Alfred Nicol
Shelter in Place

There is an emptiness in everything,
like the shade cradled in the crescent moon.

A motorcycle’s engine, echoing
the large abstraction of an afternoon;

the broken gate that opens on a square,
the bricks and shadows rubbing elbows there
where silence lectures in its monotone;

another shade that walks the streets alone,
past windows—yes, the windows too are blank,
where people dwell inside their separate lives,
huddling there like money in the bank—
to where the river sheathes its glinting knives.

The tides have seized; the stillness is unreal.
The surface poses as a sheet of steel.

—Submitted on 09/26/2020

Alfred Nicol is the author of Brief Accident of Light: Poems of Newburyport (Kelsay Books, 2019), a collaboration with poet Rhina P. Espaillat; Animal Psalms (Able Muse Press, 2016); Elegy for Everyone (Prospero’s World Press, 2010), and Winter Light (University of Evansville Press, 2004), winner of the Richard Wilbur Award. Nicol’s work has appeared in Poetry, The New England Review, Dark Horse, Commonweal, The Hopkins Review, and other journals, as well as in the anthologies Contemporary Poetry of New England (Middlebury, 2002), Obsession: Sestinas in the 21st Century (Dartmouth, 2014), and Best American Poetry 2018 (Scribner, 2018), among others.

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Jeanne-Marie Osterman
White

          New York City, March 2020

Higher than normal temperatures have Yoshino cherries
in Central Park blossoming early. White flowerets
fall like snow in next day’s storm
turning paths
I walk
so white
it hurts my eyes—
branches, a network of wintry nerves.

Outside Lenox Hill Hospital,
white refrigerated trailers
are lined up the length of the block—
the super-luxe kind used for wardrobe and makeup on location shoots.
Chutes at each end eat white
body bags,
stacked three wide
x three deep
by knights in white gowns.

A friend texts
u have 2 laf
c humor in this
Sends video
of woman
wearing white
thong as mask.

East Meadow of Central Park, white with tents—
emergency field hospital for virus patient overflow.
Christians only, non-gay—white.

Tent flaps swirl like the white skirt I wear
dancing to Obtalá, god of Orishas,
most beloved god
because he doesn’t see humans as imperfect beings
who cause their own suffering;
he blames himself, his own negligence—
loves his white wine—

imperfect god.

—Submitted on 09/23/2020

Jeanne-Marie Osterman is the author of There’s a Hum (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and Shellback (Paloma Press, 2021). Her poems have appeared in Borderlands, Cathexis Northwest, California Quarterly, The Madison Review, Bluestem, and other journals, as well as in the anthologies Our Poetica: A Testament to the Shared Uniqueness of the Poetic Experience (Cathexis Northwest Press, 2019), and Of Burgers and Barrooms: Stories and Poems (Main Street Rag, 2017). Osterman lives in New York City, and serves as poetry editor for Cagibi.

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Jeanne-Marie Osterman
In My Kitchen, Spring Morning 2020, Smelling Coffee

I like how we call a snake what it is—
coachwhip, rattler, chicken snake.
Caught one yesterday on my morning rounds—
wrapped around a chick’s nest,
chick half down its mouth.

Thinking about land mine museum I visited
in Laos, laughter from hangar out back,
bussed-in farmers and kids, legs
blown by bomblets, learning
wheelchair basketball.

I tune in Morning Joe—
Dow now 23,433.
Death count also rising.
Prisoners charged with digging mass graves.
Sirens drown out further reports.

Pouring first cup, I remember last night’s dream:
a shore painted by Mardsen Hartley—
crests of waves, white stumps—
dead sailors hitting the rocks.

In the yard, first crocuses unfurl,
their gold almost an argument.
Bees circle, fill invisible sacs,
get what they can into a six-week life.

—Submitted on 09/23/2020

Jeanne-Marie Osterman is the author of There’s a Hum (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and Shellback (Paloma Press, 2021). Her poems have appeared in Borderlands, Cathexis Northwest, California Quarterly, The Madison Review, Bluestem, and other journals, as well as in the anthologies Our Poetica: A Testament to the Shared Uniqueness of the Poetic Experience (Cathexis Northwest Press, 2019), and Of Burgers and Barrooms: Stories and Poems (Main Street Rag, 2017). Osterman lives in New York City, and serves as poetry editor for Cagibi.

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Jeanne-Marie Osterman
This Smells Like My Vagina

After Gwyneth Paltrow’s candles

There’s a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow
in Town & Country magazine,
head up a seven-foot high vagina
made of tissue paper flowers—
the outer labia, pale coral;
the inner, vibrant rose.
          Will it swallow her up?

The crush of pink
takes me back to Hollywood
where I once worked with Victoria Principal,
taking her to lunches and shoots,
writing what she’d say to the camera
about a shampoo that smelled like honey and flowers,
which, at that time, was an exotic enough scent for most people.

When we’d enter a room,
everyone would stop to look
at her soft skin,
glossy auburn hair,
perfectly painted lips.
They’d start talking louder and laugh,
sometimes drop f-bomb,
hoping she’d notice them.

Those years? I admit—
all I wanted was to see my commercials on TV,
keep the lacquer on my nails,
the occasional warm body—
living for what eventually dried up,
          went up in smoke.

—Submitted on 09/23/2020

Jeanne-Marie Osterman is the author of There’s a Hum (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and Shellback (Paloma Press, 2021). Her poems have appeared in Borderlands, Cathexis Northwest, California Quarterly, The Madison Review, Bluestem, and other journals, as well as in the anthologies Our Poetica: A Testament to the Shared Uniqueness of the Poetic Experience (Cathexis Northwest Press, 2019), and Of Burgers and Barrooms: Stories and Poems (Main Street Rag, 2017). Osterman lives in New York City, and serves as poetry editor for Cagibi.

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Colin D. Halloran
Elegy in Ash

Julie’s fists are white
clenched—drained of blood, like
anguished screams have drained her being.

Smoke sprawls heavy on everything,
an unwanted lover lingering while
Julie’s fists turn white with rage.

White like ash she inhumes with every breath,
death and memory filling voids left by
anguished screams that drained her being.

The West Coast struggles for air;
she struggles to not breathe in her friends.
Julie’s fists are white as ghosts.

White like teeth telling tales to coroners,
like faces hearing coroners’ tales, tales turning
to anguished screams that drain her being.

Passion—love—is said to burn.
But all fires consume their fuel and
Julie’s fists are white with
anguished screams. Her being: drained.

—Submitted on 09/22/2020

Colin D. Halloran is the author American Etiquette (Main Street Rag, 2020), Icarian Flux (Main Street Rag, 2015), and Shortly Thereafter (Mint Hill Books, 2012), winner of the Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award. His poems have appeared in BluePrint Review, Caper Literary Journal, Long River Run, Medulla Review, The New York Times, and other journals. Halloran holds an MFA from Fairfield University.

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Cynthia Linn Bates
Abyss

I hate that everywhere hurts these days,
inside and outside.
Hate that I drag through the day,
scared to turn on the news,
more scared to turn it off.

Hate this daily dismal dance,
one step forward,
two steps back,
simply marking time
holding my breath.

Hate being swept toward the cliff
against my better judgement,
against my will, or my protests.
Hate the pushy lemmings
cheering my descent.

Hate this ash grey
smeared on my soul
as if I’m watching a house burn,
hoping no one inside dies,
knowing someone will.

Hate the feel of hate
churning, bubbling,
molten acid sharp,
sinking through my bones
my brain, my heart.

What I hate most—
I saw this coming,
felt when it came,
like I’ve been here before,
lived it before,

and it killed me before.

—Submitted on 09/21/2020

Cynthia Linn Bates lives in San Luis Obispo County. Her poems, stories, and essays have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Louis Obispo Tribune, Kites Tales, and other publications, journals, and anthologies. 

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Gale Batchelder
Once I knew

how to walk  among crowds     how to count a day    and what to count on    
or so I believed     a way to breathe all     that surrounded me     to be in concert with    
now empty     that one late August day       the grass would turn brown 
and bicycles  multiply with students     

why set aside a shared street     no one strolling     on their way     to visit a friend     
a bottle of wine      swung gently by their side     held by its cool neck in a paper bag       
or re-usable shopping sack     

where is the mirror of other people       to show us who we are     to purpose ourselves      
by a gesture of    come or    go     we’re all traveling in the same     direction 
around the pond to limit      our breath and shield       our tomorrow

—Submitted on 09/21/2020

Gale Batchelder‘s poems have appeared in Colorado Review, Amethyst Arsenic, White Whale Review, and other journals, as well as in the anthologies New Smoke: An Anthology of Poetry Inspired By Neo Rauch (Off the Park Press, 2009) and The Triumph of Poverty: Poetry Inspired by the Work of Nicole Eisenman (Off The Park Press, 2012). She lives in Cambridge, Mass. 

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Lily Beaumont
My father emails me in 2020

and tells me about an article he’s written.
In Seattle, it seems, they’re taking down the revolution.
CHAZ. Full of weirdos is his verdict, joking,
“I’m a communist who hates the people.”
God, I think, same, but strike the “the”—let’s not
be too specific. Also, I haven’t really read Marx.
I guess I’m waiting for the Buzzfeed quiz:
“Design your ideal bedroom and we’ll tell you if
you’re a democratic socialist, anarcho-syndicalist,
or a green libertarian.” TBH, I still mostly want
to be a princess, though preferably in Middle-
Earth, or at least some remote planet; I go to
protests every weekend veiled in ethereal
perfumes no one can smell six feet away
and through a mask.

My father asks about my cat, who’s in remission
from FIP. Caused by a coronavirus, treated
by Chinese knock-offs of remdesivir in lieu
of proper and unprofitable veterinary patents.
For three months, I’d become a cat-mom
criminal, doing drop-offs in Starbucks parking lots.
It was after one such rendezvous that I first saw
a photo of Li Wenliang in my newsfeed,
and thought about interconnectivity in a way
that made me feel good and also shitty
about myself. Got irritated when, a few months later,
the articles about remdesivir and FIP started to roll out,
like those weeks of nightly injections had all been
plagiarized. But when the revolution comes,
I want to ask, will it also include cats?

—Submitted on 09/20/2020

Lily Beaumont’s poetry and personal essays have appeared in Open Minds Quarterly, Young Ravens Literary Review, Rise Up Review, and other journals. She holds an MA in English and gender studies from Brandeis University, and lives in Central Texas, where she works as a freelance curriculum and study guide developer.

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Tréa Lavery
When the Door Opens

When the door opens
I will breathe in the earth and exhale the sky
(It tastes like lavender and goes down like butter)
And the clouds will tell me that, damn, it’s nice to see me again.
Wake up and smell the sunshine, baby
And join me for a swim under the Eliot Bridge.
Love that dirty water?
We bleached our throats and so the river’s fine.
We’ll eat goat cheese and jam on a squeaky-clean green hillside
And smear dirt on our cheeks and the tips of our noses.
What’s even the worry?
Just like the worms, we’re whole again,
Not that we ever really fell apart in the first place.
Those clouds sure do shine brightly
When we’re out here in the rain.

—Submitted on

Tréa Lavery‘s poems have appeared in Hashtag Queer, Memory & Remembering, and the anthology Shades of Pride (TL;DR Press, 2019), as well as other journals and anthologies. She lives in Boston. Twitter @TreaLavery

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Darcy Isla
Unlocked

we leave our front doors
unlocked these days

we have bigger worries
than taking each other’s stuff

stuff, our only companion, only engagement
the very sight of it suddenly abhorrent

instead we long for someone
to dare to cross our thresholds

take away our false company
and forage in our presence
share in our breath

we set traps
nude pictures on Instagram
child’s play in the window
an elaborate display of shiny treasures

shake our tail feathers in our living rooms
in the hope of other bodies
springing to attention

responding to our calls
into the void

and when they indulge their desire
in our forbidden private spaces

when they come within arm’s reach
we can take them up in our arms

and dance them to the kitchen counter
proffering our range of drinks for guests

—Submitted on 09/20/2020

Darcy Isla‘s work has appeared in Alpha Female Society, Forever Endeavour, Calm Down Magazine, Vagabond City Lit, and 330 Words. 

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