Yan Sison is a poet based on the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territory of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations. Some of his works were published in Pearls, a creative writing anthology.

Cody Cook is a writer based out of St. Louis, Missouri. He has been published by Farewell Transmission and Blood + Honey Lit Mag. His first chapbook, Kenosis, is forthcoming. He is the founder of Dozing Penitent Productions which can be found on most socials under @dozingpenitent

The author, Chukwuka Chinakwe is a gifted poet and philosopher, with a large collection of anthologies to his name.

What drove him to kill a man?

The reason I couldn't write a love poem was because I didn't know how.

I got to know my ghosts, they were apologetic and proud.

In his confinement, the caged man sat at his desk, coupled with crumpled papers and ink, for he is a writer, and he writes of the things he sees through his shrouded window that sits across the vast ocean.

A little birdy once told me That they were paid to live in that cage

Daydreaming's got me thinking Of life's biggest meanings Are there real happy endings Or is it all a bust? Please don't tell me everything happens for a reason I can't believe that it does Oh what I wouldn't give to know what comes next after this I'd rather not be surprised, when there's so much on the line I welcome the sound of spoiler alerts, so I can be prepared for what hurts The world's a dark place, so I'll keep the light on Hoping you'll find me and come running I'll

I crossed the point of no return, years ago presently, I am not sure where this path leads I do know that I can’t turn back

I remember your big gray bike with the breaks at the hands. I took it once, and walked it up Victoria Point.

Still I will write, if only to pity the fool who scorns the Olympiad for taking the dive into the dozen meters of water below for playing in puddles, while they toy with the water’s surface from the coping with the tip of their pinky finger. Still I will write, though I must weep too for the monkeys that ever starve as naught a morsel of food lies on the ground yet over their heads is a tree of fresh fruits that remains disregarded, even despite their expert ability to climb

I don’t know how to write a poem about apricot rosemary ice cream and downs syndrome oysters. They both melt on the tongue with powerful differences. One churned after being picked and snipped by local fingers, served on the edge of a cliff in a cobblestone town that stands the test of time – thick houses shuttered, an empty church on fire with light inside, a pizza truck outside, the fountains of clothes-washing water, not to drink. The other plucked from the sea, shucked an

Twists and turns like melon vines, Sharp,with glistening shine under scorching heat, Adorning the fence’s concrete like a winding crown, The barbed wire runs to and fro, holding up space with a jagged blade. With rust at bends, tetanus threatening, Ripped fabric, ever terrifying, A piece of many who have dared to climb. Keep your feet safely within boots, There lays barbed wire on your fence ahead. Keep your hands fitted safely within gloves, It cuts and slashes through soft,

Arches and stations of iron and carbon! Whose callused hands welded you hence - Wiping sweaty grime from their hardened brow?

Google Earth erased my home from its maps. One day it was there, the next day it was gone.

We can only have so many concerns I suppose, by back of the envelope, just a few places at once.

oh I wonder if you and I are watching the same stars in the sky tonight

Part of me came to the sea, the part that reaches for you, an azure that peeks from behind more cloud than sky.

Supernatural winds hasten across the sky Under a tilted Cheshire moon, wry Makes for a weird mood Different from a full moon