Issue 1.6


I have held a word from birth, in my mouth 
multisyllabic catastrophe, a haunting sound 
I try to swallow in the middle of prayer 
& song—a barbed word, thrashing my larynx. 
I do not know how it got there 
I only know the origins of the hurt & how  
I have rechristened myself an offspring of silence       
rearranged my ancestry with a quivering tongue. 
This bloody mania will not let me be, all I know of salvation 
is dangling: to dangle until the spirit stills in the bone 
like garri at the bottom of a jug, to hold a pen 
to the wound & incise deeper, searching 
for a map out of the noise.  

No Point Chasing

          My last defense is the present tense.
                                -Gwendolyn Brooks 

Thich Nhat Hanh has taught me a little too  
much mindfulness. I am so present I  
count my dog’s blinks. The past disappearing faster 
than floaters—no point chasing a moving train on foot.  
Can’t remember what I had for breakfast, can’t  
remember the year my virginity was hijacked, I  
only want to count my dog’s blinks, the ants 
parading my toes [when ants come 
for your body, it is said to mean you were mistaken 
for a dead roach]  & these books stacked 
on the table with so many words in them. I  
want to pick each letter & toss into tomorrow, 
rip the afternoon’s coat with my teeth 
so it remembers me. We all want to be etched 

somewhere permanently, it is why  
the dead leave us epitaphs. 

Pamilerin Jacob is a Nigerian poet whose poems have appeared in Barren Magazine, Agbowó, Poetry Potion, Ghost City Press, Elsieisy, Rattle & elsewhere. He was the second runner-up for Sevhage Poetry Prize 2019. Author of the chapbook, Gospels of Depression, he is a staunch believer in the powers of critical thinking, Khalil Gibran’s poetry & chocolate ice-cream. Reach him on Twitter @pamilerinjacob. 

Mega-Romance: the Longest & Shortest Human Narrative

The couple became one
                                          Then two, &
                                                                   One again.

Yuan Changming grew up in rural China, and currently lives in Vancouver, where he edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan at Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, eight chapbooks (most recently East Idioms), the 2020 Jodi Stutz Award in Poetry & publications in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) BestNewPoemsOnline, among 1,689 others across 45 countries. 


She pulls a tangerine from the tree in the center of the yard, not garden. Spiraled shells embedded in broken, spindly coral, hard packed into nearly flat stones, formed in the constant continental drift of the Pacific, half-buried in the red volcanic dirt, circle the tree, a path made by mom and dad in a fury. “No! Dig here! Here! And here!” Citrus sprays her face and fingers, orange pith and peels fall, as the earth shivers on her tongue. 

Melissa Llanes Brownlee is a Native Hawaiian writer. She received her MFA in Fiction from UNLV. Her work has appeared in Booth: A Journal, The Notre Dame Review, Pleiades, The Citron Review, The SFWP Quarterly and elsewhere. She was a finalist for the 2018 New American Fiction Prize and the 2019 Brighthorse Prize. She likes to talk story at and retweet @lumchanmfa. 


Layers of scar tissue unfold under the microscope. 

It is here that I seek beauty, 
In the darkness. 

The images need magnifying 
To bring out the truth. 

We carry many truths within our bodies. 

Animals naturally shake to release trauma. 
Sometimes, we forget. 

Our bodies remember  
And our brains try to hold on.  

Disconnections flutter. 

Lesions in our white matter 
Affect our perception of time.

The past becomes tomorrow. 

A dead mother becomes a presence. 

Diana Radovan PhD ELS is a multicultural, multigenre writer and teacher of writing living in Germany. Since 2004, she has been gradually publishing her work in numerous venues in English, German, and Romanian. Currently, she is working on her first book, a multigenerational hybrid memoir. Read more about her at  

Kate Mulvaney’s Last Breath 

Before the moon can climb above
        the tree line, she makes her way
                    to the edge of the clearing,

presses her back against the grass
        one last time, and opens
                    her mouth. What she frees

is more air than song, but still
        night birds circle its sound
                    and all the woods’ wild

draws up to see her spirit
        ride the white stag out
                    of her chest, then back

into the swamp, not through the trees
but straight into them, and down.

Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in Southern ReviewBirmingham Poetry ReviewPidgeonholesThe ShoreCotton XenomorphOkay DonkeyEcoTheoThe HopperTerrainKissing Dynamite, and other journals. His latest collection is No Brother, This Storm (Mercer University Press, 2018). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.