Beams Upon Cherry

Fallon Kimball Breaths of sand beneath the surface as the tide massages oilspill dusks, laughter and froth chaotic cohesion history burned for warmth Vulnerable aluminum domes the children crawl upon as they reap bliss and twentysomethings pretend knowledge all aged influences an impediment to laughter their freedom stifled by a nostalgic resentment Am I? relegated… More

Song For A Bomb

Jules Gibbs The street below is a stage of awninged shops you are seven small volcanoes maze of wrought iron, recess, treachery of fire escapes an earthquake to excite still water — give it to me— your ineffable song put it in my mouth; ignite the fuse sirens wail in lamentation over gray rooftops of… More

Washer Women

Jules Gibbs My mothers were famous unknowns who lived in cellars where walls wept ceaselessly in the language of water. Blue ironing board, dangling cord, clench of clothes pins with nothing to hold. A reservoir, my maternal line pools in a porous foundation — wells up, amniotic. The only way through is a sacral path… More

Alice James, Untitled

Brian Hardie Agnostic fears believe faith is a Love not able to be torn from. The innocent Houses lined in the park deceive the Scripts written by a Homeless sensation. From coast to coast, To the avenues of sorrow, mistaken foods are sold on Circumstance, tattooing the sensitive Voices on the opposing spectrum. Abrasive pigtails… More


Ashok Niyogi kingfisher dives for fish when the tiger is coming the monkeys know from treetops oh so many greens on this ochre mountain such glorious parakeet pea-hen sit camouflaging peacock eggs jackal husband and jackal wife walk over rounded stone mellowed by river for a few moments someone weeps loudly in yellowed grassland interrupting… More

Post Office on the Ridge

Ashok Niyogi tigers saunter in for Western Union from their non-resident children oak forests have walked away and left behind a two-blade ceiling fan a hundred years ago here Corbett shot a man-eating leopard in the kitchen garden the ‘India Post’ cottage on the ridge has an artist postmaster with gerbera and carnation in his… More

There's No Money In Poetry, Someone Said

Howie Good True, but wouldn’t you rather jerk awake to the beating of invisible wings and later, if the light is right, watch a river scratch itself until it bled? And as to the example of those who keep their feet firmly on the ground, like a telephone pole, or a feeding trough, or a… More


Megan Jones It takes many figures to make a daughter. Following the lines, shadowing the forms drifting from center, braincomb cycling through the seasons, sharp caesarean scissoring black digits, sharp numbers dancing toward a hole no larger than an eye a hole that listens like I wanted you to listen to the song in the… More


Megan Jones “They who have put out the peoples’ eyes reproach them of their blindness.” – John Milton Hanging between the mystery & tender fury we are seeking our truth and finding our void Floating one breath away from the broken code our chosen vocabulary is whittling reality down to politics and separation Now there… More

Spring, Delayed

Howie Good Birdsong alarm don’t cry I can feel broken idols change trains upturned hands forfeit fire uncle decay still trying shhh tree sleep Howie Good is a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz. He is the author of seven poetry collections, including Tomorrowland (2008) from Achilles Chapbooks in… More