Alice Allan

American love

Twilight resolves to trash TV

while all the brave attempts—

the words of flagellation,

new renunciations,

the stack of bruising losses,

each meagre stretch of something less than panic,

the sedimenting days—

my love, they drain away.

The ocean carves the coastline in its image,

while the hairline fractures lengthen

and the data banks maintain their twitch.

Dear love, the undertow persists

and the boys on Summer House

get good and stoned to watch Zootopia,

fall half asleep, oblivious as children,

then rouse themselves to say:

Appreciate you, man.

Sleep well, my dude.

Love you. Love you.

Love you. Love you. Love you.

Alice Allan produced the long-running podcast Poetry Says. A new 12-part series, Advice From an Unknown Poet, is out now. Her work has appeared in Best of Australian Poems, HEAT, Sydney Review of Books, and Australian Book Review.

Michael Lavers

Passionate Shepherd to His Love, II

Come live with me and be my love,

and we will learn the language of

the shrugs and silences and sighs

conspiring to compromise. 

There will be joy. But not before

a few lean years in Baltimore, 

hearing the mice behind the walls

tunnel our dreams like criminals.

The slow greed of the kitchen clock

will punctuate some stale talk. 

You’ll cook, I’ll clean, though might ignore

the dust with which time wages war. 

The ruined yard will need us both. 

We’ll chase slug hoards through undergrowth, 

and envy all the youthful bees’ 

delicious promiscuities,

covet the snails’ coiled seclusion 

or the chorus frogs’ collusion.

Repeat, repeat, until we’re old,

taking our pills, trading our gold 

for one more month, or day, or minute,

each last second coiled in it, 

watching time’s immenseness trace 

the full brief pause of our embrace. 

The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd, II

Ok, I’ll come, since one grows bored

of being nothing but adored, 

and we will fuel with little feuds 

the fusion of two solitudes. 

Instead of rich and gaudy style—

slippers made from crocodile, 

caviar, truffles, saffron gin—

just give me toast with cinnamon.

And I’ll get sick, and you’ll get mad.

We’ll have less money than we had. 

Then even less. We’ll drink and dine

on sour food and sourer wine,

and go through all the motions till

the space between us starts to swell,

a little globe, our cells’ slow brood,

brimming with vague exactitude. 

Then years of throwing stale bread

at bored ducks, bored and overfed,

brushing your hair and our dog’s fur 

out of our clothes and furniture,

not finding our Byzantium 

in scraps but in the messy sum.

Both shade and sun, both weeds and grass

too quickly pass, too quickly pass. 

Michael Lavers is the author of two poetry collections, After Earth and The Inextinguishable, both published by the University of Tampa Press. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Kenyon Review, AGNI, Southwest Review, The Georgia Review, and elsewhere. He teaches poetry at Brigham Young University.

Alan Shapiro

Compatibilities

At dinner parties, or receptions, in brief

encounters in the street or park,

but always in his company,

she would stand a bit too close

to other men and, too obviously sly

for slyness, touch them almost harmlessly

on arm or elbow or for an instant rest

her hand on theirs, while he’d stand by

pretending not to notice, fearing, per usual,

to make a scene, public or private, 

and calling it virtue, the see no evil, hear no evil,

void of violent forbearance that never deigned

to show her any evidence of pain: wasn’t that

crueler by far, more maddening, than all

her minor (easily deniable) ruses of flirtation—

couldn’t you just once pretend to give a shit? —

that sheer rock face so unassailably beyond her reach,

inviolate, in the chilly heights of being wronged,

implacably unscalable, no wrong of hers

could ever gain the slightest purchase on? 

Alan Shapiro has published 15 poetry collections (most recently, Diver, published by

Unbound edition, Proceed to Check Out, Against Translation, Reel to Reel, finalist for

the Pulitzer Prize, and Night of the Republic, finalist for both the National Book Award

and the International Griffin Prize). Winner of the Kingsley Tufts Award, LA Times

Book Prize, an award in literature from The American Academy of Arts and Letters, and

a Guggenheim fellowship, he is also a member of the American Academy of Arts and

Sciences.

Joan Murray

Water Music

I dawdle on the warm lip of the tub

      and do my drying slow.

The cat flows through my ankles like a thirsty puddle,

      I cross my legs and stroke him

                  with the dangle of a toe.

The color on my toenails is called Coral Shell—

      it’s left over from our week in Cozumel

—and stops short above the tideline of new growth.

      It can wait until tomorrow

                   for a touch up.

On the radio’s a tune I recognize—

      a plaintive air by Enriqué Granados,

who died in the English Channel as he tried to

      save his wife when they were struck by a torpedo;

                       it always fills my eyes.

But the cat has no respect,

it leaps into the towel on my lap to cop a cuddle.

The bubbles in the tub are breaking up:

           the water’s giving up its vain attempt at being air;

                         the air at being water.

No matter, I’m dry. The cat got what it liked, and is

      curled up in the corner. You’re waiting in our bed.

I don’t bother with a robe, by now the bedroom’s

      warm, the water’s nearly gone,

                         pour on the rapture.

Joan Murray’s books include: Looking for the Parade (Norton); Queen of the Mist (Beacon), and Swimming for the Ark: New & Selected (White Pine). Former Poet in Residence at the New York State Writers Institute, she’s a two-time NEA Poetry Fellowship Winner, and editor of The Pushcart Book of Poetry.

Christopher Carstens

Leaning

This widowhood is strange. I used to stay

Awake all day – it’s easy when you’re two.

But now alone, I’m prone to drift away,

Grey staring at a wall, or halfway through

Some chapter in St. Paul I’ve meant to read.

My mind, unmoored, goes drifting down the stream,

Eyes not quite closed, I’m gone. With subtle speed

Come dreams, ephemeral as coffee steam;

I’m spotting her white hair across the store,

Or asking if she’d like a matcha tea,

Small bits of conversation, never more;

Her body’s fragrance wafting back to me.

A retired psychologist living in Dallas, Christopher Carstens is currently enrolled in the MFA at the University of St. Thomas in Houston. His poetry has appeared in Modern Age, Poems for Persons of Interest, Heart of Flesh, and other publications.

D.S. Martin

Citylight

The plane begins its descent   after a long   

long flight   dipping below
the cloud threshold   on this dark 
dark night   the sparkling city below 
spreads across the hillside   unable to hide 

like a million candles   lifted high
to mark their place
 
We can see something of the sort of city
this is   Towers shine with geometric grace

spotlights bleach cathedral stone   roadways

wrap diamond necklaces along the cliff edge 

tracing shoreline & beach   Though unseen

from this height   a righteous city feeds each

need   shuns greed
 
Glistening bridges span dark estuaries 
while the sight of each streetlight   
the glow from every window 
shows itself   as we climb from the sky 
Despite the darkness surrounding you 
you are such a city 
so am I 

D.S. Martin is Poet-in-Residence at McMaster Divinity College, and Series Editor for the Poiema Poetry Series from Cascade Books. He has written six poetry collections including The Role of the Moon (Paraclete, 2025)—a Gold Medal winner for Poetry at the Illumination Book Awards—and Angelicus (Poiema/Cascade, 2021).

Erica Reid

Where Can I Find the Stars

that rounded out the hem

of the gown the She-Wolf wore

(each distant light a gem),

who every night you swore 

             was strumming her guitar?

And no one seems to know

which constellation holds

the story of the snake

who retched a thousand voles

to soothe her stomachache —

             how did your ending go?

Without you, my night sky’s

reduced to kings and swans —

no haunted samovars,

no manatees or prawns

knitting sailboats out of stars,

             no poisoned shepherd’s pie,

so why should I look up?

The black grows flat and blurs.

The world prefers the tales

that they’ve already heard,

their bears and holy grails.

             You turned that garish cup

into Queen Cockatoo,

but I can’t find her form.

I’ve lost The Devil’s Hurtin’

and Larkspur-in-a-Storm.

The dark is just a curtain — 

             the best light died with you. 

Erica Reid is the author of Ghost Man on Second, winner of the Donald Justice Poetry Prize (Autumn House Press, 2024). Erica’s poems appear in Rattle, Cherry Tree, Colorado Review, and more, and she is the recipient of a 2026 Pushcart Prize. Her website is ericareidpoet.com.

Christian Lingner

Superstition

for Laura

On moonless summer nights, we’d stay up late

and lie for hours where bright cicadas sing

and stars are said to fall for those who wait

politely for whatever night will bring.

We’d shut off every light once we’d sprawled out,

and hardly dare a whisper, as if stars

would run away if they were talked about

and fault for lack of magic would be ours.

Even then, we knew the radio

foretold each astrological display.

If we were young, we weren’t too young to know

a star would fall, or not fall, either way.

But moonless summer nights, we’d lie there, quiet,

as if we might accomplish something by it.

Christian Lingner

William L. Ramsey

The Omen

At breakfast she said a Bald Eagle

            flew down to give her a rose in a dream.

            I nodded my head without looking up,

            not wanting to give her notions.

            We would know her guardian spirit,

I told my wife later, if we were Iroquois.

            That afternoon we boated down

            the Saluda River into the upper fringes

            of Lake Greenwood, where the water

            turns dark as the moss on the trestle.

She stood at the bow with her arms

            stretched wide, as if she was flying,

            like that girl in the movie. I had

            forgotten the dream until we passed

            a Bald Eagle, perched atop an oak tree.

The first one I ever saw. It launched out

            across the river to ride the heat from

            the mud-flats higher, then arced back

            over us, circling and circling. I’m her

            father, I whispered up to it, I’m her father. 

William L. Ramsey is a Professor at Lander University in Greenwood, South Carolina. His poems have appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Poetry Magazine, Poetry East, Poetry Northwest, The South Carolina Review, and Southern Poetry Review. His first book of poetry, Dilemmas, is available from Clemson University Press.

Jean L. Kreiling

Midnight Ride

Dad nodded when I asked if he would make

a stop so I could buy shampoo. I’ll take

five minutes, I assured him. He preferred

to go straight home, I’m sure, but said no word

of protest. Like his old wood-paneled car,

my dad was stoic. He had traveled far

out of his way that night to rescue me:

I’d called and he’d come, uncomplainingly.

He drove, we talked; his sea-deep voice seeped through

my skin and warmed my blood, as old songs do.

His big hands on the steering wheel looked strong—

unwrinkled and unspotted, though I’d long

regarded him as old—and little gray

marked his thick hair. The car showed no decay,

although it had to have been decades old.

I understood, of course, that as we rolled

through oceans of dark air, the dashboard’s glow

could warp contours and colors; all below

a blue-black sky can be transformed, murk-bent

as midnight does its best to reinvent

the world. Dad parked and spun the FM dial

to find a tune to sing along with while

I bought shampoo. I leapt out, slammed the door

on him and Patsy Cline, dashed through the store—

and came back out to find an empty lot:

Dad’s car was nowhere to be found. A knot

of worry soured my stomach. Had I taken

too long inside the store? More deeply shaken

than someone who had merely lost a ride,

I scanned all corners of the lot, beside

myself when I saw nothing but a sea

of blackness, and the possibility

he didn’t know I needed him to wait,

to sing me safely home, to navigate

the miles ahead. How could he disappear,

leave me without his voice to tune my ear?

And then I woke up, still confused and still

upset. I lay in bed a while, until

my brain unblurred. That car with fake wood trim

was long gone; so was Dad. We buried him

eight years ago, his hands well-marked by age,

his hair snow-white and thin. But on the stage

directed by desire and sleep, the dead

reprise their well-loved roles forever, led

by our brain waves and wishes—scenes and scores

performed superbly, with endless encores.

I had composed our midnight ride; I’d made

him sing. Daylight uncovered the charade

just as it ebbed: a fleeting, false reprieve

and proof that even in our dreams, we grieve.

Jean L. Kreiling is the author of four collections of poetry; her work has been awarded the Able Muse Book Award, the Frost Farm Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, and the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, among other honors. She lives on the coast of Massachusetts.

Brennan O'Donnell

Memory for $200, Please

 Whatever

    What is is is what

    I want . . .   

 Galway Kinnell, “Prayer” 

We sit, my Dad and I

In the common room

Some days he knows it’s me

Some days he has no clue

Today is good, so far

We’re watching Jeopardy

Good topics there, he says

I’ll know a bunch of these

As each clue is revealed

His right hand makes a fist

To signal that he’s got it

He starts to say What is?

Straining hard to ask

The question to the answer

He gets some, blanks on most

And says when all is over

It’s like the right response

Is there across the room

Playing charades with me

Gesturing through the gloom

His simile makes him smile

He’s pleased to play with words

That conjure up a friend

Who, silent, strikes a chord

That lovingly elicits

His longing for what is is

Brennan O'Donnell retired after 35 years as a professor and administrator at Loyola (Maryland), Fordham, and Manhattan Universities. In 2014 he received the Robert Fitzgerald Prosody Award, presented by the West Chester University poetry conference to “scholars who have made a lasting contribution to the art and science of versification.”

Fiona Spring

Great Grandmother's Typewriter

Her blue typewriter’s story wasn’t hers.

Beneath the secretary’s dark, closed eye

The keys are silent, ribbon hanging dry,

Its ink shriveled to coal and graphite blurs.

That last spring of her life, I was in school.

Grandpa came home to settle her affairs,

The business at the bank and all the shares,

Oblivious to the poetry’s accrual.

Back in her prime, her son’s needs and her books

Were subject to her husband's jealousy.

She set upon her hidden industry

And curled her fingers to the keys like hooks.

She tucked into a corner lined with rows

Of fading spines, a desk where that bright chrome

Return arm brought her singing lines back home.

I’ve set that blue machine in dark repose.

Her papers, lost, live on with my regrets.

The piles of written work shoved in a case,

The secret and the published, face to face.

In journals, she was flanked by cigarettes

And bullet bras and freezers without ice.

Her silence showed me what her poems were for:

Cold waves breaking like time, the sky a door.

A wife recoiling from her husband’s eyes

When, by cruel accident, he killed their son.

The words we never spoke stab into place

Above the grand type keys, before Death’s face.

Gushing ink, now, the ribbon comes undone.

Fiona Spring designs and publishes poetry books and broadsides at her letterpress studio, Lettre Sauvage. She's also a candidate for an MFA in poetry from the University of St. Thomas.