Ekphrastic Writing Responses: Lyn Aylward (Curated by Kate Copeland) (2025)

​Naptime with Mama

Stretched out next to Mama
one eye open, her hand soft
against me, I listen for her voice,
her heartbeat while dozing

Running in the lane rocks,
even Mama gets all happy
throwing the ball for me, but
I sense her loneliness

I am here, Mama, I want to say
but I can only lie against her side.
She knows I am here, and Buddy
too, but it’s Papa she’s thinking of

I miss him too, our family walks
are now Mama’s walks with us,
and then we cozy up on the bed,
Buddy sprawled out, but not me,

I am listening, silently telling her
I am here, I’ll keep you warm
and even though the bed is soft,
his absence is felt all the same

Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson is a long time poet, whose work appears in over 75 journals. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, has served on two poetry boards and as a guest editor for several publications. Her work can be found inBlue Heron Review, LothlorienandEkphrastic Review,among others. She shares her home with two rescued cats, Cam and Jojo,and advocates for captive elephants.

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Judy’s Bohemian Rhapsody

Hindus say soul is the size of a thumb
or the point of an awl
or a spiritual atom
or one ten-thousandth the tip of a hair

and lives in a lotus in your chest
or your forehead
or pervades your body
or rides in a chariot driven by intellect

Mischievous Judy, in the corner of our eye,
guards a carton
of tongue depressors
each the size of the back of a King George chair

she plans to implant in her family of ghosts
and claim
they are
the speechless cardboard souls in everyone’s chest.

Her own words vividly paint VanGogh's
that suck
you in
but should
she ever
lift the brush from the canvas, she might go mad.

Mike Wilson

Mike Wilson’s work has appeared in many magazines and in Mike’s book,Arranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic. His awards include theLeague of Minnesota Poets Award, the Maine Poets Society Award,andthe Chaffin/Kash Prize of the Kentucky State Poetry Society. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky.

**

Languorous?

Languorous, as vowel stretch,
each glyph laid out in sounding shift,
aligned with sleek unbothered reach,
with dreams of scents, encounters, rest,
now prone, exhausted, inked arms linked.

On crumpled pastel, crease and fold,
all pillows, hills of dimpled sheets,
in crevice, blues, pink, yellows, green,
seen stream and sky, buds, blossom, sward,
addressed on fabric, ruffled, flesh.

Carved capital above slab slump;
a classic wage for time-paid age.
brawn muscles through to knuckle skin,
arch, zygomatic, prominent;
what causes stare in emptied air?

Poole pottery of former age,
a cluttered, indecisive space,
past glories, present to be faced,
what questions posed above the bed
to float around, pets unaware?

This is no more the languid tired,
nor lackadaisical in mind,
dynamic contrast laid to wrest -
so what ensues from contemplate?
What afterthought has walk aroused?

Stephen Kingsnorth

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, includingThe Ekphrastic Review.He has, like so many, been nominated for thePushcart PrizeandBest of the Net.His blog is athttps://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com

**

Goodbyes Are Too Hard

Sandra knew these were her final moments with her golden retriever, Daisy. Daisy had been there for Sandra’s toughest moments in life. She had been there for her mother’s death, her divorce, and most recently, her cancer diagnosis. Sandra found out that she and Daisy had cancer on the same day, and had been on edge ever since. They had just returned from the vet when she found out Daisy had less than a week left. Sandra always thought that Daisy would outlive her, Daisy was always stronger than she ever was. The first few hours after the vet visit the two had been on the bed soaking up their final moments together. Sandra’s other dog, Mack, would be the only one left, so she too lay on the bed soaking up the final moments. Sandra just pondered on how in the world would she say goodbye to her caring, obedient, comforting dog that she loved more than herself. Sandra came to the conclusion that this goodbye was just too hard.

Tessa Lawrence

Tessa Lawrence is 15 and goes to high school in Ohio. She likes to read, write, watch movies, and play basketball.

**

Walking

Dogs pester master,
after walking for hours,
until exhaustion.

Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her bookShorts for the Short Story Enthusiastswas published,The Importance of Being Shortin 2019andIn A Flashin 2022.She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna.

**

Lady In A Print Dress With Manet and Van Gogh

Daydreams of fragrant gardens
and nights when she painted
the town red dancing the days
away with different cats who
were mostly dogs--
Poets, painters and philosophers
masters of seductive reasoning
who were themselves seduced
by a ballet whose elaborate
choreography often spun
out of control--
Once vibrant flowers
that now droop and sag
exhausted in their beds.

dan smith

dan smith is the author ofCrooked RiverandThe Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes.He has been widely published in journals as diverse asThe Rhysling AnthologyandDeep Cleveland Junk Mail OracleandDwarf StarsandGas Station Famous. dan's latest poems have been atThe Solitary Daisy, dadakuku, Rattle Prompt Challenge, The Ekphrastic ReviewandFive Fleas Itchy Poetry.

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Pied Piper

I go to bed in my clothes too –
a green linen 60s floral shift
riding up around my thighs.
Nobody sees me but the dogs.

Sometimes my frock is a Dior mini:
bicolour, retro white and deep blue,
the kind of dangerous shade I imagine
the Bermuda Triangle might be.

I go to bed in it when I’ve been
out for a walk, or getting a new tattoo
(one arm is almost done, I think).
Bed is the only place to wear

your very best clothes – those outfits
you’ve discovered in op-shops, or inherited
as hand-me-downs from deceased
dowager aunts who bequeathed them

just as you donate your thoughts
to the ceiling – to the skylight covered
with fallen leaves – because it’s only
mid-afternoon, and the sun is shining.

Jennifer Harrison

Jennifer Harrison is an Australian poet living in Melbourne. She has published eight poetry collections and won numerous prizes, most recently the2023 Troubadour International Poetry Prize.

**

Bedfellows

Three mammals resting.If the other two
Had recreated this, how would it be?
Smells: cotton washed last week, shed fur, not-new-
Underwear, heated paws, post-walking me,
Sweat and deodorant. Cold tea. Breathed air,
With underlays of – what? I couldn’t know
If they could say. Three mammals, skin and hair
And neural firings, visually on show
Through me. I read that dogs are colour-blind,
Or partly, so they’re missing my insane
Candy-floss patchwork joy. The canine mind
Processes pink as grey; the human brain
Thinks laundry soap can pass for Alpine Streams.
I wonder what I smell like in their dreams.

Ruth S. Baker

Ruth S. Baker has published in a few poetry journals.She has a special love for animals and visual art.

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Beasties

Sated, they sprawl close
Unbothered by anxious thoughts
Saved from worry’s stab
In this riot of quiet
I’ve been told they can’t see colour.

Debbie Walker-Lass

Debbie Walker-Lass is a poet, writer, and collage artist living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared inPunk Monk Journal,Three-Line Poetry, Haiku Poetry, The Light Ekphrastic, The Ekphrastic Journal,andThe Niagara Falls Poetry Journal,among others.She has recently appeared in local spoken-word showcases & attended the Rockvale Writer’s Residency earlier this year. Go Braves!

**

Anna
…intimate partner violence…

-Thoughts

…ya’know when somethin’happens
everysinglerottenday
I don’t give a damn if it’s good or bad
truth is it ain’t nevergood
every time it turns out lousy
every time
an’I tell ya’somethin’else
it don’t get no better
I mean if somethin’that looks good comes along
which it don’t never come
it’s gonna go bad fast
you can count on it
an’if it’s bad when it gets here that’s jus’the beginnin’…

-Whispers

‘cept you two a course
(speaking like a child)
little Sophie you givin’Mommy yer belly?
that’s Mama’s baby girl
an big ol’Lazybones ova here
you leanin’on Mommy askin’if everything’s OK?
everythin’is perfec’my good big boy….perfec’!
who’s a good boy!!?? who’s agoodbig boy!!??
want MaMa to rub under yer chin Mr Lazybones?
huh? want yer Mama to rub under yer chin my biggest boy
(back to her own voice)
jesus one a these daysor nights
that ceiling’s gonna cave in
an’land right on toppa me an’the dogs
and them jerks upstairs is gonna get their
wheel a fortune watchin’all screwed up
me an’the dogs under‘em
them wonderin’what the hell just happened
(little snarky chuckle - 2 beats)
it could use a new coat a paint too the ceiling
I’ll get right on that t’marra
yeeeah!

-Thoughts

it’s stinkin’amazin’that he thinks
he can come waltzing in here
every single night
every single night
an’beat the hell outta me
smellin’like a brewery
lookin’like a fer real nut job
an’the mouth on‘im!
Jeeeezus! mouth like a truck driver
which he ain’t
he’s one a them guys where they’re doin’road work
he stands there all day long like some fat wax statue
twirlin’that sign
from real early in the mornin’
to early afternoon
to late afternoon
can you imagine?
SLOW STOP SLOW STOP
perfec’job for the bastard
those are theonly two speedshe knows
he’s been doin’that job now two days
quittin’t’marra
says he’s too old
his back is killin’him
his feet are killin’him
his hands are killin’him
an’he’s killin’me
but I don’t blame him fer quittin’
heistoo old
an’it’s a stupid job anyways…

Whispers, Thoughts, and occasional out loud Words …

(WORDS - Whispered aloud barely audible…)Eddie…(Anna leans over groaning every bit of her body aching from old age and years of doing a
whole lotta nothing she digs through the mess on the floor pulls a new smoke out of a crumpled pack tries to light the cigarette CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK the lighter finally lights after seven tries. Lazybones does not move a muscle.)

Don’t ask me why they call‘emlighters
when that’s theone thing they can’t do
stupid things.
Eddie
he’ll be home any minute
crash through the door
head right to the ice box
that’s weird I know it ain’t no ice box
jus’a habit left over from when I was a kid
50 million years ago
(bad British accent)
Excuse me. Pardon my lack of couth.
I mean, of course,
The Re-fridge-er-a-tor,Honey-Bun.
Do excuse me.
an’sure enough

-Thoughts

like he’s on cue or somethin’
Eddie slams open the door…
…wait…ain’t that a weird thing to say?
SLAMSopenthe door!
I don’t know
It jus’don’t sound right to me
anyways he slams open the door
grabs a beer from the refrigerator
drinks practically the whole thing in one swaller
an starts staggering towards the bed
lookin’like a ape
little Sophie makes her exit
straight under the bed
sometimes the fat drunken jerk
even hits the dogs
which really gets my goat

-OUT LOUD WORDS

Is dis what’choo bin doin’all day long
chain smokin’dem cancer sticks
lookin’at the ceilin’
and talkin’like some kinda crazy mental case
to dem stupid mutts

-THOUGHTS

he grabbed me by the front a my moomoo
holy christ here we go again
cigarette sparks flair up
burn out
ashes on the bed
that son of a…
see here’s what gets me
what gets me is
that mostly it’s silent
the back of his fat hand across my lef cheek
I woulda thought it a made some kinda noise
but I don’t remember hearin’nothing
ain’t that weird?

-WORDS

You lazy bitch
you better start doin’somethin’ ‘round here
sides takin’up space and stinkin’up the joint!
you hear me? huh!? you hear me?
what’re yous deaf?
an’yer mangy reekin’mutts too
get‘em the hell outta here

-THOUGHTS

fat hand across the lef cheek again silent
poor little Soph
I hear her whinin’under the bed
poor little thing
wish I had a gun I swear
were married now 47 years
man!...people shoulda laid they eyes on Eddie
when I very first met him…
oh my god talk about a lady-killa
a real dish I ain’t lyin’
an’me…ohhh me… when I’s young…
I wan’t too bad on the ol’eyes either get me?
an’ya’know I’mpretty surewe was in love
an’the plans!
lawd have mercy!
what we was gonna do you wouldn’t believe
then time…I don’t know…
it’s like some kinda miracle ain’t it
it’s here it’s gone
an’so are you
gone
see ya latta alligatta
bye-bye
you out after amountin’to nothin’but sad
my cheek hurts
know what’s funny
through this whole nasty nightly brawl
Lazybones never moved
I think I heard him groan once
like he was dog-talkin’to us
shut up yous! can’t ya’see
I’m tryin’to sleep over here.
then the king of the castle
makes hisself heard…

-WORDS

…be useful fer a change an’turn off the light
I’m gettin’up early
gotta drive right by the road work
to get to The Red Ash Bar
wanna stop first
an’tell that little foreman twerp
I quit!
give mySLOW STOP sign
to some kid lookin’
fer his first ball-bustin’job

-THOUGHTS

while I was leanin’over to turn off the light
I grabbed another smoke
will miracles never cease
the lighter lit on the first CLICK!
In-freakin’-credible!
Eddie’s already snorin’ LOUD
I’s thinkin’ ‘bout
what I’s gonna do t’marra
an’out from under my side a the bed
here comes little Sophie
stepping carefully ova her big brotha
not that he would care….or even know
Lazybones he likes to relax
he groaned a little groan when Soph
stepped ova him
Sopje lays down on the other side
both of us ready for a little siesta
Eddie’s snores is get louder an’louder
an’my little baby girl
my sweet Sophie
rolls over
and gives me her belly

FIN
(until the morrow.)

John L. Stanizzi

John L. Stanizzi is the author of 15 poetry books, the newest of which areSEE (A book of ekphrastic poems),Feathers & Bones,andViper Brain.His latest collectionEntra La Nottewill be out in December.John was named winner ofThe Ekphrastic Review’s Nine LivesEkphrastic Marathon, an incredible honour, one he says he will cherish always. A former Wesleyan University Etherington Scholar, and New England Poet of the Year,John was awarded an Artist Fellowship from the Connecticut Office of the Arts and Culture for work on his new memoir,Bless Me, Father, for I Have Sinned.

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The Art of Deception

"Suppose the Truth is a woman -- what then?"
Friedrich Nietzsche,Beyond Good and Evil

"If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it at all.'"
T.S. Eliot,The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


Appearances can be deceiving. When her grandmother, a teacher
for most of her life, bought a wig she never explained

that it was because she couldn't afford to have her hair done anymore,
to make herself presentable for the classroom. The wig

was grey. (Quiz: how could youth desert us like a vicious wind?)
Brushing her dog's red hair she thought of sea air,

the crisp crash of waves, floating to a stand-still so like her life,
naps after long walks to the dog park by a busy street.

She'd tried to beat sentient failure; to take a writing class, to write
a villanelle, its origin from the Langue d'Oc both countrified

and earthy, unlike the Langue d'Or -- "the language of gold"
spoken in Paris. But she couldn't understand

Ezra Pound's passion for vagabond troubadours his "periplum" --
the center of an empyrean journey -- his modernist

translation of Provencal love. Wearing a broad-brimmed hat,
he questioned 18th century lyricism -- why travel

was like a song -- Gaily the Troubadour touched his guitar, as he
was hast'ning home from the war... 2 World Wars

were over (Thank God!) but how could Pound's poetry -- his Cantos --
explain why she was born with red hair? Don't let a man

put his hat on your bed!older women said. It had been a last straw, really
when such a statement was used to describe red-heads

as whores; what the family called her grand-pere's amour, a legal assistant
in the city. How she loved her red-haired dog, Monsieur

Emmanuel! named for Emmanuel Kant -- or was it Descartes? Philosophy
and philosophers were so confusing. After she'd met

a man with an attractive mixed-breed at the dog park she had started a class-
required villanelle, writing on an Empire Cafe napkin:

O how often life's a mad deception!
The air smoke-yellow in the city streets,
How I dressed for yesterday's reception --

The black dress, a fashionable conception,
My love, a 'mess of shadows for your meat';
This tattoo, from days when I took action...

That was as far as she got. It was hot. She'd pulled on a sleeveless house-dress
and gone to bed with Emmanuel: 2 cups and an empty plate

lost in the bed-covers the only evidence she hadn't been alone last night, a fixed
figure painted in tossed colors a woman so unlike another of Aylward's

portraits, a regal woman hair done up, dress with a dark blue fabric sheen --
like the mystery of her chickadee why she seemed to be

a kind of Bird Woman, elegant, with 5 birds -- one, like a miniature kingfisher
(perhaps a blue jay?) in a glass cage; one small and reddish -- a finch?

Then the large head of a crane questioning confinement near her shoulder (She,
like me, the voice in this poem) must be her "other self," portrayed

with avian companions wearing shadowed, storm-sky blue posed with a parrot --
But reader, I have Emmanuel! whose name meansGod is with us,

and I hope to heaven he is so that a woman with red hair could have a red-haireddog, his body stretched beside her in an unmade bed disheveled on a Sunday

as she explores her dreams, the sea caressing her bare feet --
the time-free days
her heart can reach.

Laurie Newendorp

Laurie Newendorp is a poet writing in Houston. Twice nominated for Best of The Net, sheis a graduate of The Creative Writing Department (MA in Poetry), The University of Houston.Like Pound, she favours love quests in southern France, and the poetry forms created there,preferring the Sestina. "Gaily The Troubadour” quoted in the poem, is a song written in the1820s by Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797 - 1839).

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After the Walk

He is lying sprawled on the sheet,
My favorite, the one that is pink.
“What a charmer,” I think and blink.
He blinks back. Slow and Languid.
I smile at his wrinkled eyelids,
He turns to his side, making the bed lurch
And I watch the affection surge
in his eyes as a shine.

The time is way past nine,
We are lazing around in bed.
My little boys are resting their heads
After a run through the park,
Several strings of woofs-woofs and barks.
Their tails are quiet with an occasional quiver,
Listening to the tales of the river
That passes behind the house.

They are holding back all urges to pounce
And lying back with lolling tongues,
The rituals before sleep sets in have begun.
I pull out the chain which reminds me of her
And of things that were
Her black furred boy, ourblack furred boy,
Flicks his tail on my hand, he is not really coy.
My eyes blur with tears as I remember.

It was just last December.
You lay your head on the other side of bed,
The boys were sated after having been fed,
And you told me you were dying.
I accused you of lying.
You smiled and asked something of me,
I ignored you and got up to brew that tea,
But your eyes followed me out of the room.

I had not expected to hear news of your doom,
Yet I came back and cuddled against you,
Under the covers, and let my brew cool.
The black tail had flicked on my hair
And I had no laughter to spare,
But you let out a light giggle,
And tickled me till I wiggled.
The boys also joined in the fun.

Yes, my grief is not yet done,
And a black-tail flicks again at my arm
Seeking attention is part of his charm
And I let out a giant smile.
It has been a while
Since my lips pulled up all the way.
The boys have noticed it, haven’t they?
He wags his tail in response, proud indeed.

It is easy to push away my need
To have you around all the time,
When a dog is crooning and trying to mime
Right beside me as I try to recall
What was making me bawl.
A ball is shoved at my feet,
A bark and playful blink follow in a beat.
I forget what I was thinking about.

Yes, yes, I had meant to shout
And ask you why you left
And left me languishing and bereft
But the boys seem to know
That a ball throw
Is the nudge I need
To get out of the cycle of cry, rinse and repeat.
I miss you terribly my love.

My arms get a full-on shove,
I raise my head and look at him
You know his fur can use a trim
I extend my fingers and caress his tummy,
He looks at me like he looked at his mummy--
—you. You shined so bright honey!
He farts on my face, and no it isn’t funny.
Don’t you dare laugh darling!

You had been so charming,
So full of zest, life, and laughter.
It is you who they take after.
Making me live life, eat, sleep,
When I would just rather weep.
They give me faith that I will heal.
His nose tickles my feet, and I squeal.
He gives a cheeky grin, I swear.

You were so lovely my dear
His smile reminds me of the day
When the sky was overcast and gray
And you were sunshine and bright
And we binged on Turkish delight
While watching the Telly
And laughter rumbled in our bellies.
Suddenly, a car horn goes by the window.

I, I need to get out of this limbo.
He is up now, attentive and alert.
Shucks! his paw has embedded dirt.
I get a lick on my nose,
I am drained now, from grief and its throes.
He comes and lies beside me,
He is gleeful like you and just as free.
And things are no longer bitter, perhaps they can be sweet.

Surabhi Katyal

Surabhi Katyal (she/her) is a writer, translator, psychotherapist, and researcher based in Rajasthan,India. She says that writing and reading have held her together while she has lived with a decade-longbundle of chronic pain and psychosocial disability. Currently, she is translating verses of Sant Raidas and Maithili Sharan Gupt into English. She is also working on editing the English translations and doing the Hindi translations of A Vennila poems. She hopes that her cats will let her focus on her writing projects more (unlikely).

**

I Might’ve Had a Sex Dream

In the dream, I leave work and drive 18 hours nonstop, searching for an isolated cabin in the deep, dark woods. The sun sets, the sun rises. I never question if I’m awake. Did I mention, in the dream, I’m fired for watching porn? If I’d gone home, I might’ve told my husband it was a layoff; instead, I toss my phone out the window when passing the exit for home. Unlike the dream, I never watch porn, only read romance novels and inhale murky phrases like“wet friction,” or“grunting into foam.” Porn might’ve clarified the details. Critical anatomy shots at critical moments. I’m a visual learner. Before we married, my husband would run off after sex to confess, to seek absolution from his parish priest for a sin he’d committed, knowingly, willingly, and may I say–enjoyably. In the dream,I tilt into switchbacks and risk passing eighteen-wheelers, slowly climbing the mountainside. Did I mention the downpour? Wild lightning strikes hit dead trees and spark a fire. God, the heat. Sweat drips between my breasts in the dream. The torrential rain simmers the forest, and steam rises from the ground. Finally, in the dream,in my dream, I turn off the highway, grinding my car up a steep gravel road that dead ends at the cabin. I jump out, forget to cut the engine, and halfway to the door, the car revs higher and higher as if the motor is inside me. I knock hard on the door, and it opens to Carlos, my first boyfriend, the one who provoked Mama to say‘you could do better,’the one who refused confession or absolution, the one who feasted on wild-ass-monkey sex, and the one who, in my dream, swings the door open, sweeps his arm beneath me, lifts me and carries me inside.

Anne Anthony

Anne Anthony’s gritty, tender, and amusing stories feature compelling but slightly flawed characters who tend to carry on conversations with each other inside her head. She stopped fighting them a few years back agreeing to tell their storiesjustto quiet them.Find recent publications here:https://linktr.ee/anchalastudioor check her social media: IG: @anchalastudioX:@DIHPocketsARTFB: @anchalstudio

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Thereafter

Secretly I think of my life as a street—not a busy freeway, but a dead end with a way in but no exit except to unwind itself backwards into a repetition of what I’ve already done.It stands inside the shadow of a spiral that lengthens in a tighter and tighter coil as the years wear on andout.ExhaustedI conjure exotic locations, endless oceans of azure skies, a vessel sailing forever towards the horizon, following a magical but unfinished map.

ink tells my story--
my familiars dream, chasing birds--
we fly together

Kerfe Roig

A resident of New York City,Kerfe Roig enjoys transforming words and images into something new. Followher explorations on her blogs,https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/(which she does with her friend Nina),andhttps://kblog.blog/.

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Pet Lover’s Dilemma

I am my own canvas
splashy and expressive
life etched on each sleeve,

my friends are monochromatic
fur is fur
they have no choice.

Although dissimilar
we are stitched together
by emotion and survival,

they rouse me from slumber
desperate to pad outside for relief
then return to fitful sleep… not me.

What do they know of insomnia?
Should I buy a doggie door?
Is that a crack in the ceiling?

Elaine Sorrentino

Elaine Sorrentinohas been published inMinerva Rising,Willawaw Journal,Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review,ONE ART: a journal of poetry,Haiku Universe,Sparks of Calliope,Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal,The Raven’s Perch,andPanoplyzine. She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle, was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications. Her first collection of poetry, calledBelly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuitis in production at Kelsay Books.

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Muddy Water Rescue Plan

And then I was alone.

The brown dog was his. The black one, mine, half dead after the hours in the attic.

Me, on the bed in my neighbor’s trailer, Billie Eilish, through the earbuds I scooped up from the rising water.

When the rain came, the dogs and I climbed to the topof my beautiful house, with stones shaped and chiseled to resemble castle walls,muddy water lapping at our feet, me shrieking into my dead phone, waiting for the rescue boat to arrive.

Now in my girlfriend’s trailer, the mosaic of blankets, blue, pink, floral, stink of damp. A furious red rash creeps up my legs. My mouth crinkles from the dirty water infusion.

My husband left the day before the storm, saidI can’t take your nagging anymore.

Maybe I was an ideal, something he dreamed up, something to fall short of.

Maybe I should move back to San Diego where the sky, the sea, the eucalyptus shout colour.

Maybe Chicago. At least there, the wind matches my mood.

The black dog yaps in her sleep. My husband’s mutt gets up and nuzzles me. His breath is sour.

Snuggling together on the sunshine pillow, I kiss him back.

THE END

Laura B. Weiss

Laura B. Weiss is a fiction writer and journalist with work inFlash Boulevard,Bright Flash Literary Review,10x10 Flash,Five on the Fifth,New York Times,and Interior Design, among others. She was aPublishers Weeklybook reviewerand Bellevue Literary Reviewreader. She was also a Virginia Center for Creative Arts Fellow.

**

Count Your Blessings

If only life and love resembled the crumpled softness of a well-used bed.
Praise the dogs that lie beside my body when no one wants me.
I used to sleep better in white sheets until white became a shroud.
Praise the black and white floral linen on sale at 50% off, One Day Only.
At fifty-five, tattoos seemed a better option than another lover’s scar.
Praise the men I said no to, who took it for an answer.
This afternoon, I’ll wash the cup and plate and change the pillow slips.
Praise the dog drool and the silent farts that make me laugh when
all else fails.

Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman
​
Linda lives and writes poetry in Lake Tabourie, NSW, Australia, on traditional Yuin country and enjoys seeing her poetic work published in various literary spaces.

**

After the Walk

My body all flowers
My quilt and pillows flowers

Am I rehearsing for the grave
No one will leave stones or flowers

What do the dogs know
About roots or death

The strewn plate with its cups
Their stoneware bodies askew

Somewhere it is summer
And wild cones rebloom

Theophidianfabric beside me watches and waits
Memory’s original snake returning

As if then is now
My body hums with a bouquet’s submission

Beloved

Wherever you are I know you listen

Amy Small-McKinney

Amy Small-McKinney was the 2011 Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate. Her second full-length book,Walking Toward Cranes, won the Kithara Book Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2017). Her chapbook,One Day I Am A Field, was written during COVID and her husband’s death (Glass Lyre Press, 2022). Her poems have been published in theAmerican Poetry Review,The Baltimore Review,SWWIM, Tahoma Literary Review, Tiferet Journal, Literary Mama, Pedestal Magazine,Persimmon Tree,andVox Populi,among others. Her poems have also been translated into Korean and Romanian.Her third full-length book of poems& You Think It Endsis forthcoming 2025 (Glass Lyre Press). Small-McKinney has a degree in Clinical Neuropsychology from Drexel University and an MFA in Poetry.

**

After the Walk,

I collapsed in bed, my two other companions by my side, and couldn’t sleep. How could I? Mourning, rest escaped me. Not the dogs though. They conked out as if shot. Red, as usual, gave me not a jot of space, and pushed his lean body next to mine as if he was an appendage. Never a burden, always a patient joy, Smudge slept with her parts splayed, tart that she is. I lay on my back contemplating the spots of peeled plaster wishing I had the youth and spirit to rip off the wallpaper and paint the room in spumoni colors—lemon yellow, blushing pink rose with a ribbon of jade between the molding and the white ceiling. Suddenly, I spied little tears in the wallpaper bordering the window she’d ripped with her mittens. I hadn’t noticed the evidence of her before. Damn to renovations. I’ll keep the tears in her memory. Tomorrow we’ll walk to the unmown meadow and spread her feathery ashes amongst the yellowing grasses and jumping, green bugs.

Lucinda Kempe

Lucinda Kempe’s work has been published or is forthcoming inNew Flash Fiction Review, Centaur, The Disappointed Housewife, Unbroken Journal, New South Journal, Southampton Review,andthe Summerset Review.An excerpt of her memoir was short listed for theFish Memoir Prizein April 2021. Nominated forBest of the Netin 2024 byBoudin Magazine (The McNeese Review).

**

A Good Bad Gone

A mishmash puzzle,us,
a room that glints with
mismatched chintz
(he never liked it).

You walk so you forget,
but when the chazza shop
is beckoning, you reckon
that it’s worthwhile going in,
you can’t resist.

So armed with unexpected plates,
you take the left, you let the dogs off,
wander, think he would have rolled his eyes
at this new purchase: do we need
another plate? And you lost patience,
wouldn’t say again how chestnut
mugs and cheery sheets remind you
of your mum and how she squeezed
you tight in bed, the telly blaring
blurry comfort and another long-ago dog,
gone now, dozing on the proggy mat,
his legs a-twitch with dreams.

The cocker stretches, tiny scratch
reminder that you’re flesh and blood
and time is marching on and no-one
else will make the pot of tea
this evening.

Caitlin Prouatt

Caitlin is a Brisbane-born, Oxford-based Latin and Greek teacher. When not tutoring or looking after her toddler, Caitlin writes poetry, with a particular interest in how rhythm can contribute to an image. Much of her poetry centres on her experiences of being a parent, but she also often returns to Classical themes. She enjoys having a go at the Ekphrastic Challenge to hone her craft.

**

Dignity

I got my dignity.
Ain’t nobody can take that away.
Ha! Some try theirdarnedestthough.

Flipping burgers at the Clover Grill don’t seem dignified.
True, the place has its charm.
Red-topped diner stools, tile floor, pink menus.

Has history too.
Been here on Bourbon Street since 1939.
Open 24/7.

You gotta dig deep to find dignity there.
Jesus said feed the hungry.
I do that. That’s enough.

I just finished the night shift.
Took Huey and Louie for their walk.
Time to crash on this heap of a bed.

Too worn out to bother with the dress.
Yanked off my bra though, and slung it on the bedpost.
These New Orleans summers are too much.

Wish I had a cigarette.
Next paycheck I’ll get a carton.
For now just putting my fingers to my lips sorta helps.

I wish I had art for these walls.
I wear my art on my arm.
And I pull it up around me.

You can tell I’m partial to prints. Ha!
Who cares if the colors coordinate.
I get‘em cheap at St. Vincent de Paul.

Time to sleep now if I can make these eyes close.
Wouldn’t mind a man next to me.
But I learned that lesson.

I got my dogs.
And I got my dignity.
That’s enough.

Bill Richard

Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. He is also a standardized patient for medical schools, helping prepare healthcare professionals by giving them feedback on their communication skills. His poems have appeared in publications such asRed River Review, Ilya’s Honey,andNational Catholic Reporter.

**

To LynAylwardRegardingAfter the Walk

The walk, far more than exercise,
was meant to fill discerning eyes
with things familiar much the same
and of the moment new to frame

with those to prize and those to rue
and those that fervent hopes pursue
together trek that underway
from dawn to dark of years by day,

is aging, energetic still,
the sturdiness of stubborn will
as ceiling lowers heaven's sky
for inward glance of upward eye

that senses in artistic soul
collage of patterns to extol.

Portly Bard

Prefers to craft with sole intent...
of verse becoming complement...
...and by such homage being lent...
ideally also compliment.

Ekphrastic joy comes not frompraise
for words but from returning gaze
far more aware of fortune art
becomes to eyes that fathom heart.

**

Interior Design

My mother always wore a sleeveless nightgown, always slept on the right side of the bed, even after my father died. She always wrapped toilet paper around her lacquered coiffure, secured the tissue with hair clips. She always separated silverware in the sink, organized knives, forks, and spoons in the dishwater. She ate at the same time every day, often eating the same meal: Oatmeal for breakfast, tuna salad on white toast for lunch, broiled chicken for dinner. She rationed two Stella D’oro cookies every evening as she relaxed In front of the television. She wore silver with silver, gold with gold, never mixed metals.

Obsessive compulsive?

Some family members insist she was OCD. But me? No. She just wanted order, managing expectations birthed during the Great Depression and war. She wanted to wrap an imperial blue world of her own making around her, curl up in a blue-and-white comforter that matched the drapes, carpeting, curtains inside the armoire, the velvet tufted bench at the foot of the bed.

BarbaraKrasner

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is pursuing a World Art History Certificate from Smithsonian Associates as she works on a full-length ekphrastic poetry collection. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming inThe Ekphrastic Review,Nimrod,Cimarron Review,ONE ART, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey and can be foundatwww.barbarakrasner.com.

**

Curb Your Enthusiasm

Too many cushions, too many covers –
countless curves – that bed is a puddle
with many a squashy bubble
luring the woman to end her walk
and letting herself to the tuffs talk.

The one sharp line is laid pointedly sublime –
blob and dog having shoved the pliancy
of dress and flesh left her body edge
stretch forthright like a tugging kite.

Otherwise, here at the flat upper part
should have been a double oval plot
with perpetually swaying nod;
and at the lower plumb fringe
should have been an oblique weave
ambushing every limb’s groove.

Instead, it is geometrically projecting
annunciating:
I am mindful just of spiky adjectives
I take no curly compliments
I am Aphrodite of cutting-edge musings
I am here to draw the bottom line
of the internal cloud nine.

Unlikely, it is taut and sharp
like a string of a harp
with no twists to breed false tones
after my geometric clearance
for the earnest hand
I see extending out of the blue
to begin a tune of incredible cue.

So, curb your enthusiasm for curves
and take my sharpness
as the flatted-fifth harness.

Ekaterina Dukas

Ekaterina Dukas writes poetry as a pilgrimage to the meaning. Her poems have often been honored byTERand its Challenges. Her poetry collectionEkphrasticonis published by Europe Edizioni.

**

Filling Spaces

Dog breath fogs the window in the cramp of your bedroom, your lover gone, but at your bidding, dismissed the day before your fifth anniversary, a preemptive move, knowing he’d forget, never mind the cloying scent of a perfume you’ve never used that you sniffed on his jacket. Two still-plumped pillows head what used to be his side of the bed. Pottery he made, as yet unsmashed, lies in a box at the foot. Everything here abhors a vacuum. Black dog, upside-down, his wanting belly exposed, fills one gap. His dreams ride the refuge of the space your lover vacated, as he nestles into the billow of the duvet. Brown dog’s spine rides the left longitude of you, warms the length of your leg. The dogs flanking your sides arrived courtesy of your lover’s need to rescue, discovered in a burlap sack three years ago and brought home to salvage what was lost. Now, a larger loss looms over the room. You’d thought you were glad to see the back of him, but now wonder whether you did the right thing. You stare at the dusty sunbeam spilling through the window and a whoosh of air pushes from your lungs. You lose your eyes, start the hard work of erasing, of replacing.

Mikki Aronoff

Mikki Aronoff’s work has been nominated forPushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories,andBest Microfiction,with stories appearing inBest Microfiction 2024and forthcoming inBest Small Fictions 2024. She lives in New Mexico.

**

Grief Has More Than One Pattern

Daydreams take up most of her time –
dreams of what it must be like
to be a dog, to have a life
where someone else takes care of
the dirty dishes, the disheveled bed,
the comings and goings of daily doings,
even where the next tattoo will go.
If only some benevolent being
(someone who loves her as much as
her dogs do) would take charge
and let her focus on clouds and colors,
walks in the park and midnight jazz.

He used to do that for her. He loved her
as much as she loves her dogs.

Maril Crabtree

Maril Crabtree’s book,Fireflies in the Gathering Dark(Kelsay Books), received a 2018 Kansas Notable Books award. Her latest book isJourney. Her poems, essays, and short stories have appeared in numerous journals includingCoal City Review, I-70 Review, Literary Mama, Main Street Rag, Persimmon Tree, Poet’s MarketandThird Wednesday.She believes that a poem’s apothecary of words, of sounds spoken and absorbed, can be a healing force in our culture. Her online work can be seen atwww.marilcrabtree.com

**

After the walk

the shutters closed
upon return
sprawled out in bed

hot wind outside
the sunfierce on our skin
fierce on our road
we’re done now
I’m done

a space for time
a room for lying about
on this layer of earth

Stien Pijp

Stien Pijp livesin the Dutch country side. She enjoys thinking, poetry and clay. She is alinguistwho works in the field of aphasia and care. A dreamy person who likes to hang around and walk her dog.

**

At Noon

I let the sun eat
me
and my captive Halloween
ghosts
itching to ignite.

I let love go-
bald like the eucalyptus grove
by the path I climb,
like the silver oaks
that rise beyond
hope.

As in a note that I find
at free bird house library
on the road I walk at noon,
Write a line and pass it on-
I let the sun eat
my youth and colors gone cold.

At end I lie
free of my weight, sprawled,
browned as the eucalyptus bark
tattooed with time.
Fearless of fall.

Abha Das Sarma

An engineer and management consultant by profession, Abha Das Sarma enjoys writing. Besides having a blog of over 200 poems (http://dassarmafamily.blogspot.com), her poems have appeared inMuddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Sparks of Calliope, Trouvaille Review, Silver Birch Press, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, here and elsewhere. Having spent her growing up years in small towns of northern India, she currently lives in Bengaluru.

**

Sunrise Aches of Evening Years

oh, but I’ll be up again, darlings--
blame these old bones, rigid and stubborn
as your love for walks when air is cool
and sun tepid; your dawn in my
evening years rejuvenate as much as
it bears down with all its energetic leaps;
alas, my cartilages, my muscles, my nerves
require horizontal walks of complete stillness
for a little while—maybe a few more whiles;
come, lie next to me; accompany me
through this internal adventure—I hear you,
my darlings, but all I need is a little while,
plus a few extra whiles, and I’ll be up again!

Manisha Sahoo

Manisha Sahoo (she/her), from Odisha, India, has a Bachelor’s degree in Engineering and a Master’s in English. Her words have appeared/are set to appear inInked in Gray, Borders not Bridges, Apparition Lit, Sylvia Magazine, Atticus Review, Amity, Noctivagant Press, and others. You can find her on Twitter and on Instagram @LeeSplash.

**

I Search for the God of the Afternoon Doze

of two dogs lying down with me
of the smell of trees on their coats
of the ice cream pink and blue swirl
of quilts surrounding us
of the pattern of light that will fade
of a green dress hiked to my thigh
of dreams and intricate tattoos
of my right hand fallen like a fat leaf by my chin
of pillows tossed to the floor
of eyes that will close in a moment
of dirty plates by the bed I think of then forget

Catherine Anderson

Catherine Anderson is the author of four full-length collections of poetry, and a recent memoir,My Brother Speaks in Dreams: Of Family, Beauty & Belonging, about growing up with her brother Charlie who had autism and was institutionalized for a time. For decades she has worked with new immigrants and refugees in the field of interpretation/translation. In her free moments, she likes to draw owls.

**

Lady Dogs

It's the happiest she’s been in a decade, here on the bed with Beck and Sue. He'd be horrified to see it: the bed in disarray, dogs on the duvet in animal abandon. What about the shed hairs, he’d say, my allergies, the mess that lady dogs make. She hated the term‘lady dogs’: as if insults are improved by euphemisms.

They’d had a long, gorgeous walk across the common. Beck and Sue were everywhere, scampering like crazed things: she’d never known dogs dig so many holes! But both came to heel when she called, as if they’d been acquainted for years. They hadn’t - she fetched them from Rescue Dogs that morning. But look how they adjusted to their new home, stretched-out on her bed like they’d lounged there forever! Brown haired Beck at her left, snoozing on the swirled sheets; black haired Sue playing possum, a twitch in her hind-leg the only sign of life in her weary state. When they ran to the bedroom she hadn’t even stopped to wipe their paws: she didn’t need to care anymore.

She felt at peace with these dogs. She’d missed the creature-warmth of a loving presence, so lacking in her life through her years with that man: his skin like refrigerated lard; his chill, bony limbs poking holes in her patience, her will to live. She knew things would change with Beck and Sue, felt instantly connected when she collected them this morning: sweet-natured Beck’s gentle eyes, Sue’s lean snout that she likes to nuzzle with. He feared being nuzzled by dogs: shunned the wet nose that Sue forced upon him, nuzzling his face to get attention. She guessed how he’d react, claiming dogs made his asthma rage; but he was easily upset, that man. Everything annoyed him, her most of all. He didn’t like the sandy shade she dyed her hair, the way she wore her dresses short, the beautiful tattoos she’d been adding to for years, just to spite him. But dogs were the final straw: he’d fumed when she bought them home, flew into a man-rant.Asthma, asthma, asthma!He only ever thought about himself, that man.

It occurs to her now that their walk across the common will be a twice-a-day routine: Beck and Sue need exercise, but now her garden’s out-of-bounds. She’d never known dogs dig so many holes: who knows what these lady dogs might find beneath the freshly-turned earth.

Paul McDonald

Paul McDonald taught American literature at the University of Wolverhampton for 25 years, before taking early retirement in 2019. He is the author of 20 books to date, which includes fiction, poetry and scholarship. His most recent poetry collection is60 Poems(Greenwich Exchange Press, 2023)

**

Where the Red Hair Grows

“Dogs are better than human beings
because they know but do not tell.”
-Emily Dickinson

the silence crackled
and began to dance.
the heat stuck to light.
my two beautiful dogs.
one large with long paws,
movie glam, and glistened
with gold. the other smaller
made with silver trim,
and sparkled like a star.
there was a story that
went back a half century.
my mind drifted through
the years. my wonderful
memories unfolded.

Michelle Hoover

With thanks to Wilson Rawls,Where the Red Fern Grows, Ch. 1.

Michelle“Line/breaker of the North” Hoover is an amateur poet and professional wiseacre. She lives near a mountain on unceded Ute territory with her onery feline, Stevie, the Magnificent Marshmallow. She enjoys her toes in the grass, a hardy laugh, and a backstroke under a starry sky. Her work can be found inThe Ekphrastic Review; enjoy!

**

AfternoonSiesta

Cynthia is in deep
meditation as she
reclines on her
wrought iron bed
covered in colourful
floral quilts, content
with her hand
on her brown
lab’s neck
as a stiff breeze
ruffles lace curtains
above the pillows.
Her leafy tattoos
prove her bond
to nature while
Cynthia’s dyed
red hair and facial
wrinkles remain
evidence of maturity.

This afternoon she
is resting from
a two-hour hike
along the marsh,
where she paused
to observe
a snowy egret,
motionless
fifty feet away
with her two dogs,
Zeus and Bandit.

At this moment
her fingers are
poisedon her lips--
some dark secret
never to be shared.

Jim Brosnan

A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author ofLongDistance Driving(2024) andNameless Roads(2019) copies are available [emailprotected]. His poems have appeared in theAurorean(US),Crossways Literary Magazine(Ireland),Eunoia Review(Singapore),Nine Muses(Wales),Scarlet Leaf Review(Canada),Strand(India),The Madrigal(Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), andVoices of the Poppies(United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI.

**

King’s Walks

24 days ago, I noticed how slow King walked. His progress was usually lagging a little due to his massive bulk, but he kept falling far enough behind I had to wait for him to catch up. He was just getting on a bit, 13 now. Our afternoon walks out in the woods were the highlight of his day (if you don’t count dinner), so we still ventured out, morning and afternoon, no matter what the weather.

15 days ago, I woke up to a revolting smell. The morning light was barely slipping through the blinds in the shades. The other dogs had evacuated the bedroom, leaving King slumped on the floor surrounded by foul piles and mounds. I could see his body heaving with effort. I got out of bed and put my hand on his head; he struggled to his feet, and we walked to the truck to go to the vet’s.

13 days ago, the phone screeched out during the early morning. It scared me for a few reasons. It was the vet’s office calling to report their findings. King had cancer. And it was too late, and he was too old. No other details they shared mattered. I don’t even remember what kind they said he had. I rounded up the crew and headed into the woods while the sun was still out to warm us.

4 days ago, while I was washing dishes, I heard a crash from the hallway. I dropped the plate and was already in the doorway when the crack echoed out. King was splayed on the floor. He was fighting to get to his paws, but his legs convulsed so horrifically, it was impossible for him to get up. I crouched and pulled him to me. The convulsions stopped as darkness crept down the hallway while we were lying there. That day, nothing was done, no walks were taken.

This morning, King didn’t go near his breakfast. I let the bowl out all morning. I shooed the others when they came sniffing around. That was King’s food, though he hadn’t eaten in a few days. He watched me do chores from his deflated cushion. When I took a break for a cigarette and coffee he struggled to his paws and settled his large head on my lap and cried. I understood, and I cried with him.

After the walk, I got in the shower to scrub the dirt from my skin and the guilt from my heart. But it was no use, the remorse crawled into bed with me. The remaining members of my small pack joined, and I am grateful for their warm bodies, soft fur, and the unrelenting love only dogs are capable of.

The first walk we took after I brought him home, King was a holy terror. He ran from me the moment I unclasped the leash. He frolicked in the mud, got stuck in the woods’overgrowth. He attempted a small howl, but just frightened himself. I wriggled in after him and ended up with a tick. He relentlessly chased squirrels until he finally caught one, and I had to coax him with multiple treats to let the poor thing go. I remember thinking that he was hustling me. My energy was spent by the time we got back, but he bounced around like he had just woken from a full night’s sleep. When I finally scrubbed the dirt from his fur, he curled around me in front of the tv for the night. And that was how we spent almost every day.

Tomorrow, I’ll call the tattoo parlor for an appointment to get a crown added to my right arm.

Samantha Gorman

Samantha Gorman, a lifelong lover of books, lives in Western Pennsylvania. After taking several creative writing classes, she found her voice and had begun the adventure of becoming a writer. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is working on her first novel.

**

Always Three

She absently rubs my neck. The woman whose name I’ve never known. I’ve been with her enough days to know she sees no one but me and Polly. Polly is what the other dog is called. She calls me Susan. She’s not been around other people so I don’t know what she is called. Many days she will lay in bed until noon, just the three of us while she stares out the window. After a long time, she will get up and give us little biscuits and a saucer of tea. Her tea is in a big cup. She will put big white shirts over her clothes and spread colours on paper. She gives them to the mailman every couple of days and he brings her money. She lives in color. She lives for color. After the day is over, she’ll sit on her little balcony alone and eat dinner, then all of us will sit together and listen to music while she reads or knits or just sits. Sometimes we’ll dance, sometimes we’ll cry. Whatever we do, it’s just the three of us. Always.

Anna Svatora

Anna Svatorais ahigh schooler in central Ohio.She hasparticipated in a few state writing competitions and hopesto become a full-time author one day.

**

Thinking

Thinking, thinking, thinking. All day she spent thinking. She lay in bed just thinking of her life, thinking of her lost love, regrets, sorrows, and joys. All day, all week she spent thinking, thinking of memories of when she was young, memories of her husband she misses so dearly. She lies in bed with her dogs lost in her thoughts of all her memories she has of life, good and bad. She enjoys the time she spent thinking of those memories. She smiles slightly,“a well lived life” she thought.

Abbi Dose

**

My Two Dogs

I lie in bed contemplating everything that a person could contemplate on a Monday morning, allowing the sun’s rays to enter my cornea and make it impossible to sleep. I looked to my left and right and my black Pocket Beagle named Rosie and my brown Labrador dog named Teddy were still snoozing even though the sun’s rays had filled the entire room, it still had not woken them or stirred them in the slightest out of their slumber. Even though both dogs were different sizes and different breeds they still manage to get along no matter what. I thought about the world and wondered about how people were unable to get along like how dogs were able to, it just doesn’t make any sense since humans are smarter than dogs and we are unable to get along. I sigh, knowing that we humans have a long way to go until we get along and so I pray to God and then get up and walk to the kitchen to prepare my dog’s food. I grab by dog’s food and walk to their bowl and pour it in and now I hear the running of paws to my location and I see my Teddy running to the food bowl but not eating it right away instead he waits for Rosie who comes running in a little bit after him and so they both start eating from the food bowl not growling at each other just eating and enjoying each others company.

Samuel Verhoff

**

You see, poems are not exactly my specialty. so ill do the bio.

As a wee little lad, I loved to eat dirt. You see I wasn't the brightest person in thatmetaphorical box. But I had something even greater, since I had the IQ of a dead pigeon, I knew that I could easily eat dirt. but since I knew that dirt wasn't normally easy to eat. I thought I could try multiple things that might change the way it works. I tried soaking it in water and even trying to take it grain by grain. I realize how dumbthis was about a month later, and even now I still think about it once a week. but I just felt determined by this pointless act, that would not benefit me but actually make my hours worse because of the stomach pain. After I tried multiple different ways and after I had basically given up. I had a spark of ideas, one I thought would for sure work. "if I could just put it through a strainer" I thought to myself. now I didn't own one, and to my surprise, there wasn't one in my shed either. But then I remembered the meat mallet my father used to almost crush a squirrel that got stuck in our humble home. I used it with water and a bag. I put the bag under the meat mallet and turned the mallet to the side, I used clean water and pressed the dirt against the mallet while the water flowed. turns out that's not how straining works. so I tried to, and part of my brain felt so accomplished it made the dirt not taste half bad. I haven't eaten dirt since but if something like this happens again. I'll be sure to try whatever it takes to get my dumb goal accomplished

ColeStefanovski

**

The Encounter

The bed is strewn with fatigue,
pillows tossed about, Labradors
panting on each side of he mattress
and myself resting

from our early walk. Before dawn,
we hiked through the woods. long and slow
winding through a place where everything
dissolved into silhouette and the shining stillness

that lingers after an Autumn rain.The moon
had cast her presence on the water, a woman
gowned in white -drifting on a current
headed down stream wherethe stone depot
remains with ivy sprawling over its walls;

and memories have seen the sorrow
of too many departures.

The dogs whimpered,sensing a ghost;
and I felt the shadow of a story
trail behind. Someone harbored
by the huddle of trees, soft-fallen
of foot and voice,

said to go home, fall asleep
and the rest wouldbe revealed
in a dream. So here I lie

fading into slumber, wondering
what spirit called my name, begging me
to learn of her legend.

The dogs lie corpse-still, their breathing
now easy, hardly heard but they know
about the moon andhow she parts

that curtain of misthours before
most souls revisit their past. And I think
the dead must breathe as they shimmer
in the dark or half light,inhaling our scent
knowing which ones to pursueand possess.

The sky lightens with a train passing
on tracks that follow the river. And Ihear travelers
discussing in one of the carriage cars

how a lady drowned, submerging herself
in the cold darkness ofmidnight. Her birthday
just moments away; and her lover gone
to the glamour ofgamblingA grand casino
in Monte Carlo they say.La Salle des Americains

known for its rich tapestries and tables
spinning his life into nothing
but the luck of numbers. Tomorrow

I turn thirty, my husband stillin Paris
but his letter sits on the chair, a few inches
from my hand, waiting to be read again

and I realize there are no trains
that go through this town, only a woman
wanting to press his words

against her heart, waiting to awaken
from my dream.A stranger to the dogs
but not this house which she owned
lit by gas lamps and gloamed by the green
dusk of willows -- more
thana hundred years before.

Wendy A. Howe

Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, women in conflict and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them:Strange Horizons, Liminality, Coffin Bell,Eternal Haunted Summer , The Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter's House, Silver Blade Magazine, TheOrchards Journal, Indelible magazine and Eye To The Telescope.Her latest work will be forthcoming inThe Acropolis Journallater this year.

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Sacrament with Dogs and Tattoo Sleeve

The dogs dream of running
toward her right beside her

the way the soul speedwalks
stock still toward the body

when the body’s hungers
have all been checked off

like items on a to-do list.
I love the good bad things:

the bright red heels
that crush my toes like ice

in an overpriced drink;
scarfing stale kid’s cereal

straight from the box;
an afternoon in bed letting

the bright unproductive light
poke holes in my sorrow

like the ones I’ll later stab
into the film of

a microwave meal.
Douse me in doubt,

drench me in deep
lavish unknowing,

like a bird bathing herself
in a highway puddle.

My God is a girl
holding a mirror

between her legs
or a convenience store

bathroom—perfect
for when perfect doesn’t

matter so much as relief.
Maybe God isn’t good

but where love goes
to get her nails done

so she doesn’t have to
hold anything for a while.

There are days I think
I’ll layer my floors in filthy

laundry if it means I
don’t have to walk anywhere

I haven’t already been.
I want to let my dogs out

and then watch them rub
their street-slick snouts

on my sheets.
Like a low-cut dress, life

won’t ask you to bend over
but is what is

revealed when you do.

Lexi Pelle

Lexi Pelle was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming inRattle, Ninth Letter, Plume, SWWIMandThe Shore. She is the author of the poetry collectionLet Go With The Lights On(Write Bloody Publishing, 2023).

**

Allison Wright lay in bedas the early morning sunlight filled her room through the open window. The cool springtime air caused her curtains to rise up and fall back down slowly. It was a beautiful day, but she could not be more nervous. Today was the day. Race day. Not just any kind of race though, Allison competed in dog racing. She stroked her golden retriever, Holly, absentmindedly as she stared up at the red walls and ceiling of her room. Her other arm rested against her other dog Skye, who was lying on her back, all four fluffy legs in the air. She believed that she was a Beagador, half beagle, half labrador, with fluffy black fur, with white patches of white on her chest and toes. Holly rose gently up and down as she slept, but Skye’s tail continued to wack Allison’s arm as she grinned mischievously up at her owner over her furry stomach. Skye was full of energy, while Holly was very calm, except when people came over. The two of them obviously were not racing dogs, but they still came to the races to watch their older brother Bandit, her greyhound, compete. When she had competed in track and cross country in her high school years, Bandit had run with her when he was a little puppy when she was practicing, and she had realized how fast and talented he was. They started small, competing in the annual town race, which was easily won. After that they took on the state, and now she was twenty-one and the two of them were about to compete in the country wide race. She glanced over at her clock; it was 7:39.Better get goingshe thought, and she climbed out of bed, causing Holly to wake up and stare at her with sleepy eyes. Skye, on the other hand, rolled over, falling off the side of the bed, and bounded up to Allison, jumping up and down excitedly. She changed out of her green nightgown into a dark gray t-shirt with a picture of Hawaii, which she hoped to visit someday, and pulled on a pair of jeans. She never wore makeup, which her older sister, Kaylee, never understood, so she did not waste any time on that. She then pulled her copper colored hair up into a messy bun, brushed Holly and Skye’s fur until they were both silky and shiny, and went downstairs for some breakfast. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen as she prepared the dog’s food first. It was around 7:50, she would need to leave at 8:15.

About an hour later they were pulling up to her parents house. As she began to open up the car door, Skye pushed her way through it, and Allison had to quickly grab her leash, Skye especially hated car rides. Holly and Bandit followed. She was about to reach the doorstep when the door opened and her two little nieces, Bridget and Madeline, ran out to greet her.

“Hi Aunt Alli!” they squealed happily before dropping down to pet the dogs instantly. Allison laughed, and looked up to see Kaylee and her husband Derrick in the doorway, smiling at her.

“Hey little sis,” Kaylee walked down and gave her a hug. Derrick followed, greeting Allison with an embrace as well, and offered to take the leashes. She thanked him, and handed Holly and Skye over to him, but kept Bandit, who stayed close to her. She walked towards the house and found two boys standing in the door this time. One was her nephew, Cason, and the other was her younger brother, Noah. She was just barely finished saying hello to them when she was suddenly becoming squished from all over as her mother and father joined the group hug.

Once everyone had finished their greetings, they started heading out to lunch; the dogs stayed home, of course. There they met up with her grandparents, a few aunts, uncles, cousins, and some friends. They all caught up with one another and talked excitedly about the race.

A few hours later, Allison was on the road again, pulling into the racetrack’s parking lot. Only Bandit was with her this time; the other two dogs were riding with the family. She walked him over to the track. He sniffed excitedly at the ground, his tail wagging enthusiastically. Bandit loved to race, just like Allison. She smiled down at him. Even after all these years he still reminded her of that little puppy bounding down the high school’s track next to her. They went inside the building where the racers gathered, preparing their dogs for the contest, for victory. Allison stroked Bandit, while he nuzzled his face into her lap. After a while she glanced at her watch. It was almost 6:00. She could already hear the crowd. The announcer started to call the dogs and their owners out to the track. The race was about to begin.

Becca Bates

Becca Bates is a freshman at Granville Christian Academy. She plays volleyball for her school's team, and has written and published a book with two of her friends,Earth Defenders: Alien Attack.

**

This Life

Daddy said go on and live your life,
Don’t get old with regrets like your mama and I,
Take one step forward until you feel what’s right,
You won’t always have time on your side.

Daddy says he feels seventeen inside,
Yet the glass shows an old man with his eyes,
He knows that life has somehow passed him by,
With no turning back, no matter how hard he tries.

Sometimes I feel like I want to stay in bed,
Pull the covers up high right over my head,
Pretend the world’s heard all that needs to be said,
That my scars will stop bleeding because they’ve already bled.

Then I hear daddy’s voice in my mind,
Saying honey remember there’s no thing as rewind,
Put one step forward, you will be just fine,
Your two steps back were just a moment in time.

My feet hit the floor from guilt or drive,
I push myself forward and start the climb,
Perhaps his sadness isn’t just for what he left behind,
But for fear that his life could be repeated as mine.

Corrie Pappas

Corrie Pappas is a small business owner living outside Boston. Her work has appeared inThe Ekphrastic Reviewand she is the author of the children’s book,Come Along and Dream.

**

A Question

She lies awake, burrowed
into a bloom of quilts, a flurry
of pink and turquoise, yellow and indigo.
Her mind races like her Golden Boy
on the wooded path. He’s dozing now,
warm against her left flank, the spot he favours.
Blacky lies on her right, legs splayed,
belly exposed and vulnerable.
They smell of leaves and earth.
She watches the shadow
of the old oak shape shift
across the ceiling as the day winds down.
She strokes her lips, ponders
her husband’s return,
whether there’s room for him.

Susan Carman

**