Contributor: Zachary Cooper

- -
I used to look down into my pond
on lonely nights, watching the stars

watch themselves in that still mirror. I sat
with my legs hanging off the dock, too short

for my feet to reach the water; it kept the peace,
the water calm. Those nights were quiet.

Those were the nights before the towers
fell, before the war, before my little brother enlisted.

That’s when I realized there was another side
to this life, that there was more to see than

the reflections of my childhood. This is love,
and war. This is growing up…

These days I lift my chin high

and see what’s real, I see the stars without
the peace in-between, without the safety of

that mirror to protect my innocence, my memories
of a life without terror. These days I lift my chin high

and enter the fray; to die once more.



- - -
Zachary Cooper lives in a small town outside of Albany, New York. He is currently an undergraduate student at Suny Brockport, studying creative writing. He has published four poems in Jigsaw, and has three poems forthcoming in Eunoia Review.

Contributor: Wyatt Mitchell

- -
Tell me, am I human?
Of this, I’m not convinced.
I’m shaking, conflicted, torn.
Forgetting what is it is to breathe.
My throat’s dry. I have no voice.
I threw up earlier. I threw up twice.
I’m breaking inside. I’m barely alive.
I want to die but I need more time.


- - -

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Todd’s tired of being odd
he tells his wife as he lights
candles next to their breakfast tea

and pours two steaming cups.
He wants to be normal, he says,
the rest of his life

no matter the changes
he’ll have to make
in his modus operandi.

It will be worth the effort,
not having people gawk
and mumble under their breath.

He pours more tea
and butters some toast
and tells his wife

beginning tomorrow
he’ll never again excavate
his Roman nose

with his pinkie.
He’ll dig with his index
finger instead.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Ashley Farley

- -
Flaxen roots,
with gold caught in a mason jar
asexual blond/e-heads,
running toes digging into the wet dirt,
burying themselves
crushing against their earth-born twins,
Rooted into the ground wishing to chase after
free-running ten-digit agencies.

It is the season where the frogs
holler and dandelions bloom.


- - -
Ashley Farley is a senior at The College at Brockport pursuing her degree in English Literature. She enjoys all things summer.

Contributor: Kris Johnson

- -
I am so in need of music--you all know this--

You Gods who create and maintain the light we

hope the outside is drenched with, and pouring.

I wait to see if my breath knows it is part of your air.
Your muscles flexing from cold and windy to warm and still.
My sitting quietly, so still, to restless Sun coming through.
Oh, you knew,

Knew I felt you

Oh, so round our day our night play

Sparkling dust motes beyond Earth's breathing us both,

Still in time, holding our breath, our hands

Warmth encircling us.


- - -
At age 64 I am rediscovering my love of writing and poetry.

Contributor: Emily Deyo

- -
Dawn breaks in the distance

A rosy, buttery haze

Reflecting on the blue gray expanse


The morning sun will continue

to stretch its radiance further toward the shore

Reaching the homes

painted primary colors

sporadically scattered atop the icy mass.


These dwellings lie serenely

despite the bright buzz of their hues.

An unnatural intensity burning the pale snow

The stains of humanity marking its territory


An iceberg drifts beyond the civilization

From its corners and slopes,

the form of four walls and a roof emerge

like a white bedsheet draped over a house.

Waiting for humanity to see its potential

as a place they can claim as their own,

too.


- - -

Contributor: Nikhil Nath

- -
I have to build
a ship in the middle
of a desert

full of camel dung
and cactus flowers
with a mirage

called an oasis
thrown between here
and the moon,

drowning a centimeter
of rain in the pelvic
thrust of a belly dancer

as geometry becomes
another hemisphere
in the land of no return

borrowing heavily from
old habits, the ship
will be loaded with

compass, maps and
courage and will sail
desert, end to end.


- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for nineteen years. He has been published in various magazine in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing. Allegro, Aji, Ink Sweat and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue and Pif Magazine have recently accepted his work.

Contributor: Gina Huh

- -
She is my best friend,
The first person to comfort me
and the one who would be there
at the end of the day.

Laughing at my jokes,
wiping my tears
rolling down my cheeks,
she was my other half.

Sharing the same mother,
born two years before me,
it felt as if she was born
only two seconds before me.

With similar values,
but polar personalities,
we quickly clicked since my birth.
She became the cornerstone of my life.

Leaving her side made me cry,
every night with no one to wipe my tears.
Her laughs were empty memories
I replayed in my head.

The unfamiliar ambiance
of competitively driven students
and reckless partying adolescents
made me discover the true introvert I was.

My best friend was no longer
by my side when I came back from school.
She became the girl in the picture frame
sitting on my dorm desk top.

But soon the holidays will bring us together
to laugh hysterically at jokes together,
and cry at the painful memories we grew from.
My best friend, I look forward to meeting you soon again.


- - -

Contributor: Maggie Elise

- -
the ancient Greeks believed the soul was a ship floating but secure against the winds of life
I think my soul is a monster truck

belching smoke and black tar
furious in its path
steadfast against the sand and dirt
and grime
that is hurled against it

my soul is rusty
pitted
if it were to be touched it would crumble
leaving not but a red smear on the fingertips
it flakes from the wind
its path can be seen by the trail of itself it has left behind
once grotesque
in its brilliance
now piteous in
its decay

it has cannibalized itself for sustainability
the most important bits becoming less them-
selves

my soul is cobbled together
sputtering for-
ward draining, out-
beat back, stumbling

my soul is the engine
overheated


- - -

Contributor: Connie Bae

- -
Don't let that boy in 3rd grade
suck on your pen
when the ink doesn't come out.
It does,
in his mouth

That kid is really strange.
Don’t give him pencil lead.
He won’t use it.
He will eat it.

He has a goofy smile
and is actually really nice.
So for his safety,
don’t give him stationary.


- - -
Connie Bae enjoys making people laugh even if it means making a fool of herself. The only books that have made her cry are all about animals. She believes she loves oranges because she was born in Orange, California.