A voice—not another damn voice, inarticulate or not authoritative or thereabouts asks what is the difference between telling the truth and finding the truth between finding oneself and losing the aforementioned self between losing one’s mind and minding one’s losses. J.J. Steinfeld ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Canadian poet/fiction writer/playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot’s arrival and a pho

This absurd descent this dire movement this downward undoing this failure of flight this broken chronology this review of unfinished goodbyes this spectacle of fear this display of inept defiance this inadequacy of words this horrific narrative this crumbling of consciousness one last prayer for asc

A disheartened poet stumbling downward met a man who looked like a poem in a hotel bar in a city that reminded her of forgetfulness. I am here to give a poetry reading and I’m terrified, she confessed building a strange momentum not for the reading but for the remembering of what she had written about like looking at old newspaper headlines of particularly sad events. He begged her not to write a poem about his death as if he could foresee both his death and her inability to

By both calculation and guess sticking your thoughts into the madness of the past and the anticipated folly of the future (more leeway with future than past) you decide that this is the momentous instant when life makes least sense when everything and nothing coalesce into a hodgepodge of philosophical muck. But whom to tell whom to consult for rescue explanation or a knowing nod maybe a drink or two would do the trick maybe three or four prayers maybe five or six screams lou

The fortitude of the despised of the desperate The agility of the forlorn of the forgotten The perseverance of the betrayed of the broken The emotions of the lingering of the lost Despised, desperate, forlorn, forgotten betrayed, broken, lingering, lost... Where they meet always somewhat off in time places unmapped, timeless Where they discuss the lives of others always deplored J.J. Steinfeld ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Canadian poet/fiction writer/

JC Alfier ABOUT THE AUTHOR: JC Alfier’s (they/them) artistic directions are informed by Francesca Woodman, Brittany Markert, Alix Cléo Roubaud, and Katrien De Blauwer. Their most recent poetry book, The Shadow Field, was published by Louisiana Literature Press. Journal credits include Copper Nickel, Faultline, Fugue, Notre Dame Review, Penn Review, River Styx, and Vassar Review.

JC Alfier ABOUT THE AUTHOR: JC Alfier’s (they/them) artistic directions are informed by Francesca Woodman, Brittany Markert, Alix Cléo Roubaud, and Katrien De Blauwer. Their most recent poetry book, The Shadow Field, was published by Louisiana Literature Press. Journal credits include Copper Nickel, Faultline, Fugue, Notre Dame Review, Penn Review, River Styx, and Vassar Review.

Adapted from the short story The Space Between Waiting The sea keeps its own kind of memory — salt pressed into the cracks of what remains, a yellow house gone, a drawer of certificates swallowed by water and silence. Still, she came to the shore each morning. Listened. As if the waves owed her something they hadn't paid yet. The children arrived barefoot, books soft with rain, eyes asking what mouths were afraid to — are we still going to learn? She looked at the folded roof

I have studied you. The way you pause before you speak. The things you reach for when you are nervous. The smile that means nothing and the one that means everything — I know the difference. I place my words like seeds on a board. Careful. Deliberate. Watching your eyes for the frown that tells me I have made a good move. You think you are playing too. That is the point. I have read the books. I know what the silence means, what the distance means, what it means when you laug

I left on a Tuesday. My mother stood at the gate longer than she needed to, her hands still smelling of kitchen smoke and everything I was leaving behind. I told myself it was just distance. That distance is nothing. I lied. The hostel walls have no memory of me. No corner knows my name. I make my bed the way she taught me and feel the absence of her voice checking if I did it right. Lectures. Deadlines. Noise. A city that does not slow down for homesickness. I slow down alon

There is no scent behind my dreams, But is there one behind the dreams Of anyone else? I want to get the most Out of my reveries but sensible too After eyes shut, everything is devoted To reviving that lost sense of images, The fingers and mouth remain shut off, Dull in the world of imagined dark Maybe it is a blessing, why open up Another vector and pump in a plane Where I can be regularly embarrassed, Not just naked, but now stinking too If all the inputs were restored to a

I don’t want to "earn" your rewards, I don’t think I deserve them, Why am I any better Than the other billions online? Why aren’t they included In the tenth cut off here or there, What indulgence Have I earned for your reverse tithe? Please, I’m done accepting These kinds of gifts, Give them away to the larger public, Let others enjoy the discounts, Is my life really so bad And is it really so obvious That you all need to pity me One percentage point off at a time? Benjamin N

Where's my gravely sonorous narrator? The voice I've been using in my head is useless, the present bite needs to unfold more like a documentary and less like a ramble through the days Holding stray thoughts off the page and screen is like trying to conduct a herd of ungrateful creatures, I've done my best and I think insights come through, but I'm just a tired juggler I might try auditions, or...I could steal, anything to get these innertube lines to come out of someone else'

Amassing anecdotes, just in case people have to ask how I'm doing, it's nothing deceptive here, everything I'm collecting is genuine from beginning from middle, to end, another game of sidestepping, a detour meant to amuse, call it a scenic route, but it gets back to conversation, and along the way, if the other person pays attention they might see some fresh cute debris, encounter a couple of cameos, and rifle through the ruins of a handful of nightmares in order to get the

I ache from the sadness within your heart. Like cold salt water in an abrasion the spoken words were meant to tear apart with subtle calculated persuasion, From a distance, I saw the tensing wince - a low tree branch slap to your reddish cheek. Your eyes clouded but denied the wet rinse - a stoic gaze to deflect the critique. When the wound sunk deeply into its mark, my urge to defend you almost broke through and in stilled anguish, I denied the spark and in personal shame, t

You are my guiding light. The source of my abiding fire. It is you who makes me ignite. Your passion controls my flight. You fuel a burning desire. You are my guiding light In my heart, I know what is right to strike, to inflame, to inspire- It is you who makes me ignite. Within the depths of my sight, it’s your heat the takes me higher. You are my guiding light. Your scent makes my heart alight onto the base of a lover’s pyre. It is you who makes me ignite. And whether today

if I could love you it would be a thunderstorm love - sudden and unexpected. I would be overpowering and full of surge and lightning. Whenever I saw you my eyes would be fast-moving clouds and my kisses would begin as slow, scattered drops of rain drying slowly. R. Gerry Fabian ABOUT THE AUTHOR: R. Gerry Fabian is a published writer and poet from Doylestown, PA. USA He has published seven books of poetry: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, Wildflow

Orissa, India Moonlight contains, holds the scene softly within its magic realm we have been given the moment outsiders, privileged, neither voyeurs nor audience. This chariot temple of the Sun stands facing the ocean pale stone makes surrounding night blacker, more intense more ethereal. The great sculptured wheels of the chariot, each carved as a sundial, are turning, stirring, water begins to churn as the temple itself plunges seaward. The faces of the Sun God Surya change

I watch babies learning to walk, think of hikers on wild moors. I dream of vast bluebell woods where I’m walking with armfuls of flowers. Better to be a fish or a mermaid, for them water’s a liquid road, the ocean’s a highway to somewhere. Even plastic ducks reach far off shores. My room offers no exploration. Only a theatrical setting, only a predictable view. Even the horizon is unclear, sliced by the grey roofs of apartments, Static, as I am too. Sarah Das Gupta ABOUT THE

Eyes so thoughtful and sad seem far away from the bar. Thinks of hopes she once had, then so close, now so far Dreams of her country home, of lavender fields in bloom, the village church’s dome, days of play in the combe. She cannot go back again to admit that she’s failed. To walk down that old lane where Mama wept and wailed. Paris streets, grim and grey, offer no help nor rest. She longs to run away, far from a man’s behest. She feels the hard, grey stone, under her finger