Book Review: Leaf Manifesto by Laurel Radzieski

WILD NATURE, WILD WOMEN, A WILD ECOPOETICS:
LAUREL RADZIESKI’S LEAF MANIFESTO

A BOOK REVIEW BY SHELLI ROTTSCHAFER

Laurel Radzieski welds her pen to manifest an embodied poetics and advocacy for the wild.  Wild nature. Wild Women.  This collection is unique because she plays upon the page physically and artistically in form, as many of these poems take shape within female curves. The growth from within is her child, and in this way the verse thrives.

The collection follows a flora lifecycle.  Each section reminds the reader of this beginning to end:  Seed, Germination, Sprout, Seedling, Sapling, Tree, Flowering, and ultimately the tempestuous Fruit.  Radzieski sets out upon her poetics journey stating, “One day I said aloud / I might like to be a tree” (11) and so she entices her reader to figure out what this may mean.

Throughout Leaf Manifesto Radzieski prompts us with questions: “What is a woman?” (15). And provides multiple choice answers, that only lead to more internalized questions.  Through this feminist lens she taunts her reader to poke at their own preconceived perceptions.  “Who gets to be a woman?” (16).  “What use is a woman?” (17).  “What’s it like to be a woman?” (21).  Once again, she tests her reader through a True / False dichotomy.  She dares us to shade in our answer fully with a #2 Lead Pencil.

In “How to Identify as a Tree” (38), Radzieski considers identity, origin, and belonging.  “Consider what others would want to know about your bark patterns and inner rings.”  Yet how a tree-body-person may appear doesn’t describe the within.  Rather, “roots and family tree” nudge toward fuller truths.  Especially as it oft happens, “If you are on unseeded land, know the history of the ground, how it got that way.”  In this way, Radzieski alludes to those who came before us.  She acknowledges that the land of her manifesto is of indigenous origins and birthright.

Author Laurel Radzieski

Throughout her collection, Radzieski offers up Ven Diagrams.  In “Woman Tree” (69), she encloses what these two entities have in common: branches, limbs, mistakes, leaves, organs, roots, flesh, rings, family, pain, and flowers.”  At least with this last word, she ends on hope.

Radzieski’s final poem in the collection, “Past Life Regression” (121) is a haiku:

Fallen walnut.  Such
a long way down, but then
soft idea of grass.

This seasonal form representing a walnut tree’s lifespan, culminates in a fruit-nut’s finality.  Not eaten, but allowed to cascade to an end-place.  Tranquility lands in grass.  Her bed, which begins again the tree’s lifecycle as the seed buries into soil knowing she will sprout once more. 

Laurel Radzieski won the Halycon Award from Middle Creek Publishing & Audio for this collection.  It is her second full collection of poetry.  Other poems have found a home in Rust + Moth, The New Your Quarterly, and Atlas.  She lives in Reading, Pennsylvania and is the Director of Grants at Alvernia University.

LEAF MANIFESTO

BY LAUREL RADZIESKI

AVAILABLE NOW!

Shelli Rottschafer (she / her / ella) completed her doctorate from the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque (2005) in Latin American Contemporary Literature. From 2006 until 2023 Rottschafer taught at a small liberal arts college in Grand Rapids, Michigan as a Professor of Spanish. She also holds an MFA in Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry and coursework in Nature Writing from Western Colorado University (2025).

Shelli’s home state is Michigan, yet her wanderlust turns her gaze toward her new querencia within the Mountain West where she lives, loves, and writes in Louisville, Colorado and El Prado, Nuevo México with her partner, photographer Daniel Combs and their Pyrenees-Border Collie Rescue. 

Discover more of Shelli’s work at: www.shellirottschaferauthor.com

Three Poems // Wheeler Light

Image: Louis K. Harlow

I DO NOT CARE IF YOU ARE ACROSS THE COUNTRY

BY WHEELER LIGHT

or down the country, or around the country.
The country, an exercise in understanding the space

of the country. I do not care if you are my friend
or my best friend or a collection of memories

I can talk to about the memories you are.
I do not care about meaning or anger

or hope or apocalypse when I care about laughter.
I do not care if it makes sense to call you

too many times in a day until you pick up
to tell you a joke you will like and laugh and laugh.

What I care about is distance as a measure
of effort to overcome said distance. If the distance

between us is the country, then the effort
is the world. You are a world away. I am

a world away. When I stare into the middle
of nowhere, you are there laughing at the joke

I traveled around the world to tell you.

THE BAD NEWS

BY WHEELER LIGHT

You wake up
knowing nothing.

The day, the shape
of a chrysanthemum

bell. Unraveling
is the start

of eventually hoping.
Oh, I too mistake

disaster
for salvation.

I take my medication
the same as anyone else,

staring at myself
in the bathroom mirror

to see what I recognize.
My actions reflected—

the bad news
is the actions.

The good news
is the reflecting.

Mistaking the self
for its consequences.

Mistaking the self
for anything at all.

The bad news
is the self.

The good news
is waiting at the end

of the illuminating
hallway of you.

SAWMILL RUN

BY WHEELER LIGHT

Writing about a mountain
because there is a mountain.

Photographs of the mountain
capture more than words

can carve out of enjambment’s
live edge. Oranges and reds

at the end of fall litter
my eyes with the image

I try to translate into imagery.
Can’t you see the green

peeking between naked birch
trees? The sun reflecting off

the fog blanketing everything?
A photograph is a headstone

which mourns the moment
it was taken. Up the road,

there is another overlook
and another. Different angles

to view the jagged document
of time, these peaks erupting

and softening over enough millennia,
their existence nearly makes you forget

dry brush, pipelines, controlled
burns, doe crossing the road doesn’t

make it. The present, a cloud of smoke
invisible behind the cliff in the distance.

Writing about the earth
because there is the earth

cracking its knuckles
and arching its back.

At the overlook, I get out of the car
and step on a pile of broken glass.

Wheeler Light received his MFA in creative writing from University of Virginia. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Tupelo Quarterly, Barely South, and Allium, among other publications. You can find his poems at www.wheelerlight.net.

Sinew // Three Poems by KD Hack

Image: David Young
EDITOR’S NOTE: THESE POEMS ARE BEST READ
ON TEXT OR HORIZONTALLY ON A MOBILE DEVICE.

LAGNIAPPE

BY KD HACK

I could’ve held you / the whole night / through / the wilderness / of my body-mind / asks /
too many questions / but I am parched / & prefer / too many answers / meet me / at every
river bank / along the Mississippi / your name / a prayer / my name / a promise / your kiss / a
wish / it’s good medicine / it’s my command / teach me / something sweet / something
mother-father-auntie-grandma / tongue / I want / the knowledge / to blacken on / my tongue
/ I want / the taste / to linger / the lagniappe / of a love / freshwater / & somehow / still
molten / I molted / here / on these rocks / slippery / but not too heavy / to hold /  I will bring
them / back / to you / like precious stones / like something / we might build with / the levees
won’t break / there / the gumbo will be / glorious / & the bowls / never empty / bring your
spoons / bring your lover’s lover / bring your appetite / bottomless / as the river / where we
sent up Hail Marys / like shooting stars / fletting but full / of feeling / a feast / we won’t soon
forget.

DIOSCOREA POLYSTACHYA

BY KD HACK
Fairy 
as in
frolick
as in
lick
my faggity ass
while you’re at it
we’re all wild
here
& freer
than
they want us
to think
when the water
grew
too frigid to dip
a toe into
my friend
fluorescent
in the finger-smudged
mirror made
a man
out of mascara
& might
& I might not be
convincing anyone
but myself
but you
can kiss
my faggity ass
& even my lips
while you’re at it
I promise
I won’t bite
unless you ask
nightly
I wish
for whiskers
I whisper
in their ear
let me
come
nearer
let me
come
closer
to the fairy prince
I promised
to be
in the woods
where we dug
our faggity fingers
in the soil
in the seams
making streams
across our bodies
I’d dig a grave
in the space
between
your breasts
& your belly
my legs melt
into jelly
when you lick me
hard
enough
this is not
a metaphor
this is not
a death wish
this is
a grave
I’m digging
down where
the fairy potatoes
grow I am not
asking
you to
die
but to be
reborn
beneath the soil
I’ll meet you
down there
soon.

BLOOD MOON

BY KD HACK

KD Hack is a Queer/Trans writer, Death Doula & land steward. Their artistic practices were nourished across the Northwoods of Wisconsin, & reside in the spaces between fingers in the soil & pencils on the page. His work is featured in Peach Fuzz, Fruitslice, Querencia Press, Transfix, Tence, & Volume One, among others.

Near the Rappahannock, Wellfleet Oysters // Jennifer Browne

Image: Beatrice Bright

NEAR THE RAPPAHANNOCK, WELLFLEET OYSTERS

BY JENNIFER BROWNE

The liquor in an oyster is the brine
of the water-body held at harvest.
This river drains the Blue Ridge,
meets the Chesapeake with a sigh,
leaves a sweetness in the locals,
but on the new planks of Wellfleet
Harbor, I tasted your salt. Beloved,
that one word in the day’s chalk
floods the room with light. Could
I ever choose another having known
your waiting nacre, your shucked,
gleam-soft interior along my tongue?

Jennifer Browne falls in love easily with other people’s dogs. She is the author of American Crow (Beltway Editions) and the poetry chapbooks Before: After; In a Period of Absence, a Lake; whisper song; and The Salt of the Geologic World. Find more of her work at linktr.ee/jenniferabrowne.

for what do we sing if not flowers // Ally Eden

Image: Soraya Silvestri

FOR WHAT DO WE SING IF NOT FLOWERS

BY ALLY EDEN
a bee slips and shifts over the face of water

tiny figures on the bridge beneath

lightning antlers watch the river

growing rouge


i like august except sometimes

when newly softened leaves flutter

dead by the rail-yard & earth’s last good leg

brings down the sky like a marble fish


we cling to what floats

wifi tattered boards pink sneakers

rising incense on an eerie blue morning

Ally Eden (Former Poet Laureate of Fort Collins, Colorado) writes poems that are vibrant, poignant & tender. Their work invites readers to conversations about current events while invoking reverence for humanity & nature. A Spanish interpreter by trade, Ally’s poetic ethos parallels her role as a linguist — bridging difference by way of words.

Two Poems // Monique Quintana

Image: Karin Luts

MY FAMILY MADE A PACT WITH THE BEES

BY MONIQUE QUINTANA

and the hive is still there hanging over the washing machine. Expanding like my hair when I walk in the rain. In search of another man. Who wants to have an emotional affair? And fold clay into dinner cups and plates so we can playhouse. The bees listen to us murmur under the doorway, like a velvet blanket, I dragged from Cuetzalan. We make a cake and douse the windowsill flowers with imitation vanilla extract. I record myself talking for my She-Ra doll and try to make myself blonde. Learn the color of the maw under my nails when the wind bangs on my door at night, though I should be grateful. My sister says we’re going to The Continental grocery store on Blackstone Avenue, and I pack my bags because I want to cradle down in the fruit’s harvest. The misters wet my hair until it takes its natural bend. And I’m embarrassed by my hair even when I try not to be. Unhooking my feet from pomegranate shells never felt so lovely. Never felt so much like I am dolled fucked for sure. And you will have me for sure. I turn on the TV in my hotel room and catch a documentary about my colonizer ancestors blowing their busted hearts in the wind.

STAGE LOCKET

BY MONIQUE QUINTANA

Crow investigates the sea and begins to fight with his own reflection in the water. His sick self.  The crow twins are so engrossed in their arguing that they don’t notice that yellow roses have sprouted up from the water and all around them like a fence. The woman walking along the beach marvels at the scene and writes a list on her hand. A remedy. Snail pulse. A cloud beat. Salt around the eyes that becomes a mask. Crow pecks bone out of the sand with such ferocity that he makes a dress. Frightened by the art that he’s made, he abandons it there on the sand. The fragments tremble and ache. You, sister, pick up the dress, quick, your nails to the blue, and sigh because it would be unforgivable to rob our mother of her sea. Crow collects green bottle fragments until he has pieces to build a castle. Inside the castle, there is a papier mâché doll with black hair. The doll longs for a machine to take her to a table set with a warm bowl of soup with cilantro. To a brined kitchen. To clay parts. To a clock that resembles the ticking of a water bee.

Monique Quintana (She/Her/Hers) is the author of Cenote City (Clash Books, 2019). Her work has been supported by Yaddo, The Community of Writers, Sundress Academy for the Arts, the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center, and Storyknife. You can find her at moniquequintana.com and on Instagram and X @quintanagothic

II OF PENTACLES, EARTH [REVERSED] // leta iris

Image: jötâkå

II OF PENTACLES, EARTH [REVERSED]

BY LETA IRIS
juggling the priorities of
my life, to an endless cycle of
t r y i n g
to catch each element and make it
do tricks. to impress, to prove i am
doing it (life) right, an example. the
eldest daughter inside
of me dictates my
ritualistic hunger to
succeed,
to mean something.
each all fall and splatter
on the ground, one by one
like spoiled plums, purple
ooze staining the earth below
me

fruit flies circling to devour
my potential as i lap up any
remnants of the spoiled, moldy
fruits of my wasted labor. dirt on
my tongue, seeds between my
teeth. fists clenched, knuckles
bruised from grasping onto the
flesh of my life until it seeps into

the concrete and i am just left
with the pit, the center. me. at the
core, i am stripped bare, an echo 
in a hollow body.

leta iris (she/they) is a bisexual, midwestern poet studying english, with a concentration in creative nonfiction and a minor in creative writing. she is the author of two poetry collections, when summer fades to fall and the fruits of her bittersweet sadness, left to rot. her piece, “animals,” was previously featured in the Experiences of Femininity exhibit at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, as well as several other small literary magazines. she enjoys caffeine, thrifting trinkets and collecting purses. you can usually find her beneath a fuzzy blanket, book in hand while cuddled up with her lifelong partner, cody, and her blue-heeler beagle mix, buffy. you can find more of her work on instagram, @tangledflxwers

Three Poems // Leo Rose Rodriguez

Image: Sebastian Schuster

ONE FOOT IN THE NEW YEAR

BY LEO ROSE RODRIGUEZ

for Rosh HaShanah

I travel the earth
with one foot on each side
of gender, a border
as imaginary and dangerous
as any nation’s boundary,
no secure footing in either.
But most places I enter,
I have to choose anyway.
I don’t have time to explain
to the cab driver why my face
and name are at war. When I state myself,
who hears how carefully I’ve chosen?

I travel the line past the cop car
parked outside the synagogue,
past the greeters checking names
to deter intruders on our most
sacred day. I realize I’ve never asked
before if there are cop cars at Eid.
Would they be any protection?
And there is another unsteady stance:
one foot beneath the pile of bodies,
one foot on their necks.

Nobody gives a shit about your definition,
sometimes. A word means what
it always has to them. A name,
a curl of hair, a shade of white,
a slanting slogan. They pull you
off your feet and drag you
over the border with one glance.

Every day, I step over a fault line
that stretches to the earth’s molten core.
I’m one foot in a new world,
one stuck in what is.

BECAUSE WE DID NOT DIE

BY LEO ROSE RODRIGUEZ
               I fold my arms across my lover’s
hard-won breasts, sink
my weight onto one thigh gripped
tight between
hers, our naked skin luminescing
in the dim twilight of our new apartment.

Reach across time, I’ll tell you
we did not die.

SELF-PORTRAIT AS HAPLOPHRYNE MOLLIS

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: BEST READ ON DESKTOP, OR IN LANDSCAPE ON MOBILE.
BY LEO ROSE RODRIGUEZ
Let me sell my bones to you.
Let me be a ghost to my own life, to become yours.
My teeth have hunted for a niche that holds them perfectly,
someone who will let me stay
at her side, no
become her side as mine atrophies.

You don’t have to feed me,
you don’t even have to look at me. All you have to do
is let me remain, laying down the burden that is my self,
let me deliquesce into you.
A flap of scales,
a deformed fin, a translucence

glowing in the deep. Ghostly seadevil,
let me become a ghost to my own life,
but don’t let me alone.

Leo Rose Rodriguez is a queer, neurodivergent writer and artist based in Minneapolis, on traditional Dakota land. They are the author of chapbooks “Fatherland, Motherland” and “…and this would be Moshiach”. Their writing has been featured or is forthcoming in Blue Earth Review, Rise Up Review, Sinister Wisdom, and elsewhere.

three poems from Buffalo Elegies // Alexander Shalom Joseph

Image: Brandon Stoll

These poems are from an as-of-yet unpublished collection entitled “Buffalo Elegies”. “Buffalo Elegies,” is a collection of twenty-three poems that reflect on the devastating impact of the near extinction of the American Buffalo during the brutal colonization of the American West. This chapbook is a series of 23 poems elegizing the sixty million buffalo who were massacred and honoring the 23 buffalo who remained. This work explores the historical slaughter of these animals, emphasizing their significance in shaping the Western landscape. The poems vividly contrast the once-thriving buffalo herds with the current empty and haunted environment, highlighting the profound loss and ongoing silence left in their wake. Ultimately, the collection serves as an elegy, mourning the buffalo and the indigenous cultures connected to them.

BUFFALO ELEGY #4

BY ALEXANDER SHALOM JOSEPH

to the west are the rockies
those granite tombstones catching clouds
memorializing that storm
of brown fur and short horns
the fallen nation of hooves
there used to be so many buffalo
there are none left here
we killed them all on purpose
haven’t you seen the pictures of their skulls stacked stories high?

right here there was once
a breathing snorting stomping tidal wave
trampling this dirt into soil
but the mountains are so quiet now
and so are the plains

we think they are peaceful
but they are not peaceful
they are dead
this mountain range is just a marker
on the largest mass grave
the world has ever seen
and has so quickly tried to forget

BUFFALO ELEGY #9

BY ALEXANDER SHALOM JOSEPH

standing in the midst of a sold out stadium show
I look out at forty thousand bodies
it is more people than I have ever seen at once
I do some quick math
and realize
that the number of lives
held in this expanse
of concrete and heat
is nothing compared
to the massacre known as western expansion
that intentional near extinction of the buffalo
it would take one thousand five hundred full up stadiums
to equal the population of the herd
that were exterminated
sixty million reduced to twenty three

this is when my mind begins to swim
this is when my I begin to drown
this is when I start to sink
into how much is really gone

and I look out over the city
from the bleacher seating
not seeing the sunset
not seeing the crowd
not seeing the show
seeing only what is not there
but is only thing that should be

BUFFALO ELEGY #12

BY ALEXANDER SHALOM JOSEPH

I drive these highways
which mirror past migrations
and for brief flashes
I swear I can hear their feral drum
through this valley
I swear I see the dusty cloud ghost of their stampede
on the horizon line at dusk
but I know what I am seeing
is just hopeful daydreams
for the fact is
we live in a cemetery
above their unmarked countless graves
I look out at these gorgeous vistas
the places people come
to take pictures of on vacation
and I see beauty
but I also see what isn’t there
it’s like a painting
without a foreground
just a sprawling landscape
with the subject
erased from the grasslands
from the back of coal trains
this
is a small attempt
to fill in the emptiness
it is an attempt to scream
“there was so much else here”
there was once
a living storm
a rush like fresh blood
that came to give life
to this dried up dirt
this
is a reminder
that we are not living
in a mere landscape painting
of the rocky mountain range
there was once a subject
and it was not us

Alexander Shalom Joseph is an award winning author of seven published books, most recently The Clearing (Middle Creek Publishing, forthcoming October 2025) and Living Amends (Galileo Press, forthcoming 2025). He has an MFA in Creative Writing and an MA in English Education. Alexander lives in Colorado, writes a weekly poetry column on Substack and teaches writing workshops in libraries, schools and prisons across the Colorado Front Range.

Two Poems // Monica Fuglei

Image: Märt Laarman

MY DEAR NAMELESS OF THE SEINE,

BY MONICA FUGLEI

Caught a glimpse of you last week in the manikin room,
tip-toed past a group gathered around the body that wears
your face, a protection circle, as if the light they shone in your eyes
some kind of candle magic to manifest the real of you
from the past, from the river, from the floating, from the dead, to
the today, into this rubber corpse, mechanical breath catching,
as a reignited heartbeat scratches itself into the screen
of their smartphone.

They never asked Are you okay? Never whispered Do you mind?
Never wondered Can we make a mask? Never implored could they
Copy it? Make you famous? Make you most-missed, most
kissed?
Your unclaimed body, claimed, controlled, sold.

You are everywhere: your face on walls, CPR dolls, written in literature,
cross-stitched, encased in poetry, sold on Etsy, and I dream your no,

your eyes closed and finally they hear your no, your no in death smirk opening wide,
your no as purchased faces melt into waters your no, your river Seine bursting in no
rushing no through art galleries and Red Cross classrooms, your scream no, flooding
the world in no, in your no bursting from doorways, in the churn of dark water
pushing no into your death mask, your no into the sunshine, into fire and flame
into ash into no into goodbye into reclamation.

BECAUSE EVERY GIRL HAS A POMEGRANATE POEM IN HER

BY MONICA FUGLEI
I remember last summer: three or four
fruit lined up,
how the French call them grenades,
their brilliant speckled red,
these tiny bombs.

I remember how I’d pull out the meal prep plastic –
quart-sized, like a restaurant kitchen,

then how, to music, I’d drag the knife
lightly along the skin trying not to draw
juice from the aril, how carefully I pulled
the fruit apart, catching any seed
that fell.

And here is where a poet would park metaphor or simile –
this fruit is knowledge,
harvest like murder,
fruit blood red and bleeding,
fruit ripe like a thought,
fruit as fertility,
fruit as fecundity,

fruit complex as the woman’s mind and
it’s always a woman isn’t it? With the cutting
and the work and the pulling and the intricate
web of hanging on,
her hands – my hands –
around delicate skin
barely holding this juice
to seed, and then my
crushing and
pulping and

drinking, and I would harvest the work
to pass on to my children, would pause in the dripping,
in the wasting, hands a deep crimson,
this harvest collected moment by moment,

this quiet time in the kitchen, where
I ran a finger through yellow pith and packed each
ruby seed in small food storage gently, thinking about death.

Monica Fuglei currently teaches in the Department of Composition, Creative Writing and Journalism at Arapahoe Community College in Littleton, Colorado. A 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has recently appeared in Progenitor and Mason Street. When she’s not writing or teaching, she’s usually knitting or tweeting on #AcademicTwitter.