Glacial Waters (BC/Jupiter), Direct Digital C-print by Karen Bell

WARNING: To avoid danger of suffocation keep this bag
away from babies and children

Keep this bag close to you, adult:
you are a visitor clutching her coat, a limp crooked accordion-fold fan
against your thudding chest,
the person you’ve come to see has apparently been
moved elsewhere, rescheduled, released—so you wait, rehearsing
what you’ll say
although you are free to go—there are cabs
in the street and a bus stop at the corner,
it’s just a short walk home,
but if you linger—well, perhaps the bag
is all you’ve got.

This bag is a danger to others, it is
like a safari net weighted with rocks on its circumference, flinging
from a tree
onto innocent wildebeests or leopards, it is
a noose, a drowning, a body count—
it might have carried explosives
that, upon exploding, leave behind exotic toxic wind and powders
choking bystanders—
you are watching this on video in a darkened room, your wings
folded, feathertips across your knees.

In the event of emergency this bag is not an adequate flotation device—
you are too substantial, it will not keep your head above
water, it is not a pool toy
but if you are sinking and no one
is around to rescue you, or if you have sunk
into a nosedive, the cracks in the sofa, the river of forgetfulness, quick—
before you lose awareness
put your head in the bag,
listen to what it calls you, the way you hear your name, the name
of your dog, the name your mother chose for private parts,
the name you wish to see on your grave—
take slow shallow breaths and you will survive.

Leslie L. Nielsen, originally from Ohio, immigrated to Denmark in 2013 where she continues editorial work for Poets’ Quarterly and River Teeth Journal. Her poems have appeared in journals such as r.kv.r.y., The Missing Slate and Literary Mama.  She holds an MA in English Literature from The Ohio State University and an MFA in Poetry and Creative Nonfiction from Ashland University. She teaches writing, leads workshops in creativity, and occasionally blogs.

Read an interview with Leslie here.

Moth on a Polaroid Sky by Karen Bell

All warfare is based on this:
deception. Tonight, your mask
alcohol and brass and disarray
to hide your self-impersonation.

Mahogany bar, sports on twelve
flat screen TVs.
Happy hour cheese
hard to the touch.
Tiny cold
hot dogs on sticks.
Drunks laughing,
your face
unreadable,
gaping mouth socked,
duct-taped eyes full
of ancient shadow.

You’re growing older
younger
than your parents did.

You pose, display what’s on tap
for the night. Bog woman.
Out of your black cave
into the ragged firelight.

Now you see her, now you don’t
see a woman in a bar,

You are the retribution artist
dead rabbit in your hat,
bloodied rags up your sleeve.
Pull out
a moment of distraction, false
impressions, fake confessions,
jokes
on you.
Now you see it
now you don’t,
the usual toast
just another wet defeat.

Always, a man appears
out of nowhere
lacking the gold doubloon
of his own mutiny.

He slides over, leans in,
handsome after three drinks
delightful after more.

You: up for whatever
comes after that.

You call the shots.

Mickey J. Corrigan publishes pulpy fiction with presses with names like Breathless, Champagne, and Bottom Drawer. Her most recent novella is the spoofy romantic comedy F*ck Normal. A coming of age novel is due out later this year. Poetry and short fiction have appeared in literary journals. Visit at www.mickeyjcorrigan.com or on Goodreads.

Mars/VA Sampler, Direct Digital C=print by Karen Bell

If you could see them in the thousands,
doll-eyed, dressed in body-fitting uniforms—
are they even birds?

They love the zero degree, the chase of squid and krill.
Springing onto the beach, they flap, preen,
gossip in groups, then begin the trek to stony outcrops.

(Yes, they waddle. Yes, they sway like a bowling pin,
falling. They could out race you up that hill,
gloved feet built for snowy ascent.)

Glaciers and leopard seals watch their march
as the colony blares its complaint; eggs,
chicks, regurgitated fish, ammonia-

reeking shit, binding pebbles and down
as the adults sing HATCH HATCH HATCH
loud as a great refinery,

bold experiment in penguin replication.
We have not replicated. We are the comet,
the alien invasion, the avant-garde

of billions who do not love basalt,
thousand-foot ice sheets; have no blubber
against impossible cold, fear sky-veined bergs,

blue foggy light, the season of night,
leviathans wagging a monstrous tail.
If you were here, holding my hand

like those crossed wings, listening to love calls,
we would pray to Darwin, whisper to our DNA,
implore our worse, our better instincts—

let them live!

Mark McKain has had work appear in The New Republic, Agni, Subtropics, Cimarron Review, The Journal, American Letters & Commentary, Cortland Review and elsewhere. He was recently awarded a Writing Fellowships at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. The Center for Book Arts published a limited edition Broadside of his poem “Wild Coffee,” and he is also the author of the chapbook “Ranging the Moon.” He teaches screenwriting at Full Sail University in Orlando, Florida.

Read an interview with Mark here.

(Vincent Van Gogh – 1889)
“There is no blue without yellow and without orange.”

Vision Fire, Inverness Ridge, CA, Gelatin Silver Print by Karen Bell

Sheltered in cypress,
the pastor’s son clings
to the trunk of his faith.
Lightning grabs the night sky,
fires off a brilliant chaos.
Stars flow in whirling rhyme
from the white spire of truth.

Elastic rhythms reassure him,
but his mind cannot sustain
bright hope. Trembling
at the crackling sabotage,
he weeps as his wild symphony
disintegrates. Bewilderment
cowers in the closet of despair.

Elixir—a green glide through
aqua sky to amber field.
Stained hands clench
the revolver aimed inward.
For two days, life leaks
through quiet hands as
heart fails, mind dissolves.

Epiphany—he soars
into his starry night
soothed by a maze of grace
through stained glass tunnels
where all his colors meld
into pearlized reunion with the Son.
Sheltered here, Vincent shines.

Jillian Ross is a perennial writer and garden designer. She finds writing—like design—to be a combination of art and craft, enhanced by a dose of inspiration. She strives to combine these elements in her work and keep the weeds under control. Jillian earned her MFA in Creative Writing at Fairfield University in 2013. Her work has appeared in Dappled Things, The Noctua Review, Dogwood, The Penwood Review, Extracts, Poetry Quarterly, Mason’s Road, Weston Magazine, The Country Capitalist, Fairfield County Life, and Connecticut Gardener. Jillian lives in Connecticut with FaxMachine and CopyCat, mirror-image tuxedo cats who are fascinated by the working sounds of technology.

Read an interview with Jillian here.

Garden Path #2, Versailles, Gelatin Silver Print by Karen Bell

Easy to forget how young I was
when asked to kill or be killed.

The past is a window caked with
ashes of spent years. Tutankhamen

clasped his first golden scepter
at ten. Released it at nineteen.

Framed by a striped Nemes headdress,
face on his sarcophagus is confident,

wiser than time. Our own pyramids
were built atop recruits fresh

from high school, more comfortable
holding a rifle than a razor. Wars

are always fought by children. A kid,
once dared, will leap from a rooftop

into a pool. Regret is a word
in dictionaries of old men.

Bill Glose is a former paratrooper, Gulf War veteran, and author of the poetry collections Half a Man (FutureCycle Press, 2013) and The Human Touch (San Francisco Bay Press, 2007). In 2011, he was named the Daily Press Poet Laureate. His poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Narrative Magazine, Chiron Review, and Poet Lore.