January - Poem 1
Bog Body, Also Known As / Haley Bosse
Sulfurskin
Softbone
Loosebreath
Breakthrough
Bottlerocket
Bricabrac
Songshush
Winterwait
Weightpuddle
Properform
Chloroplast
Sugarcrust
Crumblebuttal
Cornerstore
Gathergutter
Groanlift
Pittersplatter
Bedmade
Lornlace
Twistslumber
Covetcradle
Gonedaughter
Twinface
Allrefrain
under pressure / Jess Bowe
saturn moans with a storm
composed of a thousand
flavors of misery.
hydrogen gets a hug.
we stand at the glass
and cheer
for what we haven’t survived,
what exists without us,
unflagged.
she holds me between
thumb and index,
a honeyed marble,
all 5’6 of me,
every bucket of midnight
grief, volcanic paradise
joy spewing, flame-spattered
across the blackened
forever-night canvas;
every color witnessed,
every tuesday afternoon
down to the palm of a hand.
isn’t it glorious, the way time turns
inside-out the moment we become
fully occupied with atmosphere?
every human story, a game of jacks
on the ringed bedroom floor.
Eschatological meditations while doing the dishes on New Years Eve / Joanna Lee
For some days now, the light
has grown—just a bit, as it does:
a few minutes’ sunshine
at the end of a long dark prayer.
And maybe that’s all we can ask
of the things for which we ask,
a brighter ending, or less clouded eyes
with which to see
even the smallest moments, like
watching the grease
from last night’s dinner
break its slick hold on the plate
when we apply a little Dawn,
a little elbow, the oil becoming
streak, then bubble, then sliding
into the oblivion of the sink’s drain.
A clearing away before beginning again.
No, it ain’t quite the thing with feathers, this
clock tipping the first handful
of earth onto last year’s grave, it ain’t
dandelion wishes or confetti-on-crystal—yet,
dishes cool and drying on the rack,
we’ll pop that bargain store bottle
of bubbly just the same.
Cop-Out / Thomas Page
I’ve seen it mentioned a lot on TV
to explain away an absent actor
or pencil in a cause of departure.
“This kind of tragic thing happens many
times a day,” they say, “just make sure to see
your doc, just to check” patting the bereaved
tissues all over the floor. They might play
Coldplay or Snow Patrol or even Creed
while the heavy, steel double doors close out
this season’s big twist— a fan favorite killed
off screen— syncopated with the baseline,
Hollywood white teeth enrobed by cherry gums
pantomiming grief, collapsed on the floor
liquid tears rolling down in a straight line:
I only remember how quiet it was when they told me.
BREUGHEL / Sarah Paley
Across the street on the sixth-floor missing windowpanes are billowing plastic
on this windy, cold day. A floor below a Puerto Rican flag serves as a curtain.
An army of delivery men congregate outside the Hub. They talk, argue, whisper,
shout, sing in Wolof, French, Fula, Mandinka, Jola, Soninke, Arabic
They wear their unofficial uniform of black hoody, thick canvas pants,
and helmets. A sea of orange and green bicycles extends around the corner.
Prayer mats are snapped open and placed on the sidewalk facing Mecca.
Their comrades huddle and picnic under scaffolding eating mountains of rice
bought from the Halal truck parked mid-block. Cooing pigeons, their chests bulging,
heads thrusting, pace like generals inspecting the troops as they wait
for grains to drop. At the bakery, young couples order lattes and Scandinavian pastries.
They try to navigate their heavily insulated children
while pushing stroller tanks. It’s recess time at the Eastern New York Community School
and a gaggle of adolescent girls, armed crossed, heads askew,
try to convey their utter disinterest to the middle-aged coach who holds the basketball.
On the other side of the playground boys attempt to look menacing
but can’t resist busting out to chase one another in circles. Two customers sit in the window
of The Barber’s Blueprint. A black and white pit bull in an argyle sweater pulls
his master towards a tree. A firetruck, red lights flashing, is pulled up outside Andrea’s
Pizza Oven. A firefighter emerges with a slice
And yes, overhead, that’s Icarus falling and flailing through the blue sky.
Late December, 2025 / Amy Snodgrass
the sun took so long to rise
we thought it wouldn’t,
my daughter and I
–it took so long
–the stretch of Illinois highway spilling
in front of us to the horizon–
we felt apocalyptic: the world
seemed intent on stopping, ready-ing
itself to re-start, defiant
we laughed, used the words freaky
and eerie, doomsday, foreboding
a great moment of connection and we
will relish it in reverse but still
I longed for lorazepam and still
she slide-glanced on repeat to the east
we came to the brink
I felt my panic tide up to crest
she googled sunrise time today
the white lines barrelled us along our way
and eventually, yes, the darkness heaved into dullness
and the gray glowed around the edges
my daughter relaxed into relief, laughing
I myself tightened (and now here’s|
the secret I’m telling only you, so sshhhh!)
I tightened into what felt like–
it couldn’t be, though– disappointment.
I mean, the day
rose, the drive ended, and
everything, even after all that, everything
was just fine
