i … with dirt twixt his teeth.  I give him a once over  pour him a gin and tonic.  He asks for a triple. I make him a double.  Last shot’s mine.  I ask if he knows how it got there.  The dirt, mate.  He isn’t sure he remembers.  He worries its been thur’ as long as he’s had teeth. Holds his glass in his left feg in his right  looks at peace.  Makes me want to scream.   ii … smelling smoke.  There's a symptom of a stroke, so.  Aye. Depends. How long has this been  allowed to g

kerry rawlinson is a mental nomad & bloody-minded optimist who gravitated from sunny Zambian skies to solid Canadian soil. Winner of Princemere Poetry Prize 2024, honorably mentioned in Proverse Press and Fish Poetry prizes and placed in others, e.g. Bridport, Canterbury; Room; National Poetry Society and Palette

Age Of Wonder   Time and time again I wonder if I’m meant for something greater The age of discovery and  breakthroughs past,  and every land’s been found at last Is there anything left for  me to find? Anything to leave as a legacy, behind?  There are things to  discover, alright In the ocean of stars, beyond the realm of flight   Cycle I wish for an adventure, one like no other Instead I’m left dreaming, stuck in a trance I wish to leave my mark, in this world Instead I’m s

M.S. Blues is an 18 year old multiracial, queer, and versatile writer who has been writing since the age of seven. Her work revolves around the darker pieces of humanity society tends to neglect.

There is poison in my tea and blood on my teeth. I only know how to live in the violence. The ocean tosses me around like a child with her favorite doll and the chaos feels like the love of my mother, back when she still held her innocence like a weapon. Girlhood was one gift she could never give me, but the rage she gave instead is equal enough. Girlhood is Godhood after all and I know too well how to be worshiped. The deeply maternal act of being prayed to eats me alive som

E.J.M. is a poet/writer who loves putting her soul into her poems. What inspired her to share her work with the world was the hope that her words could help people as much as they helped her. She has always loved leading since she was young. Now, she is writing various books and is excited to have people read them.

Aves Condor is a Puerto-Rican college student from South Jersey, where he grew up. Deriving inspiration from his own life, emerging with a passion for creative writing and poetry/prose.

Winterized Love Grip those affections in hands, Love then slips between fingers. Love, you have me in any case. Build a fire in the snow, In the most melting warmth, Have a heart-to-heart, Of the sincerest nonsense. Long waits before the lights, We'd have lingering kisses. Love, please do not worry. Let the heat flow as they please. Around the enclosed car, Into the half-closed elevator, Settled in the wide open bedroom. In the dead of winter, my love, You are the sole f

Massachusetts Without Me You cherished the pilgrim state delighted in its colour its limitless appeal its end-of-the-world feel. You were the kitten to Rockport’s cradle- it pushed you off course shifted your perception of what you considered an idyll. It was the good Doctor Jekyll, not the belligerent Mr Hyde whom you left behind. Salem smiled, Boston beamed and I faced east, ill at ease that you were content without me. A Strand of Hair The strings that linked us have b

Hello After Anthony M. Kwavah When a poem finds me in the midst of people, I bend my body to trap it and scrape its surface. I go with a few words—anything enough to exchange pleasantries. To find its delight. To let her know me. When I bend in my welcome, I give her my hand, like paying off a public transport fare, and I ask, How far can you take me? She smiles rather shyly, like the sun using clouds as her cover. What gives her light away must be the wind. I allow myself to

Shape shifter  This would be the first time I’m saying that every opposing side knows their rights and has their lefts stashed in courage. Just like people at the end of the war will see six out of nine, it’s the same way no one can convince the others that it is not nine they are seeing. I’m writing from the middle of disagreements, understanding that I can never be in the shoes of anyone or point fingers at their shortcomings.  In class, I argued for the people who upheld

It was just three quick days after his death that our father’s cremation appointment had us driving across town. He rode in the trunk. His body was all wrapped up in linen, just his shoes sticking out one end because they were so hard to contain. He died suddenly. “Something wrong with his guts,” they said in a diagnosis five days ago. His illness took over in a week, and soon enough he was more illness than anything else. It started with intense sweating that gave way to de

On a Summer Night in 2018  “Nicks, can I have another one?”  “I don’t know, little one,” Nickole “Nicks” James, the babysitter, replied. “It’s getting late and your parents won’t be too happy if you end up with another sweet tooth.”  The innocent blue eyes suddenly became sheepish. “You know about that?” “Let’s put it this way,” She returned to the living room and sat back on the couch, folding her arms across her chest languidly. “I know about a lot of things I’d prefe

All my herbs and vegetables have sprouted, now, with the exception of the peppers.  I am only numb or else in a state of parasympathetic shutdown. Remembering  four summers ago, the distance between West and Jefferson just over three miles. I cried. I stumbled down the sidewalk, begging for love to answer on speed dial. Remembering last summer on a friend’s bathroom floor. I cried. I called on repeat, pressed a blue marble in the palm of your hand and begged: please don’t for

Drifting, midwater. Jellies look alien, like something from Plan B from Outer Space.

remember that every teenager you meet online is secretly a wrinkly old man

I had expected a shockwave of oohs and aahs to move through the lecture hall at the sight of my childhood picture. Yet the students seem indifferent.

The 4 a.m. train rattles your windowsill and sends the little ceramic flower pot crashing to the floor. It’s alright, it was precariously balanced, and ugly, and nothing ever grew in it, not that you were growing anything in the first place.