Three Poems
Amy Barry

We hide in heaps of rubble,

Emerge from our own ghosts,

And blanket our fears with faith..

Three Poems
Mpho Mmathapelo Molekoa

Who thought withdrawal symptoms would not show?

Who thought whispers could not be heard?

The Fun of Science and Technology
Abdul Fattah Ismail

Because The New York Post has good copy chiefs

That make believe the lie that All Lives Matter

While they post political cartoons of our president as a monkey with a gunshot in his chest

Talmbout, it was a joke.

Revolution Books’ newsletter dressed up Trump as Hitler

But they didn’t do the obvious clapback

Because good jokes burn inside

Like a reward

At The Theatre
Samuél Lopez-Barrantes

The day started with, continued to, and ended with rain. A single grey cloud hung over the Parisian expanse. You spent the morning hours on the sofa refreshing the Facebook feed, consuming stories of other people consuming the stories of others. You spent the afternoon scanning Netflix in search of it, too, but there was a new article YOU HAVE TO READ THIS on The Atlantic, Donald Trump was live-tweeting, and Frank Ocean had just broken his silence on Tumblr. Spotify beckoned you to discover, too, but you’d also promised to read one of your friend’s poetry books and it had been a year now and the email was still marked unread at the bottom of your inbox.

Two Poems
Jeffrey Neilson

...through fibrous wires encased in plastic,

the veins of some vast, active, universal machine,

organ of forever changing dream states;

and also, in part, made of the listening self, not you,

the listening being who has abandoned

chores, history, insecurities and frustrations,

The Sheep Shearer
Joan Struthers

The social worker here says I don't have
any money left to pay for my funeral

Excerpts from Now Too How Soon
Andrew Spragg

closer to the face

pushing through from

beneath the table-top glass

was something

not for speech

this time

Two Poems
Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

those who you felt close to
but never really touched
the letter you wrote
but never mailed
to the suicide
whose heart you broke
reaches for your mind
just one last time

Athol WIlliams

“Can we be anything other than what we have known
ourselves to be?” he had asked, of no-one. The silence,
growing, began blackening the pictures that he held.
The impossible, inevitable darkness crawled toward him,
stared at him, nodding, as if to say “yes, I am that
which you fear.” He denied its grip, even as it tightened
around his throat – dimmer the song, blacker the pictures

4 Poems: Untitled – Black
Nicole Goodwin

Your gifts. Brazen!
Barefoot and unchasted.
When the batons come,
Greet them! Let your eyes
meet those of the bulls...