The Qualia of Souls:  Apocrypha 

That the transcendent, life-giving radiance that daily reaches down 
to us from the celestial heights also reaches up to us from far below 
the ground. That there’s a Holiness that dwells and dreams 
at the very center of the Earth.
                                                                                            —David Abram


Winter is their season, summer too bright for disclosure. 

Flickering shadows: their home movies. 

Do not confuse them with spirit, that frantic city, clay breathiness.

Beyond life, beyond death, thumbprint inked in mystery.

They know one word that lodges like a locket in the heart. It’s a noun.

It’s always about food or eyes or music. Nobody ever talks 
about their love of textures, wools especially.

They are shaped like O’s, of course. 

Are they really halved as Plato declares? Doubt it. We can only 
die solo. Which is not to say they don’t like companionship.

They start out ancient. Even if we live a long life, 
we never catch up with them, nor should we.
  
They take themselves very seriously. 

When they do speak, they gong, in rippled circles. 

They often visit the cave paintings, amuse themselves with labyrinths,
spelunk darkness. 

We must let them rise and set within us.  

They can disguise themselves as any mammal.

Sorrow grows them, nurtures their long dark roots. 

They’re prone to weight gain.  

They respect pure thought but only as the satin lining in the heavy coat of feeling. 

Not to their taste, flowers, birds, wind. 

Not heavenward, souls point down. They go low. 

Dog or horse escorts at the end. Please, no aspirational angels!

Where do they go at our death? They stay with the body. It’s their duty. Until.

Traveling, traveling, arrived! At their destination, the Earth’s magnetic core.

Attracted like shavings, down through thin crust and furthermore mantle, 
millions and millions of miles, to the planet’s heart.

They congregate around the sun in the center, twin to the one we know,
the molten wreath, the nest, the fire in the metal drum. 

Around that fire star, ore and origin of being, iron souls sit cross-legged in a circle.

Do they reincarnate? We don’t really know.
 
All that terrible softness up there, the squishy wet matter, vacuity of blue. 

Around that open fire, they tell stories about us, one more unbelievable than the other.

—Submitted on 10/15/2022

Deborah Gorlin is the author of Open Fire (Bauhan Publishing, forthcoming), as well as of the prize-winning poetry collections Bodily Course (White Pine Press, 1997) and Life of the Garment (Bauhan Publishing, 2015). Her poems have appeared in Poetry, American Poetry Review, Bomb, New England Review, and Prairie Schooner, among others. Emerita co-director of the Writing Program at Hampshire College, she served for many years as a poetry editor at The Massachusetts Review.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

News of the Unconscious

They have crammed us into a windowless van
for the short ride to Tompkins Square Park.
Are we prisoners of war, refugees, both?
The rules at this camp are vague. If we run
across the lawn, reach the basketball court
and race back through the tents and pushcarts,
sign a couple of forms, the guards will let us go “soonish.”
Under a jagged splay of clouds and filthy gulls
the guitar in my hands snaps with a crunch.
Everybody claps along to the tune I manage to extract
from the mess of splinters, strings, and feathers.
∴
Cots and stretchers are laid out in the lobby or wedged
between bookshelves. But it’s on the mezzanine
of this library turned into a makeshift hospital
where I find my friend face up reading
The Night Face Up by Cortázar. And
as I help him to his feet our bodies begin
merging with one another, his full bladder becomes
my about-to-burst sac, the pain in his phantom
left arm bleeds into mine. And what I think
it’s my voice is just his own coming out of my mouth,
one among many more rising from the beds, alive.

—Submitted on 10/06/2022

Guillermo Filice Castro is the author of the chapbooks Mixtape for a War (Seven Kitchens Press, 2018) and Agua, Fuego (Finishing Line Press, 2015). His work appears in Allium, Barrow Street, Brooklyn Rail, Court Green, Fugue, The Normal School, and other journals. Born and raised in Argentina, Castro lives in New Jersey.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

I Imagine You, Crow

I watch your shadow pass over
a newly sprouted bed of tulips,
weave in and out the latticework
of trees, or pause atop

a telephone wire, loosening a call
of grating caws and clicks
I read as messages from beyond
my knowing. Your black beak

and white eye point at me
before you lift and flit past
so close your wings fan my cheeks.
Grief-stricken years have passed

like a blight, a hole that deepens
since I buried my daughter
in spring’s softening earth. Crow,
when you visit, my steps falter

and my heart beats faster
as I imagine you carry the soul  
I once carried, now dropping 
out of the sky to make me whole.

—Submitted on 10/13/2022

Jane Ellen Glasser is the author of Selected Poems(FutureCycle Press, 2019), Staying Afloat during a Plague (Cyberwit.net, 2021), Crow Songs (Cyberwit.net, 2021) and a number of previous collections. Her poetry has appeared in The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, and The Georgia Review, among other journals. Glasser was a co-founder of the nonprofit arts organization and journal New Virginia Review. 

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

My Last Days of Being Straight


I came on to Patricia because I thought I should and
we were alone in my room studying and Dad also liked her
she was cute with her curls and the low heel sandals
she borrowed from our friend Elvira and what Elvira 

had said when I told her how my hands would brush against 
Patricia’s breasts I swear by accident and how Patricia’s hands
almost always landed near my crotch whenever we got up to leave
any place so Elvira opined simple you’re caliente for each other

I said that must be it because I liked Patricia’s tan and we loved
movies and believed people should rise up against their oppressors 
like her Military daddy and the brother who once held her face against 
a space heater close enough to singe one of her gorgeous curls 

my oh my I was left speechless by the story and trying to figure out
how I would make love to her after all my other non-sexual 
encounters with other girls from school and the very sexual ones
with neighbor boys like Manuel in his dad’s garage his hand on my belt

Manuel who’d get married and move away not before blowing me
a kiss from his doorstep before dropping out of my life for good
while Patricia had the wisdom or instinct of turning me down
covering an embarrassed laugh with the hand I tried to hold

like she was Che Guevara and I her guerrilla bride

—Submitted on 10/06/2022

Guillermo Filice Castro is the author of the chapbooks Mixtape for a War (Seven Kitchens Press, 2018) and Agua, Fuego (Finishing Line Press, 2015). His work appears in Allium, Barrow Street, Brooklyn Rail, Court Green, Fugue, The Normal School, and other journals. Born and raised in Argentina, Castro lives in New Jersey.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

Flightless Limbs

Even for a Piscean, she was precarious,
reeling from caramel blond to raspberry red
in the blink of a hot blue star.

Wracked with anticipatory grief,  
as frozen as February daffodils,
she appeals to the dark-eyed junco
battling its bay window reflection
with wildcat ammunition.

Interactive silence becomes her misplaced language,
cosmetic sunrays splintered 
on the uncombed lawn.

There are always less and less colors 
to wear to baptisms anymore.

—Submitted on 10/04/2022

Megan Denese Mealor is the author of the poetry collections Bipolar Lexicon (Unsolicited Press, 2018), Blatherskite (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, 2019), and A Mourning Dove’s Wishbone (Cyberwit, 2022). Her poems and photographs have appeared in journals including  Brazos River Review, Across the Margin, Typehouse Magazine, The Disappointed Housewife, The Wise Owl, and The Writing Disorder. Mealor lives in Jacksonville, Fla., with her husband, son, and three rescue cats. 

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

Mud Music

In the swelter
of the delta,
on the river sides,
by the pools, by the ponds—
mud music.
Frog croaks and bongs—
mud music.
Murmuring mosquitoes— 
mud music.
The sloppy squelch of toes
when you choose
to enter the ooze
and make the mud your muse—
mud music.
The syncopated sibilance of reeds
as they whisper in the breeze— 
mud music.
The slap and flick of frolicking children’s feet—
mud music.
The secret sliver of unseen snakes seeking slaughter—
mud music
The lip and lap of lines of water
and silence,
silence too.
Mud music asleep
in river beds,
mud pure,
mud deep.

—Submitted on 10/03/2022

A collection of Bruce Greenhalgh‘s appears in 2018 FSP Anthology 42 and New Poets 19. His poems have appeared in anthologies including Poetry d’Amour (WA Poets Inc. 2016 and 2019) and journals including the Weekend Australian and inDaily. Greenhalgh lives in Adelaide, South Australia where he reads, writes and occasionally recites poetry.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

Rainy Day Man

Emotions bleed and 
Fertilize the seed. 

Embryonic pain 
Spouts through the rain. 

Stillborn dreams 
Silence screams. 

Joyful tears every 
One million years. 

Bleeding knees 
Need bleeding. 

Against my chest 
Lie cold breasts. 

Undilated eyes so  
Tears can upward rise. 

Drowning pools form to 
Escape the storm. 

A hiding place where 
Dirt covers my face. 

—Submitted on 10/03/2022

Charles J. March III is a hospital corpsman veteran currently living in Orange County, CA. His poems have appeared in Dissident Voice, Revolution John, The Recusant, and other journals.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

Day #15, 10 Mar 2022

You’ve got an hour to decide
what to carry from your life. 
I look at my phone, charger, passport, 
password list, wallet, and one 16lb
cat, one 8lb cat, a chicken, 
and a husband.

On your way to the border,
you remember what you couldn’t carry:
the 100 year old piano, a change 
of clothing, an extra jacket, and tooth paste.

If you and your belongings make it 
to the border, how will you feed
your cats, chicken, and husband?  

How much will a sandwich cost
when your lives cost nothing? 

Listen to the prayers made
before your body was unrolled 
from the tarp. You were loved.

—Submitted on 09/28/2022

Melinda Thomsen is the author of Armature (Hermit Feathers Press, 2021. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Artemis, Poetry Miscellany, Hermit Feathers Review, The Ekphrastic Review, THEMA, and Salamander Magazine. She is an advisory editor for Tar River Poetry. She lives in North Carolina with her husband, two cats, and one chicken.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

Your Pulse Nightclub

During the humid Miami night,
like a heat-seeking missile
you were drawn to the dancing 
of the hot-spot club,
the two-souls sweat: a magnet.

Once you began shooting,
you couldn’t stop
or wouldn’t stop
or dared not stop
until you yourself
were victim.
Death by cop
became the attraction,
the gravitational pull,
the force that fueled
your desire to die
while high 
on a mission of self-hatred.

—Submitted on 09/27/2022

Austin Alexis is the author of Privacy Issues (Broadside Lotus Press, 2014), winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award, and two chapbooks from Poets Wear Prada. His work has appeared in Barrow Street, The Journal, Paterson Literary Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Poetica Review, and Dash, as well as in the anthology NYC from the Inside (Blue Light Press, 2022) and elsewhere. He received a fellowship from the Vermont Studio Center.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner. 

“Some Other Race”

Playing catch with some unknown uncle 
while in the house everyone is dancing 
to Marc Anthony. And later, I’ll go back
to mom and the stillness of Mahler 
and grandpa’s words, "You’re white, that’s it.” 
Some other pitch I catch in stride to the cross-
section of father’s wish, “I just want him 
	to have blue eyes, blue eyes.” 

When I go inside and see an old lady on the table 
she pulls me up and teaches me to salsa. 
My uncle later says, “That rare synchronicity 
of family in rhythm.” Though I was happy 
to leave, go back to mom that gave dad 
the only thing he wanted: offspring
with the right to check “white” before “other,” 
	though others are all he made. 

—Submitted on 09/26/2022

Ryan Clinesmith‘s poems have appeared in Heavy Feather Review, First Literary Review-East, Blueline Literary Magazine, What Rough Beasts, Prospectus, and other journals. He holds a BA from Emerson College and an MFA in poetry from Hunter College.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

Visit our Kickstarter for A MONTH OF SOMEDAY, the debut chapbook by Gerald Wagoner.