M. J. Iuppa’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past thirty-one years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog, mjiuppa.blogspot.com, for her musings on writing, sustainability, and life’s stew.
Days of Empty Hours
Without a tongue,
the small prayer bell
summons no one
It rains every day—
dismal & persistent—
puddles become harbors
in ochre light
A dream I tell no one
I tell no one I dream
Jared Carter’s most recent book of poems, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in Morgantown, West Virginia. He lives in Indiana.
In essence, then, does she become
your phantom limb
By drawing on these gloves? Benumbed,
her touch within
Feels nothing of your body flensed.
Your counterclaim of innocence;
surely by now
You can’t object, since, donned anew,
you are but bling,
Entirely converted to
a nameless thing.
Kevin McGowan is a writer based in Stirling, Scotland. He has been published in Fiction on the Web, Peeking Cat Poetry, Eunoia Review, and Bandit Fiction. His short story “God’s Shoulder” was awarded Stirling University’s Research-Based Learning Prize. He holds an MLitt degree in Creative Writing and also manages submissions for Ringwood Publishing.
we smoke woodbines by starlight
an oil lantern buoys in the black
like god on the first day
tinkering with his cosmic toolset
it’s a night for big questions
if only we could think of some
the ferryman hums of things ancient
mesopotamia, snakes and apples
it’s time, he declares
we snub out our ashen tips
on the wharf
thanking each other for the company
Genevieve Hartman is a poet based in upstate New York. She graduated from Houghton College, where she studied English and edited The Lanthorn. A former intern with BOA Editions, she currently serves as a content manager for The Adroit Journal and a poetry reader for The VIDA Review. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in bitter melon poetry, Plainsongs, Meniscus Journal, Sonder Midwest, and others. You can find her making Korean food, doing calligraphy, reading, or watching her plants grow.
highbury, london, in march
the newspaper did not
stop the downpour from soaking me,
glasses streaked with water,
wet paper glued to my hand.
i passed the vicar on my way home,
barely recognised him in all that rain.
his umbrella was better than mine.
embarrassed smiles and we were past each other,
almost-strangers made stranger by the rain.