Jessica Covil
Where to Begin

Where should one start, except at
where it hurts.
Here: place two fingers on my wrist
and listen, closely
through the skin.
Be careful not to take
your own heartbeat
for mine; that is
make sure that I’m alive, and then
search for the wounding.

Suppose you start
with the neck instead—
but the rest remains still.
What else is there to do
but press your fingers down,
lightly and listening
for my body to answer.
You, who are different from myself.
Do that bit, and then—
why, you’d search for the wounding still.

Why else come to my body
on the floor?
Aware by now that something
has happened here,
you must wonder, too,
how else to begin?
If not at the wound, and then
the wounding.

How else, you see—where,
why else
would you begin?

Jessica Covil‘s poems have appeared in SWWIM Every Day, Whale Road Review, and Rise Up Review. She is a third-year PhD student in English at Duke, pursuing certificates in African and African American studies and in gender, sexuality, and feminist studies.

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D. Dina Friedman
When Despair for the World Grows in Me

I’d like to think I’d lie down with bears, confront gun nuts,
but more likely, I’d be climbing a mountain

a bright blue day when the air is crisp as apple skin
and leaves rain their last remnants in the wind.

At night the cat has returned
to sprawl his love against my chest,

no longer needing to splay belly up in the heat.
He purrs like the tree I aspire to be,

its trunk unbothered by strangler figs. Lie down.
Really, there’s nothing in the world that matters more

than skin on skin. Maybe we need to spread the love.
A cat on every chest, like a chicken in every pot.

A gun in every holster. Maybe, we just need to sing
until we reach oblivion—or action? Dynamo? Dynamite?

Die? The sky is as blue as apple pie
is American. Listen. That distant hunter

is downing a deer. I’ve always wanted an antler.
It’s kind of like penis envy, but better,

a secret weapon against despair
growing out of the part of the body that thinks.

And when he talks about thoughts—and prayers,
tell him that people were praying

in all those shuls and mosques, those churches,
and sorry for the blasphemy, but

God didn’t seem to be there, God prefers
to be here in the soul of the deer

and that black mama bear fighting thorns,
gathering the last of the berries before a long sleep.

D. Dina Friedman is the author of the two young adult novels. Escaping Into the Night (Simon and Schuster, 2006) was recognized as a Notable Book for Older Readers by the Association of Jewish Libraries, and a Best Books for Young Adults nominee by the American Library Association. Playing Dad’s Song (FSG, 2006) was recognized as a Bank Street College of Education Best Book. She is also the author of the poetry chapbook Wolf in the Suitcase (Finishing Line Press 2019). Her work has appeared in Calyx, Common Ground Review, Lilith, Wordpeace, Pinyon,  Negative Capability, New Plains Review, Steam Ticket, Bloodroot, Inkwell, and Pacific Poetry, among other journals. Friedman holds an MFA from Lesley University. She lives in Hadley, Mass., and teaches at the University of Massachusetts Amherst.

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Anna Leah
Fuck Serenity

“Fuck your serenity,” you said.
Well, fuck you, too

It’s hard-won
against hard-on wielding men
who grasp as you pass
and gasp as you ask for yourself
and reach out to grab to snag you from jaywalking

Against connections of self
and objections to all else
you wish to choose to say

Against a world that pushed in hopes
you won’t notice
and hands palming you everywhere

Serenity is smiling over screaming,
meanwhile, ulcers teem

It’s exhaustion after exhilaration after confusion
reveals itself to be mean

It’s forgetting your ego,
because it’s been beaten away
from your expectations of anything

It’s releasing all ideas of accomplishment
letting yourself be selfish
and giving up on yourself

Serenity is in these moments between panic
and all that’s left

It’s touching the river like a lover
and forgetting why you left those others behind

Fuck this serenity, perhaps
but it was far from automatic

It comes from years of servicing
then, forgetting
to decide to have any consciousness at all

Anna Leah’s poetry has appeared in Panel Magazine (published in Budapest). Her broadcast and print journalism have appeared on PBS, AJ+, and Brut and in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The New York Post, Brokelyn, and other publications. She holds a BA from Hampshire College in Amherst, Mass. Also a filmmaker, Leah lives in Brooklyn. She posts poetry to Instagram, @ByAnnaLeah.

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J.P. White
If the World Is to Go On

Everything unknown softens when you look at it a second time.
The first time we see fear and suspicion
Or some memory that’s been hunting us.
The second time we look,
We don’t reach after argument or conclusion.
We sag a bit in our stance. We take in more
Of the entire field in which the other sits.
Lovers and enemies know this better than anyone.
When they pause, take a breath
And look again at their part in the quarrel
They find a way back to the table.
If the world is to go on,
We will need to take more time with it
Because everything and everyone will need to be seen twice
And held for a moment longer.

J.P. White is the author of the poetry collections The Sleeper at the Party (Defined Providence Press, 2001), The Salt Hour (The University of Illinois Press, 2001), The Pomegranate Tree Speaks from the Dictator’s Garden (Holy Cow Press, 1988), and In Pursuit of Wings (Panache Books, 1978). His essays, articles, fiction, reviews, interviews and poetry have appeared in The Nation, The New Republic, The New York Times Book Review, The Los Angeles Times Magazine, The Gettysburg Review, American Poetry Review, Sewanee Review, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, and many other journals and anthologies. He holds a BA from New College, an MA from Colorado State University, and an MFA from Vermont College. He lives on Lake Minnetonka near Minneapolis.

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Dion O’Reilly
Closet

I
She wanted her father to stop her mother,
but he couldn’t.

I suck my thumb and mess my pants,
she said as he took her to third grade
on his way to work. Still dark.
No breakfast. Her insides screaming.
The dirty shirt she’d slept in.

The janitor let her in. She waited
in front of a burping heater, nursed her thumb
till the rest arrived in a raucous wave.

II
On the ranch, she looked at the sun, wondered
if another world spun on its far side,
understood the language of crows
screaming in ravines, heard ticking teeth
beneath the lawn as Father mowed.
Mumbled to himself. Softly cried.

III
Crouched in her closet, she studied
the vaulted architecture of her mind,
saw whole lives there. Drew them by feel
on walls behind the clothes, pushed
a pencil into the soft wood. Felt a shivering
contentment as she drew, slowly
shit herself. Filled the air with stench.

IV
No prince lived in her closet. Just me,
she whispered. Squeezed
her anal sphincter with delight.
Holding back. Letting go.

Dion O’Reilly is the author of Ghost Dogs (Terrapin Books, 2020). Her work has appeared in Narrative, New Ohio Review, The Massachusetts Review, New Letters, Sugar House Review, Rattle, The Sun, Tupelo Quarterly, and other journals and anthologies. O’Reilly has spent much of her life on a farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains, working at various times as a theater manager, graphic designer, and public school teacher, among other occupations.

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Kiran Bhat
A little boy asks Kiran: What is your favorite animal?

一个小男孩问道客燃脑：你最喜欢的动物是什么？

客然脑说；不是一头大象
但它的肤比泥更灰,
比木炭和灰泥更坚硬,
和他们的眼睛燃烧着，
这是一个聪明的标志.

不是鲸鱼.
虽然他们也很聪明.
他们互相玩游戏，
唱最奇妙的歌曲，
只是寻找需要.
如果动物有文学能力，
鲸鱼的诗歌
将是我会读的第一本.

并不是人，
我可能是人，
但我宁愿被锁在一只羊笼里，
谁至少知道如何尊严地对待对方.

客然脑结说：我相信我爱蚂蚁.
他们的身体是葡萄的灯泡.
一个比我的手指甲小的脑，
他们建造了最和谐的寺庙，
在那些已死的人的骨灰上.
他们自己思考,
但作为一个团队工作.

如果他在挡道了，那么他们可以伤害别.
他们也尊重他人的领土.
它们确实是最珍贵的动物.

小男孩问道; 那么,为什么当你看到一只蚂蚁时，
走在桌子上，你停下来挤压它？

客然脑出了最狡猾的微笑。
我确信没有其他物种，
有了破坏人性的人类。

A little boy asks Kiran: What is your favorite animal?

Kiran says: It isn’t the elephant,
But their skin is grayer than mud,
Tougher than charcoal and stucco,
And their eyes simmer and smother,
It is the sign of an intelligent being.

It is not the whale.
Though they are also quite intelligent.
They play games with each other,
Sing the most wondrous of songs,
And only hunt for need.
If the animals were capable of literature,
The poetry of the whales
Would be the first that I would read.

Nor is it the human,
I may be a human,
But I would rather be locked in a cage of sheep,
Who at least know how to treat each other with dignity.

Kiran concludes:
I believe I love the ants.
Their beady body the bulbs of grapes.
A brain smaller than my fingernail,
They build the most harmonious of temples,
On the ashes of those long dead.
They think for themselves,
Yet work as a team.
They only harm the living if they are in their way.
They respect the territories of others as well.
They are the most precious animal, indeed.

The kid asks; then why is it that, when you see an ant,
walking on the table, you stop and squish it?

Kiran gives the most devious smile.
He says; because whenever I see an ant,
I am convinced that there is not a single other species,
With the power to undermine humanity.

The Mandarin version of this poem appeared in Kiran Speaks (White Elephant Press, 2019).

Kiran Bhat is the author of the poetry collections Autobiografia (Letrame Editorial, 2019) and Kiran Speaks (White Elephant Press, 2019), as well as the Kannada-language travelogue Tirugaatha (Chiranthana Media Solutions, 2019) and the novel We of the Forsaken World (Iguana Books, 2019). He has traveled to over 130 countries, lived in 18 different places, and speaks 12 languages. He considers Mumbai his spiritual base, but currently lives in Melbourne.

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Jared Pearce
Obesity Epidemic

We gulped all the light we
could glut, shutting down
the shamrocks and spoiling
the apples on their stems.

Particle by particle, wave
after wave, we let in the
dark, believing we were
stuffed impregnable,

yet over the days the ways
crumble into night, bats
take flight, the lightening
bugs die across the great states:

like trying to snatch the ocean
glitter, it runs from hands
and feels like that funerary
emptiness in the chest.

Feeding on the abyss
we trim, slim to despair,
the fine air; then a trickle,
a breath of light might

strike its match on
our tinder, kindling and mocking
what we had and
again what we want.

Jared Pearce is the author of The Annotated Murder of One (Aubade Publishing, 2018). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Coachella Review, Xavier Review, Breadcrumbs, BlazeVOX, and Panoplyzine, among other journals.  Online at jaredpearcepoetry.weebly.com.

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Lynn McGee
Crush, 10

A little girl stabs a giant in the eye and he drops
to his knees, with her still in his fist. The dragons
that should have saved her snap leathery wings
and seem lost, but are looking for their brother,
who’s been gutted and used as the Night King’s
hand puppet. It’s episode three, final season,
Game of Thrones, and I’m rigid with the shock
of these images when I start a Skype with you,
who would not admit to being scared, I’m guessing,
or who would, in fact, not be scared, or who would,
when inhaled down that tunnel toward fear, take
action to deflect it, such as push-ups in the office
with the door locked, carpet close to your face,
shoulders clenched and forearms burning,
breath deep.

Lynn McGee is the author of Tracks (Broadstone Books, 2019) and Sober Cooking (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2016), as well as two  award-winning poetry chapbooks, Heirloom Bulldog (Bright Hill Press, 2015) and Bonanza (Slapering Hol Press, 1996). Here poems have appeared in the American Poetry Review, Southern Poetry Review, Ontario Review, Phoebe, Painted Bride Quarterly, Sun Magazine, and The New Guard, among other journals, as well as in the anthology Stonewall’s Legacy (Local Gems Press, 2019), edited by Rusty Rose and Marc Rosen. With José Pelauz, McGee wrote the children’s book Starting Over in Sunset Park (Tilbury House Publishers, 2020). She serves on the advisory board of the Hudson Valley Writers Center and co-curates the Lunar Walk Poetry Series with Gerry LaFemina and Madeleine Barnes. Online at lynnmcgee.com.

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Jessica Ramer
On the Berlin U-Bahn, 1985

When I returned to say my last goodbyes,
My body swaying as the U-Bahn rolled,
I saw a man with prison in his eyes.

He held his dog as if to exorcise
Some desperate sorrow festering unconsoled.
When I returned to say my last goodbyes.

The train pulled in. I left in chilled surprise,
But as the station’s escalator scrolled,
I saw a man with prison in his eyes.

I strolled the Breitscheidplatz, bought Turkish pies,
Pulled my thin jacket close against the cold,
When I returned to say my last goodbyes.

Outside its bombed-out church where scaffolds rise
Like bars, the Savior’s visage in their hold,
I saw a man with prison in his eyes.

Inside that cage, a one-eyed Jesus, wise
But distant, called his lambs into their fold
When I returned to say my last goodbyes
And saw a man with prison in his eyes.

Jessica Ramer is a doctoral student in poetry at the University of Southern Mississippi. Her work has appeared in South 85 and The Keats Letters Project. She was a summer 2017 resident at the Alderworks Alaska Writers & Artists Retreat.

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D. Dina Friedman
Rules for Behaving on the Airport Line

Secure the pet ferret the scanner failed to find
snuggled in your undies, ignore the smoke
from the three-ounce tube in the zip-lock bag,
but if they ask, explain: explosive ointments

for your cellular membranes. Let your story
rival skyscrapers, which blaze red alert,
taunting terrorists in a world of rodents. Buy a uniform
and scarlet fishnets; remember

your grandmother’s body-blocking
view as you snuck under the subway turnstile. Consider
how many cells there might be in a single sloughing of skin,
the candy wrapper on the yellow footprint,

as you do what the man orders:
facing the faceless figure, lift your vulnerable arms
and think of Easter—and Patti Smith
exposing her body hair, or your grandmother’s heels

clicking on the Macy’s floor,
as you sat on Santa’s lap, pretending
you were Catholic. Can they really see you
naked inside the plastic box?

D. Dina Friedman is the author of the two young adult novels. Escaping Into the Night (Simon and Schuster, 2006) was recognized as a Notable Book for Older Readers by the Association of Jewish Libraries, and a Best Books for Young Adults nominee by the American Library Association. Playing Dad’s Song (FSG, 2006) was recognized as a Bank Street College of Education Best Book. She is also the author of the poetry chapbook Wolf in the Suitcase (Finishing Line Press 2019). Her work has appeared in Calyx, Common Ground Review, Lilith, Wordpeace, Pinyon,  Negative Capability, New Plains Review, Steam Ticket, Bloodroot, Inkwell, and Pacific Poetry, among other journals. Friedman holds an MFA from Lesley University. She lives in Hadley, Mass., and teaches at the University of Massachusetts Amherst.

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