.
Sidereal flaws.

Crawling between the feet and legs of evaporated attendees
the cawing boy bumps his brain on table’s bottom.

Echoes, not the last, traversing a metempsychotic byway
of incorporeal underundulations down
from the bleat of last respite:

Spoon in glass stained by purple parfait
wandering peasant woman in search of her face
stunted tower of Babel.

An egg hardboiled till fossilization atop broken bread
crestfallen peasant woman’s sister eyeing callused palms
chip off the ol’ rock of Gibraltar.

A cluster of wine-darkened grapes
supine beggar contemplating levitation
immaculate wall built for the purpose of
measuring its own

The horizon a soiled glass
of settled oil in liquid gold,
delineating no thing.

Pharaohs, not the first nor the last, continue beyond
inexplicable vision in superposition.

upon Einstein’s cross.
All is loss
before loss
after loss.


An ekphrastic poem based on Dalí’s Morphological Echo (1936).


Lethal Theater – poems – Susannah Nevison

Lethal Theater
poetry, Susannah Nevison
Mad Creek Books, 2019


From rib to eye, Susannah Nevison’s Lethal Theater, a work imbued with strippage, weighs itself in revisited origins, devoured middles, and in finales released of their previous conclusions. Pain is a prisoner of the open field and ritual a transience that demands a before. This is a trembling but surefooted verse, touched by peace, and Nevison cuts word from the phrase of the stirred body and forms it as a thing a reader may or may not come to name. Is there a surrogate for death? Is there a god whose existence we should take personally? As a high-schooler, I spent a summer helping out at a local veterinary clinic, and there I held dogs as they were put to sleep. It didn’t always take. This collection starts with the line Consider the cell not as you see it / but as it comes to be. In the reading, I felt I’d been…brought. In further, I learned how a language can refuse deliverance, accept arrival, and facilitate release. We cannot know what death does with our waiting, but we can stand by the coeval art in Lethal Theater, and ask for a deeper light beside which we no longer claim spectacle by our watching alone.


reflection by Barton Smock


book is here:


person Charles Leggett, two poems

Charles Leggett is a professional actor based in Seattle, WA. His poetry has been published in the US, the UK, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand and Canada, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize three times, most recently in 2018 by Twyckenham Notes. His long poem “Premature Tombeau for John Ashbery” was an e-chapbook in the Barnwood Press “Great Find” series.



—After Stéphane Mallarmé’s “Apparition”

All the bells are ringing or have rung.
I heard them ringing in your mother’s voice
The clapper only, still, is punctual.

I thought I sensed the boyhood superhero
Who, cordial and so unaffected, helped
In dreams to banish fear under a close

And brass-hued fog he’s rolling through the years
Along these lanes, the moon-sung valley cows
Regardful, still, between their shudderings.



The azure thins, bleeds to blood
orange   cuddling couple in
silhouette   boundaries blurred
of clouds   a bird drifting down

Allons three cheers for flawless
posture peerless votary
let fall what thee befuddles
what muddles still that starry

heaven’s sprawled rune   horizon
incising your shadow-shawled
waist where would-be hands resign
assignment and surely should

Your lens can only linger
on fingers gelled to gemcan
raining rice on a languor-
ous lion   augur-cocaine

awaited and prayed upon
weighed on the scales (i have scanned
there too friend and found)—it on-
ly can hone what there will wend

Who chafes to change the azi-
muth   who has a hand so strange
range o range us in azure
thinned pure to blood-rust orange

—Puerto Vallarta, 2006


person Ojo Taiye, two poems

Ojo Taiye is a young Nigerian who uses poetry as a handy tool to hide his frustration with the society. His poems and works have appeared in journals like Rattle, Frontier Poetry, Palette, Stinging fly, Notre Dame Review, Vallum, Crannog, Argot, Brittle Paper, Glass Journal, Elsewhere, Eunoia Review, Lit Mag, Juke, Praxis Magazine and elsewhere.


grief as a collection of olives & smoke

what are your favorite flowers?     are they blooming? there is a
sadness so heavy it’s not by sad boys
or for sad boys     please let me die alone     i walk outside & living
  (this is home) & somewhere
there is a book i want to write called   repercussive silence   can we
pretend the memories don’t manifest themselves in every object passed?
    is your time linear? do the dead have purpose for the living?
  i can barely remember your face & your hum       (the lovely songs of
extinct birds)   stumble into me
again & again     like a child discovering the word     BEREAVEMENT
i am tired of writing such a
useless fucking       poem-       (she’s not coming back)
say i’m
the cassette tape whose hair
unwound underwater     you swim through

a dove falls from the sky
i name it mother           & the fifty bodies marching
        through my chest–
a mudslide

(a funeral plot open– cages or tombstones or     the hands from a father)

        the first time i died is when
        i saw my mother crying once– a squeezed cloud
across a border that’s not
a stitch but a wound

where nations part



the first hour in a life
without clocks: name
whatever falls from
the sky as you

you are the song
in a dead language
a broken coast—

after every word
after every ruin
after every shard
of misplaced stars

you didn’t exactly mean
to survive this— tulips severed
spill open like an offering
beyond the marrow of distance

you’ve spent 45 seconds
of your life falling out of
fourth-story buildings
furious at your pulse

you are a city made of rain
with silent doors & locks—
a mouth full of iron & a throat
stuck with stone, swan & sycamore

you waited patiently until you
forgot to breathe—
a plume of ash in orange-
bottled dreams