The Warmth of Words

(or, The Day I Helped My Husband Blow Cellulose Insulation Into the Attic)

I put words into a machine to keep our house warm.

They were covered in salt to keep from being flammable—
I guess that’s something we all do.

Torn and homeless, they were huddled together
so I tucked them into the spaces under our roof

fistfuls of them, so many words flying at my ears
I hoped not to become blind.

I wanted to help my husband keep the heat in our home
That he worked so hard to provide.

What a modern marvel that you
don’t have to burn a tree to heat your house. 
Wrap it in paper
then stuff confetti in your attic 
then breathe heavy until the warmth builds. 

The wolf moon howled at my neck to hurry.
The debris looked like a cotton harvest on the side of the road
as it blew out of my hands and down the mountain.

When I was done my hands were immune to fire
but even so, they burned 
and my shoes were covered in snow.

Svetlana Litvinchuk is a permaculture consultant and artist who holds BAs from the University of New Mexico. Her debut chapbook, Only a Season (Bottlecap Features, 2024) is now available, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Black Coffee Review, Eunoia Review, and Longhouse Press. She is a reader for ONLY POEMS. Originally from Kyiv, Ukraine, she now lives with her husband and daughter on their organic farm in the Arkansas Ozarks.

Canvassers

The old white van stops,
atremble, at an intersection,
in the snowy suburban
nightscape, hanging onto
its last breath, its driver
careful to keep the motor
running for fear that, once
turned off, it will not start
again, while one of the
people inside looks around
at other passengers with
a look of ironic solidarity
before sliding open the
door and bailing out into
hostile territory, armed
with nothing but a pen
and a clipboard full of
statements to support
saving baby harp seals
and fighting acid rain.

Blue Wonder

Pond full of thick texture
The wind blows, but its body stays still
The birds do not drink from it
Maybe they know it would be wrong
To cause ripples in its waters
But sit next to it little bird
Let the stillness of this moment
Soothe your aching wings
Blue wonder
The fire in your lungs is d
The pond knows you are weary, you have traveled far
So sit, little bird
Sit next to the sparrows and the crows,
The robins and the cranes
They are bathing in the peace this pond brings
They do not drink, they do not sing
But they are alive, there is a coolness on their eyelids
And tomorrow when they fly again
Their wings will be blue
and so will yours
So sit, little bird.
There is only this moment, nothing more

Joanna Alamillo is a twenty-one-year-old student from Sacramento, California. She is currently studying psychology with hopes of opening her own therapist branch someday. In her spare time, she enjoys writing poetry, reading, and spending time with her family.

The Black Dog

Technically, he was Gramp’s
Dog, but he was all of ours’,
aunts’, uncles’, cousins’—
an inheritance of sorts.

We called him Blackie.
Not very original, granted.
But it seemed right, since
Black was both his color
And his disposition.

There was clearly some
Lab in his lineage. His
Broad barrel chest,
Sturdy, low center
Of gravity. We could never
Know how he would appear
Each morning when, or if,
He would appear at all.

Too often bloodied, an ear
Ripped in the starry night
Or snout perforated
With a quick snap and nip
By some son of a bitch
Barking at the full moon.

All day he would lie about,
Brooding, a soft growl,
Doggedly rehearsing a dream
Of his next foray into the night.

___

Zayante at Dusk

Pitch-darkness comes first
to the shallow muck and stumble
where forsythia dims
its yellow lamplights.
Nighthawks dive, unnoticed
until shrieks separate dusk,
and dragonflies on last flight hover
over a backwater thinned by drought.
In the wind, wild blackberry
leaves turn silver undersides
as if displaying fruit
while hiding their thorns,
like Portuguese Man-O-War
with those uplifted flaps
leading them to safe harbor
with electric jolts trailing below—
and yet I pick, pop, chew,
gather scratches, itch.

Jeff Burt has contributed to Williwaw Journal, Red Wolf Journal, Modern Poetry Quarterly, and Sunlight Press. He has a digital chapbook available  Little Popple River from Red Wolf Editions  and a print chapbook A Filament Drawn so Thin from Red Bird Chapbooks.

As Cold As She Is Beautiful

Kali, fallen avatar,
visiting hours are over

take me to your cell
shake the frost from your blanket
and cover us

your lips to mine this kiss
warms us,
warms the bars,
the walls,
melts the mahogany of your hair,
the clouds your areolae,
the frost on the ceiling

the wet tick of droplets on melting ice

take me into you and let me feel
how the connection closed radiates,
and the walls, the floor, the writing desk
bloom, saturate.

The water closes over us
outside the glass
your lips to mine this kiss
share my breath

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). Recent/upcoming appearances in JMWW, Wordpeace, and Thirteen Myna Birds, among others.

Sweet Dreaming

Yes

there is lavender in the fields of my nostrils
over Favoriten

döner is carried in an evening breeze
like the locusts crawling in and out of the bedroom

It’s the sweetness of you
they want isn’t it?

Although

I suppose that is a fine wine in your hands

_____red and waning

like the moon spilling down
the spires of Stephansdom

This heat lightning has left me mindless
of the sparseness of stars

How lovely that I could see the green river

your eyes in motion

_____swirling and endless

Do you see that I have dirt in the crevices of my nails?

my dreams

are blooming with the onions
that I will not eat

Where have you planted your dreams
are they blooming yet?

Yes

I see them behind the lavender

_____where the honeybees have gathered
They must be sweet

Daniel Gage is a librarian living in Boston, Massachusetts. Daniel has always loved translating his brief musings on simple life and the great adventure of travel into larger stories through poetry. He has previously published work in The Watershed Journal.

Irish Eyes

She rarely paints now, because
Of classes
She says she loves
Picasso
I would've figured she's
Be more into Lee Krasner or
Georgia O'Keefe
She volunteers at the soup
Kitchen, once a week, her blue eyes
Are the road to
Ireland
Sometimes, when we talk
I notice the cuts on
Her arms and
Legs
They feel like stigmata

She says, they’re from
“Shaving”

Though she’s rail thin
She says she wants to
Lose more
Weight
I want to tell her
Her imperfections are
Perfect
I want to put my hands on
Her cuts
Like doubting Thomas
And remove her doubts
And let her know even an
Irish rose with thorns
Is still a
Rose

Erren Geraud Kelly writes, “I am a Two-Time Pushcart nominated poet from Lynn, Massachusetts . Ihave been writing for 32 years and have over 300 publications in print and online in such publications Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine(online), Ceremony, Cacti Fur, Bitterzoet, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and other publications. My most recent publication was in Pyrokinection Literary journal; I have also been published in anthologies such as ” Fertile Ground,” and Beyond The Frontier.” My work can also been  seen on You Tube under the “Gallery Cabaret,” links. I am also the author of the book, ” Disturbing The Peace,” on Night Ballet Press. I received my B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. I also love to read and I love to travel, having visited 45 states and Canada and Europe. The themes in my writings vary, but I have always had a soft spot for subjects and people who are not in the mainstream.” 

Pastward Shadows

simmering shadows
on a Saturday afternoon
can’t be expunged
from city corners
where couples
once met.

couples, now decoupled.

they were only softly joined
like cards in a pyramid.

couples, now decoupled.

it happens inaudibly
throughout the city
like children unstacking blocks.

twinned shadows cast
from distant apartments
finally
touch in cafes and park benches.

their edges vibrate with emotion.
they affect no one and nothing
in those places.

only the casters know
the darkness with which they drape,
the shapes of their absences.

two specters at tea,
silhouettes of what used to be,
are slots that young hopefuls
step into
on a Saturday afternoon.

George Seli is a New York City-based magazine editor and adjunct associate professor of philosophy. He has studied under two notable poets: Susan Mitchell at Florida Atlantic University and Campbell McGrath at Florida International University. His poetry has appeared in several journals, including The Conium Review, Seems, Epicenter, and Crab Creek Review.