Elegy for the Wood Nymphs

By Goran Lowie in Issue Twelve, December 2023

it starts with screams in summer.
there have been signs beforehand—
the trees have started to refuse the rain.
the sky did not submit and coated the trees,
unceasing, in layers of water.

Made of Glass

By Anna Madden in Issue Twelve, December 2023

the air smells of brine and night spirits
of bare feet sinking into the orchard’s dark earth
where pink ladies dream standing upright
their old branches like my withered arms

The Princess and the Frog

By Archita Mittra in Issue Twelve, December 2023

is this how all things end?
with a croak, a hiss, broken glass—
some spilled wine, a sliver of blood
and slime, trailing ever after.

For the attention of my future self

By Brian Hugenbruch in Issue Twelve, December 2023

While you are me, and I am almost you,
I cannot help but think you spin me lies.
I do not think that what we say is true.

Teen in Recovery from Dystopian Books that Were Portals

By G.E. Woods in Issue Twelve, December 2023

Teach yourself joy,
the therapist sings to you, white strands splitting her black hair.
One paper heavier, you leave her office,
contemplating the self-care list she gifted you. Cursed you with.

The Dome

By Elis Montgomery in Issue Twelve, December 2023

Molten air stifles, sea-thick
and as sickening. Pocked stones
become bowls I water with
weighted limbs. Drained pith, dry bones

A Kelpie Sees Mari Lwyd from Afar

By Maria Schrater in Issue Twelve, December 2023

‘Twas the night before Christmas and I froze in my pond
When I heard a wassailing from the town close anon
A dozen stout peasants with drink all aglow
Were knocking on doors in the gentle-fall snow

What You Find at the Center

By Elizabeth R McClellan in Issue Twelve, December 2023

six feet down and you sat
in the garden filling your notebooks
with scrawled labyrinths; circus tents
overlapping the paths and midways.

Pillow Talk in the Tempest

By Gretchen Tessmer in Issue Eleven, October 2023

oh yes, I've seen the way you look at me
through sea-glass dark as pits of mud-torn mire
your heat-struck, jagged ditches lay desire
too plainly, how you want to hear me scream


By Rebecca A. Demarest in Issue Eleven, October 2023

The plasticsmith waits for the children to return
with buckets full of scraps, bags, bottles, and toys
meticulously scrapped and washed and clean.
The buckets are weighed, then into the crucible they go,
rendered down to grayish brown ingots, made ready
for shipment from the Patch to the factories in the City.