person Li Xiaohang, one poem

Li Xiaohang is an artist and writer from Shanxi Province, in The People’s Republic of China. She is currently a university student in Jilin Province, where she continues her studies toward publishing and art.



Time is a slippery thing:
lose hold of it once,
its string might sail out of your hands forever.
So chances of saying I like you are.
Do you happen to know that?

What do we call visible light?
We call it color.
But the electromagnetic spectrum
runs to zero in one direction
and infinity in the other,
so really, mathematically, all of light is invisible,
just like my love.
Can you see it as any light now?

Sometimes, the eye of a hurricane is the safest place to be.
I stand directly in front of you,
and watch you to walk into my eyes.
Do you know the moonquake?
It happens more than one thousand times every year.
Moon is at the far end of the moonlight,
and we cannot feel that quake here on earth.


person Michael Akuchie, one poem

Nigerian-based Michael Akuchie lives in Lagos Nigeria. His works have appeared on Barren Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, peculiars mag & Vagabond City Lit Mag. He is Contributing Editor for Barren Magazine.



I crawled out of the moon to hear my heart weep

streaming down the sky, I leave God lonely as a shadow

I can not feel my face through all that light

every muscle inside hides underneath skin

my family hates the wreckage living in the attic

wrapped with unsaid words, the language remains unfriendly

cold air seeps in from the unclosed window

I know it wants me because it starts digging out wounds

unconcerned about invasion, I long for silence

It is never okay to inhale hate

& return home where regret stings most

I estrange this body by backing off from existing

I simply want smoke clouds fussing over me

unseen hands starting a glow this flesh will see

I am next to drowning & I do not know its taste

the river engulfs me to prove a point

calling out my name so I will bask in desperation

a longing to carve body from the death of a voice

every place visited carries different colors of rejection

My body is talked about like a gruesome punishment

saddled up, I navigate through hallways black with grief

Salvation is slippery when I make trouble for calling God

& loss walks down the aisle to become inescapable


persons Kelli and Nicholas Christian, poem

Kelli and Nicholas Christian are internationally published poets and fiction writers. They currently live in Changchun, China teaching literature and rhetoric. When not working on their next full-length collections, they spend their evenings watching Cutthroat Kitchen with their two cats, Sharkbait and RV Winkle.


Even Hutongs have their Minotaur

There are fourteen balls of twine
between your calf and Crete.
A man unrolls each into one
language—exile means never
sleeping. Every night the smith pounds
flesh for silver just before the sun
tucks ash into sea. Misshaped, the old
feet know the story of our ugly labor.

When we ask the monster to bow
his head, it is necessary to consider
that prayer is not without tariff.
What is in him is in us, this difficulty—
amber-cast—preserves the builder’s plans.
Lemon trees planted in the morning
say this way, and by night? Dark ripens

the fruit into a double wind. Friends, hearts
are wood and sail. Our cupped palms, laden,
take water, still salty, from boat to mouth.


person Kristin Garth, two poems

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart & Best of the nominated poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked magazines like Five: 2: One, Yes, Glass, Anti-Heroin Chic, Occulum, Drunk Monkeys, Luna Luna, TERSE. Journal and many more. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from Maverick Duck Press, and she has another Pensacola Girls from Bone & Ink Press. She has two forthcoming: Shakespeare for Sociopaths (The Hedgehog Poetry Press Jan 2019) and Puritan U (Rhythm & Bones Press March 2019) from She also has a full length upcoming Candy Cigarette from Hedgehog Poetry in April. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie), her weekly poetry column The Sonnetarium and her website (



is seamless, Victorian nightgown, roof
reproof, no fingers or electric sounds
when it’s affixed, lightless chandeliers, proof
of fealty, microscopic tears. Hound
haunts fears, your plate glass tabletop front lawn,
barks at shadows, windows, doors while the , hand
is gone. Perimeter once stood upon
with plastic hedge, inch edge to tile crash land
or Dalmatian whose lunging signal, teeth
remands in silent walls without a back
turntable, aerial attack. Relief
the latter, only friend, through shingles black
the five descend desiring fingerplay.
His fingertips are all you’ll hear today.


His Music Box Breathes Depeche Mode

a hollowed set design inside dollhouse
ballroom. Five fingers lead. Wallpapered flats,
black bloomed, encircle stage. Gossamer flounce,
gray ballet skirt, a plié romance danced,
piano wound by fingertips, Behind the Wheel
tuned teeth play Maxence Cyrin. Planet eyes,
constellations, melt, stratosphere surreal
inconstant asteroid belt, light devised
stings limbs like lust. A moonbeam pas de deux,
move as you must, his passenger. Fouettés,
regrets, releasing whim, each orbit you
spin closer to him for God the father
created little girl and universe;
his music box breathes, and you will rehearse.



person Wale Ayinla, three poems

Wale Ayinla writes from the ancient city of Abeokuta in Nigeria . He is a Best of the Net Award nominee, and his recent works appear on Palette Poetry, FLAPPERHOUSE, Connotations Press, The Temz Review, SOBER., and elsewhere. He is @Wale_Ayinla on Twitter. He is the founding editor of Dwarts Magazine.


a library of misfits

to be honest, this poem isn’t about me / and it is
              the apple froth gulped through my lungs / and it is
disorientating how i draw the horse with its chariot /
              when i own a story, i consume consent / the air wilts
in between my teeth / and there are dead bodies
              as cymbals in the oxygen / i still insist on making
youthfulness a decade earlier / maybe i’d have become
              a river inching away from the shoreline / a plenty
of water is death / i pleaded my mother to teach me
              how to pray / she calls God our father / it is written
that God grew into darkness and spoke light out /
              this time, to speak is chaos / the fire in my throat
is a basket of echoes / i mask my spirit into a prayer /
              & i watch my ears slide off / listening to a wisteria hum /
the leaves don’t lie / they only undress their branches /


for D.J., Jerry, and Nome

listen to me little anchors, i pledge
allegiance to take you home safe.
arrange the bodies closer to their
death, safety will come last. this
body will find a way to save itse-
lf. i pledge allegiance to my tong-
ue wrapped around the continent
stemming out of the acacia. a blue
scissors, a paper bullet, a city of
letters, then the boy lying behind
brothered to a stillbirth. i slice up
the wind and count the faces of the
fathers i have drunk to become filled
to a circumstance. i keep a lagoon
under my throat. & i cry & cry fishes
out into my palms. the fishes are out
of the water which means i am giving
more than i have which means i am
feathered to a room which means
i am as vain as my mother’s threat
which means you are on this ship
which means i am going to drown
you which means no one will die
which means even my father will
re-appear which means i can break
which means you can pick me up
which means every october which
means we will be in remembrance
which means someone is missing
which means someone is carrying
the loss which means we are both


the soul wishes it could reverse a wound

dusk seizes the day from its own light
how humbling creatures yield to the other
blissfully               there are feathers everywhere

my eyes are fastened to the veins of vines left
unkempt                             let’s pretend the body is on flight
and the lilies are blooming from my teeth

let’s pretend no one is pretending           amid danger
there is also peace             are you safe little creature
of want?

in the end           this is all the flesh ever wanted:
to be plucked from its skin as a miracle
a new religion and no one is dying           save me

from this placidity           hence there is a quiver
of arrows under my shirt             i find a hunger
and shoot through


{ marks }


Please give a moment to eye Signs Taken For Wonders by Nadia Wolnisty, here:

Signs Taken for Wonders | Nadia Wolnisty

Wolnisty’s work in {isacoustic*} is here:


Cynthia Manick was interviewed by The Woven Tale Press, here:

work in {isacoustic*}:


Mike Ferguson has a new book of poems from Red Ceilings Press titled Professions, as such:

work in {isacoustic*}:


Rebecca Kokitus was interviewed by Thirty West, here:

work in {isacoustic*}:


Please check out Corey Mesler’s new book, Madstones, here:

work by Mesler at {isacoustic*} is here:


Also, Devon Balwit’s chapbook A Brief Way to Identify a Body is here:

and work in {isacoustic*} here:


Yesenia Montilla took part in Platano Poetry Café’s poetry series, here:

Montilla’s work in {isacoustic*} is here:


Please check out Kat Giordano’s new book, The Poet Confronts Bukowski’s Ghost, here:

Giordano’s work in {isacoustic*} is here:


This Someone I Call Stranger, poetry by James Diaz, is here:

Diaz has work in {isacoustic*}, here:


Andrew and Donora Rihn have work up at The Mantle, here:

see their work in {isacoustic*} here:


check out former contributor Asante Keron Hamid’s guest editing of Glass Poetry’s Poets Resist series, here:

you can read Asante Keron Hamid’s work on {isacoustic*} here:


check out former contributor Natasha Kochicheril Moni’s new publication, A Nation (Imagined), here:

you can read Natasha Kochicheril Moni’s work on {isacoustic*} here:


Poet Camonghne Felix has a new book, Build Yourself a Boat, here:

I had, and still have, some words for the previous work, here:

on Yolk by Camonghne Felix:


{ in honor of its one year in the seen world, a former reflection on Devin Kelly’s ~In This Quiet Church Of Night, I Say Amen~ }

reflection from April 23rd 2018:


In This Quiet Church Of Night, I Say Amen
poems, Devin Kelly
Civil Coping Mechanisms, 2017


‘…Father turns his head, I think,
to watch me, & this goes on forever.’ – {from} The Wind In Galway

With confession’s nostalgia for the crystal ball, Devin Kelly’s In This Quiet Church Of Night, I Say Amen gives away blood’s belongings and yawns itself over a lived-in kindness known maybe once or twice to you as a child when clicking you went with your bones through the sigh of a strange house the morning after a sleepover. This is a precise and expansive poetry, a poetry of scope and spotlight, somehow able to amble oddly behind inquiry while at the same time calling out distance for the shortness of its answer.

‘…The body is holy,
because I miss it.’ – {from} My Grandmother Is Holy

I have long held that the reading and writing of poetry be made of either a great avoidance or a sudden thing, or both. What Kelly does here is generous, and disproves such superimposed withholding. It is old and it is young, and possesses the frail form, not to own it, but to cheerfully accompany its grief, on that shaky bridge, as a carrier of its welcome mat and holder of its prayer.


reflection by Barton Smock


book is here: