So, while we’re on the subject... And yeah, I know WE are not, but you see, I still am and probably always will be, Because I know it’s been almost 40 years but He still makes random cameos in my nightmares

Mona Mehas Mona Mehas (she/her) is a retired disabled teacher in Indiana USA with 7 chapbooks published and one novel, Under the Bubble (Between the Lines Publishing). Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize (Paddler Press 2023, TV-63 Project, 2025) and Best New Poet (Lucky Jefferson 2024). She works with Cicada Song Press and Engage!, an online Star Trek fan magazine. Mona is always writing while perpetually distracted by her next chapbook. Portals of Presence portals, realms

Oaring toward an unknown shore, I dream a horizon where a boat with yellow sails plies purple waters. Estelle leaves a message on my phone: Your mother is dead.

I found a "Find your way” without a way out This maze usually given to children as entertainment.

A deep sense of wrongness wakes me Skin clings tightly to my bones Movement a struggle Breath rasps I twist my body out of bed Struggle into clothes Limp to the car A row. I need a row.

Lifelong abuse of ASD-me by the herd-brained horde caused my hoard, built of C-PTSD. I abhor this hoard as the tomb of my life. I whisper, “gently, gently, slowly,” as I carefully disinter fragments of myself without collapsing the telling layers of this tel. Artifacts haunt me.

The contents of my handbag, every last cent in my purse, My car key, household items, screwdrivers and a knife, A child’s blue pillowcase they stuffed with bottles of red wine, My wedding set, the golden band and nested diamond, My emerald ring, the only thing I owned that was my granny’s,

loving it all and missing you despite the fact that you only live four miles away. if i really wanted to, i could bound up those concrete porch stairs that spent years getting to know the bottoms of my shoes and knock on your squeaky screen door. the familiar smell of anise and the claustrophobic sound of caged bird wings would greet me.

I hold my knees to my chest, hoping pressure will still my racing heart, slow the blood, turn hyperventilating back into breath. I bury my face, flush, sticky, wet, against the concrete wall that has come to know me— hoping my neighbors won’t hear me whimper.

The spoon in the drawer trembled. The wallpaper memorized the angle of his hands. I am reporting that the doorknob turned at 11:47 pm & held the shape of fingers long after

I witnessed a murder. Your father already did the deeds. There is nothing left to kill. Death leaned in and whispered the only time you were alive was the bleeding. You hid your bones inside my body. Used me as a bandage. What arms. What teeth. What eyes— those green mirages that collapsed into an endless tunnel of shadows.

Greg Kousoulis I once heard that the title of a poem should act like a light switch, allowing a reader to properly see the words, and I believe this to be true for a (good) cover letter… Again, I do not have this. So, with you, the reader, being in the dark, I’d like to apologize for the lack of light, but I hope you don’t trip over these poems and come out unscathed. Greg Kousoulis, 29 years old, lives in Santa Monica, CA. A Ghost Story Ghost is not a ghost, but instead, a b

Diya Verma Diya Verma is an undergraduate student of Behavioral Psychology. Presenting her thoughts in the form of metaphors has always been a close habit to her. Her poems explore her thoughts, which are raw and valid. BLOOD OF A LADY Red liquid, all over her body, when she is born. Red signs, all over her mind, when she is grown. Red battles, she has to face, against the societal norms. Red liquid leaves her once again, in nature's hidden form. Red scars, are carried by he

Sophia Lovell Sophia is from San Diego, California. Having graduated with a degree in English and a minor in professional editing from UCSB, she is now a freelance writer of all things: articles to poetry. She is a lover of her dogs, coffee shops, mystery thrillers, and the oxford comma. Number 46 “And tell us please, why was it that you did not report your rape?” The man to my left nudges his knee into mine. Adults truly are just children with a few more lines on the

Georgia Shuster Georgia Shuster (she/her) is an undergraduate student at the College of Charleston majoring in psychology and classics in the Honors College while also being a member of the varsity sailing team. A survivor of sexual and physical abuse as a young teenager, she uses her voice in poetry to advocate for those who are in the position she was once in. Death Day No one knows I died that day. A brisk spring mid-morning, The sun peaking out behind the clouds. Stor

Jamorra DuBose Morris Jamorra DuBose Morris experienced as an Off-Broadway Director, and a result driven Playwright with more than five years creating original shows at reputable theaters in New York City. Starting her journey as a visual artist, fashion designer at the High School of Fashion Industries in New York City. During high school, she grew an even greater passion for advertising, storytelling, and mixed medium art which fueled her start in Performance Art. In 2016,