i destroy myself with a slow grind pressing my body against the bitter wheel at any sign of sharp success polishing away the burrs of hope and joy until i am pebble forgotten in the crush of boots
Passion
BY JOSEPH WILCOX
at easter brunch as we douse the bulge of egg casserole and sweetbread in our stomachs with fresh hot coffee like a post-coital cigarette my brother extolls the virtues of the stock market how he cheers the ups and downs as he buys low and his millions grow he pauses righteousness rising to rail at the cross of his tax burden the unconstitutional waste of government taking his money and the onus of minimum wage that shrouds his body corporate to my sister who earns $15 an hour retail
Factious
BY JOSEPH WILCOX
don’t you see? if we are fighting each other we are not fighting them if we are fighting each other we won’t go to the shed to find our pitchforks
would you like to borrow one of mine, friend?
Joseph Wilcox studied at the Jack Kerouac School, started a theater company, and raised a family in Colorado. He lives in Aurora where he writes science fiction and fantasy, and poetry in the sleepless hours of the night.
We’re gathered here in this sacred place Darting looks of judgement and envy You still manage to pull a sour face As the imam gives the khutba about how to love thy neighbor I look down at their feet, calloused but not withered It’s as if I can read their lives from their feet
Every untrimmed nail and hard blue vein Running after children No time to thrive, only maintain Resilient, despite the shock of motherhood Dressed in burnt orange Salwar Kameez and glass gold bangles The baby coos and gurgles until the azan comes Then its shrill cries and a burst of tears How dare their mother do something for herself? Religious commitments don’t end Such tribulations only make them more clear
Babies, an extension of their mother until around age four Then one day their need for cuddles suddenly ends And the only remembrance is saggy pillows and stretch marks Designed like directions on a map
Despite the sleepless nights and loss of time Soon the baby discovers their own independence He sits nicely as his mother prays sunnah He fixes his own hat when it falls Like kneading dough, she forms to the chapter of her life Her tests become her triumphs, her loss is what she gained
I make a dua after Jummah, thanking God for His preference The little things I cherish, take the good with the bad How can you appreciate God’s gifts? If it’s honey all the time Sometimes we have to feel the sting
Mimi Khoso is not great at short biographies, and the pressure it causes to make an appealing impression in short summary. She does understand the need for it however; she was born in Georgia in 2002, and has moved all over Georgia and Texas during her childhood. She doesn’t have any professional credentials for writing poetry. She believes that once you discover your passion it gives meaning to your life. Her favorite book is The Beguiled by Thomas P. Cullinan and her favorite song is Saanson Ki Maala, based on the 16th-century poem by Mirabai then popularized by sufi singer, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. She has realized what makes celebrated films and timeless music profound is in its words. One of the great pleasures in her life is reading and writing and she is not fully able to explain why. When she converted to Islam over four years ago, she read of its deniers claiming the Quran to merely be a great work of poetry. To that, God responded to produce a verse similar to His if you can.
in the center of the bowl, a still life for a still life,
reflecting sweet and sour gem, blinding, squinting at the fruit of it,
glistens a warm memory, juice weeping between the fingers
A pucker, confetti of pulp in the belly. Bloated with remedial fullness.
Lydia Ford is a poet based in Colorado, where she lives with her boyfriend and two cats, Melon and Zuko. Her work has been published in Words Dance Magazine, Ink & Marrow, boats against the current, Beyond Words Magazine and wildscape lit. You can often find her in her local coffee shop, probably telling someone about the music playing overhead or her love of nostalgia. More of her work lives on Instagram @lydfordwrites
a man opens his mouth & a border spills out. a grandmother unspools her tongue like thread, stitching her children into the fabric of a country that never wanted them.
they say this is progress.
(they mean:) the skin thinned to paper — the hands blistered, still reaching — the lungs filled with air thick enough to swallow. (they mean:) look how well you have learned to survive. how your bones folded neatly into history. but we know. we know what it means to be asked for our papers. to be split between two alphabets & never whole. to carve out our own faces with the sharpest vowels until we are palatable. marketable. safe.
(they say we are lucky to be here.) lucky.
lucky like my mother learning
the price of shame at the grocery store. (the clerk’s mouth curling around her accent another thing she must swallow whole.)
lucky like my father with his hands roughened by the steel of a land he could never own. (the factory hums. the sweat dries. the paycheck arrives. the hunger stays.) (somewhere) they are building monuments from the bones of the silenced.
(somewhere) the land forgets the sound of its own name. concrete buries it whole.
this is history, they say. (they mean:) the textbooks that forget us — the flags stitched with the tongues we lost — the songs we were too tired to sing.
(they say we should be grateful.) (they mean we should be quiet.)
but i remember. i remember the rice fields & the rivers thick with ghosts. the prayers my grandmother whispered to the soil. the stories that split her open & stayed.
they say the rice won’t grow without blood. (and still, we eat.)
Sreeja Naskar is a high school poet based in India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poems India, Crowstep Journal, The Chakkar, ONE ART, Frigg Magazine, The Little Journal, and Cordite Poetry Review, among others. She believes in the quiet power of language to unearth what lingers beneath silence.
Let’s keep dancing like you promised would never be done.
I have awoken, You’re no longer there.
Endless Tomorrows I miss you, I grieve for you so.
You helped me ignore my fears because you said tomorrow will always be near.
I have awoken from the illusion and I grieve for your return, but no, you were never really here.
Endless Tomorrows you let me go.
I see my fears now that you helped me get through, because Endless Tomorrows, you were always true.
Endless Tomorrows, I loved you so.
The pain of today replaces my fears, because Endless Tomorrows you’re all I’ve ever known.
Endless Tomorrows I danced with you, but it was only Ego & Fear wearing your mask in my belief that it was actually you.
I have danced with Ego & Fear I didn’t know they cut in.
Endless Tomorrows you were always there to hide my fears with the illusion of the never-ending dance.
Fear & Ego you cut in to dance, sneaking in. Never did you ask,
then I finally hear you say,
“Masquerade”
as you both finally remove your Endless Tomorrows masks.
Scott Nookester is a kind man relearning how to be in the present. He is a hard worker, who is learning to be soft with his edges. He is a man learning to dance with the new.
Crepuscular, adj., the behavior of animals most active at twilight
For Ash
BY NEAL ALLEN SHIPLEY
It’s cold but the sky is clear, cleaved: bright pink sits on blue and there are no clouds, but a stripe of white would be poetic. This administration will ban the sky if they can, executives ordering it to stop changing color – trying to administer a world where there is only day and night.
Imagine, refusing to believe in twilight while the sun seeps into the gums of the horizon – denying nightfall on a summer evening when you savor sunset, still warm and purple on your tongue. Hunting is restricted between sunset and dusk when these animals are most active – to feed, to court – at the height of their power:
*
Odocoileus hemionus, mule deer feed selectively at dusk, choosing the parts of sagebrush that are most nutritious. Site-faithful, they return only to the safest, most bountiful grounds, pawing the soft loam of your back yard so close we could hand-feed them if we weren’t so loud.
You call me but you’re worried about other things – the dog I pretend to hate is sick and it’s probably just normal shit, but still. I forget to tell you that I know twilight is real, that it’s the most beautiful time of day, the mountains’ silhouette like thick walls of a bowl thrown up by practiced hands to protect us in this conservative city.
*
Vulpes vulpes pick-pocket their predators in the gloaming, stealing yesterday’s prime rib for tomorrow’s supper. The red fox knows to keep away from traffic – has learned to scent the carbon steel of their hunter’s rifle on the wind, stow their stolen goods deep beneath the snow where it will keep until leaner times.
This administration has convinced themselves there is only high noon, masculine sun scorching the earth shadowless, baking them where they stand without reprieve – the delicate frills of dawn too dangerous for them, nighttime dragging her slow fingers down their chests, the cold dew of Spring fresh in the corners of their mouths.
*
Canis latrans call to their young with soft woofs when the sun sinks almost completely, a nightlight deep within the mountains – small howls that make you lower your joint. I tell you about the time a coyote invaded my cul de sac growing up, our neighbors shepherding their dogs inside to avoid a slaughter.
You tell me the coyote is a mean bitch, but you’re meaner. If they’re a threat, we’ll bring the girls inside and I’ll fight this administration tooth and claw with you until it’s just another neighborhood dog, one we’ve seen before, docile; we stay outside with the joint, the soft glow of dusk around us.
Neal Allen Shipley (he/him) is a behavior analyst living in Colorado with a modest collection of pets and an unhinged collection of plants. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and appears in Creation Magazine, The Talon Review, and SCAB Magazine, among others. Despite the horrors, he loves a fancy hot dog. You can find him on Instagram @nealio9
A GUIDE TO SLUMBER; A TIRADE WITH TANGENTS; A MANSPLAINING; A SURRENDER
BY DUSTIN KING
I was asked at a party how I sleep at night it is a delicate balance we dread the midday nod the yawning the staring beyond consternation missing invital information
we dread midnight MRIs self-diagnoses silly ruminations false revelations realizations we assume true for everyone
pharmaceuticals failed us fucked us up we can’t get into it so CBD melatonin in a pinch but it makes us groggy black-out curtains ear plugs but what if we miss the first screams of catastrophe plus wax build-up
we avoid alcohol caffeine one sip and we stay up laughing with whoever will have us
masturbation is unreliable it sends us across wastelands of regret wanting we were someone else with someone else
our minds like dreams like our lives a notebook of scrawl left in the night pages flapping tearing scattering we try to gather
our hands pinned beneath us in unholy yoga poses we sign curses into grimy sheets we throw our phone across the room oh, would we could snap it in half
peer in windows neighbors’ faces lit yellow by the light of the netherworld ogling netherregions portal through our very hands
or through the refrigerator in front of which we stand scratching ourselves
light light light squeezes through every pinhole and crevice like water or an octopus tentacles reach for us we reach for tentacles we march across an alleyway to smash a floodlight with a chunk of pavement but the blue blink of laptop modem humidifier moonlight starlight dawn
signals to somnambulate the streets come to at front doors of exes burning with shame lovers who burned in bed with the heat of a lightning strike body-locked us like pro wrestlers
we writhed free gasping for air extinguished ourselves in a cold shower
do co-habitators bind and gag each other? do they sleep the sleep of dogs in dens sharing heat and odors?
in dreams we fall but never hit ground flirt but never fuck if we rise to pee as we must once twice a night we can only contemplate bedwetting for so long
we stay the dream in our heads even if the home invader’s head vibrates and falls back on a hinge the horror softens once we welcome the dark figure under the covers
memory’s phantom limbs wave dream bits like bone shards if we could recall it all we’d desire nothing but the thrill of rest the earth might replenish
we’d only wake to whip-poor-wills like our brother whispering in his sleep warblers like mom and dad are fighting wrens like they make love one last time
Dustin King would always rather be sneaking a bottle of wine into a movie theater. When nothing good is playing, he teaches Spanish and exchanges dreams with loved ones in Richmond, Va. His poems pop up in The Tusculum Review, New Letters, Ligeia, Marrow Magazine, samfiftyfour, and other rad spots. He is a poetry reader for Sublunary Review and curates the poetry and performance event “Yodel Farm.” His first chapbook “Last Echo” is now available from Bottlecap Press. His second “Courteous Gringo” will be out this summer from Seven Kitchens Press.
On December 4, 2024, 27-year-old engineer Luigi Mangione assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of UnitedHealthcare—who had made millions denying claims— outside New York’s Midtown Hilton.
Baby Lulu, as they call him, has many TikTok wives. One in Beijing
cooks puttanesca with penne. My husband, which is Luigi Mangione,
she says, stirring red pepper in her sauce, needs comfort food from his culture.
Others cut wedding cake with their hero, whose black lashes & threaded brows,
so tender & misunderstood, accentuate the necessary beauty of his deed.
Does his anachronistic name kindle some ancient hope, conjure a revolution
fought on Garibaldi’s side against a crooked pope? Lesson Learned,
The Wall Street Journal intones, Tighter Security Priority for CEOs.
I find comfort in stillness when blades kiss my skin and thundered tongues hail down my name. In the grey, I close my eyes—
and let the rain mourn me.
Latoya Wilkinson is 20 years old. She is currently a rising Senior at the University At Albany, studying Journalism and English. She doesn’t have any intentions of being a poet, but she took two poetry classes and realized that she would much rather write than breathe—and that says a lot.
south broadway press 