Goldfish
After Voice Porter’s A Poem for Indigo

For nothing more than the Love of my people
I wish for the goldfish to come back.

Nai Nai’s friends told us that one goldfish from
Er Hai would live to see our deepest wish

come true. Tonight, I watch the water pale
against the sky. I am thinking of the time when

we could still talk about the stars being dead
without it hitting too close to home, when the

Er Hai was still called Mother like an exhale
rather than like a prayer. Tonight I am

remembering that before the bombs there
were comets and kisses that didn’t extricate

your soul. There was a love drunk with leisure
that bathed in the intermezzi of crickets. A

knowledge that we would meet again by the
reeds or the rice paddies, that we would

catch goldfish again. Tonight I am wondering
when the goldfish will return. I pray Nai Nai

was right and, marching, flooding the lake with
a sunrise heralding the dawn’s arrival, you

will emerge from the horizon with a goldfish
in your hands and a Mother, I’m home.

By Vanessa Y. Niu

Taking What’s Not Yours

taking what’s not yours
black culture is not a trend
take take– even now

taking what’s not yours
locs, cornrows, brown buttered skin
culture not costume

taking what’s not yours
burleigh, bessie, duke—a melancholy blues
erased robbed and used

taking what’s not yours
soul food packaged sold for gain
justice — ooooh— it’s overdue

taking what’s not yours
african masks blend of paint splotch
cubism anew

taking what’s not yours
black culture speaks free—not for takes
scathin’ appropriation–you

taking what’s not yours
profit reaped without consent
cultural exploitation

see you be—
borrowing from deep roots
empty acres bleed torn deeds
soulful theft persists

see you be—-
stealing black culture
oppressing budding babies—whew chile
your knot has come undone

By Sable A.P.H.

Masterpiece

Never forget that you are a work of art.

I am baffled by the woman,
who when she roams the streets,
is ignorant of the fact,
that she is exactly that- a work of art;

go have a look at yourself, look within,
at your intricate network of organs and limbs,
at the robust design of your brain cell bodies,
at the gentle lines that tell your palms’ stories;

listen to the symphony that is your body,
let your heart play its gentle melody,
and let your breath sing its tunes,
because my dear, you are the music;

and if you want to see something truly magical,
just look in the mirror and let yourself be dazzled,
captivate yourself in the depth of your pupil,
observe the lights dancing upon your iris;

I wonder when I see you shrink and bow,
what could be stopping you from standing proud?
I can’t imagine anything powerful enough,
to make a masterpiece feel like a Frankenstein-
always worried something’s missing;

but maybe there’s a reason for your behavior,
perhaps you live in a town which has no mirrors,
so you’ve never known your own smile’s wonders,
I’m sure you’ve never even heard your own laugh,
because if you had, that would be enough,
to make you realize you are a work of art.

By Zainab Hussain

Oreo Eyes

When we were young,
we built a snowman
at the base of Jimmy’s hill.
Built him on the line we ourselves drew,
a finish line to mark
our sled-run down the monster hill.
We built him large:
An icy Ozymandias
to proclaim our greatness
with stick arms
raising a rag-pile flag
to celebrate our glorious finish, later.
We would explode from a cloud of white
and slash across
that self-proclaimed final line, victorious.
Later,
we were always building
for later, back then.

But when our snowman was done,
we saw he had no eyes.
So we traded a little bit
of our gooey delicious present
for our vision of later
and gave our snowman
Oreo eyes.
Two sweet and empty black holes
absorbing everything
and seeing nothing.

We were so strong, then,
laughing as we dragged our sled
up that heroic hill,
slapping each other with cries
“Faster! Faster! More! More!”
Each step and cry
building muscles
building futures
until we reached the top,
proud and in a hurry
to take our seats
for the downhill slide.

We pushed until
the sled tipped downward,
imperceptibly slow at first.
We were still in control.
Then the white world
started to slide by
faster and faster until
we became captives
of the world’s cold gravity.
Small pieces of our fears
falling off of us like snow
as we flew,
unstoppable and screaming,
down the hill.

We squeezed our eyes shut
and found our lifetime prayer:
“Faster! Make it go faster forever!”
The snowman waits
with open arms, and Oreo eyes.

By Michael Guillebeau

On Being Told to Be Careful

Do you remember childhood? All snot
Bubbles and chubby wrists and skinned knees

Grown-ups with gentle hands on our backs
Pushing us to try it, go boldly, be brave

Tell me: when did be brave become be careful?
New mantras for new bodies with new parts

You in Guadalajara three margaritas deep
Dancing salsa with men in a dingy club

Me late at night on an empty train car
Back from Brooklyn with a penned-in book

There are many ways a hand learns to tremble.
If we have daughters, let’s not tell them to be careful

No more indoctrination into fear. Instead, we’ll
Meet their eyes and say,

Pay attention

Pay attention, of course, to those daily dangers:
Sharp corners and hard falls and cruel men

But pay attention, also, to the monotonous miracles:
Rainbows and stray cats, and songs that give you chills

The sun on your face as you nap in the yard,
And the long-distance love of a sister

Air coming—

and going—

The sensation of your precious breath

Pay attention to these things, too. Yes—

these too.

By Jane McBride

Biography:

Jane McBride (she/her) is a graduate of Columbia University in New York City where she now works as a library assistant. Originally from the heart of the Rockies in Colorado, she spends her time writing fantasy novels, curating playlists, and solving crosswords. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in After Happy Hour!, Blue Marble Review, Quarto Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. You can find her rambling about writing at janemcbride.substack.com

The Vietnam Vet

His bicycle pulls a trailer: four garbage bags
and two car tires. His hair is long in the back,
the US flag flies above his seat. Is he that grateful
to his country? Bending his body halfway
into a trashcan on the street, he suddenly swings
his fist toward oncoming cars.

He sits in the shade of an underpass
of the 87-freeway in downtown San Jose,
a structure so enormous and empty
it could be a stage for the rampart scene of Hamlet,
and he the watchman. But he knows
he’s the reason people complain.

His face is blistered from raw weather;
the city folks might think, “It’s Ok, nothing can last
long on the street.”
No welcoming parade for the losers,
but it’s not like he signed up.
His return home was his exile.

At night, he finds a corner to sleep,
his back against a hard wall;
his flag is a warning sign for any invader
of a soldier’s campsite.

Occasionally he mutters in wrath,
but that, too, will fade like the green
of his jacket, his patches unrecognizable.
Someday soon, he will become just like
any other homeless man.

By Hee-June Choi

Biography:

Hee-June Choi has published three poetry books in Korea while living in the US. His work has appeared in Korean poetry magazines and journals since the late 1990s, and in the JoongAng Daily, a top-three newspaper by circulation, in Korea. His work has been published in the 2014-16 editions of the Red Wheelbarrow and volumes six and eight of The American Journal of Poetry.

Fragment 37 – In My Pain

sappho said
my pain
drips
and i cry.
my pain
leaks like
a faucet.
this metaphor
did not exist
for her.
it has been
two thousand
five hundred
odd years
and still the
pain dripping.
it drips and
hits me like
a penny
dropped
from a
skyscraper.
it hits me
and makes
a hole in my
head.

By Olivia Lehnert

Biography:

Olivia Lehnert is a social worker living and working in Chicago, Illinois. She has been previously published by Ghost City Press and the Midsummer Dream House, and shares her work mainly via social media. Olivia reads and writes both poetry and fiction in her own time, and is inspired heavily by introspective and metaphoric language.

cursed

you used to soak
submerge yourself
in water and incense
the fractals of your hair
swirling about you
like the patterns of a place
older than you
where the fields smell
of wind-touched gold
the musk of a bible
long kept though
pages are missing
fields of women
bent beneath
the beating sun
tilling
sowing
harvesting
and you among them
so small
your mother’s hands
soaking her flail
with blood
like hers and hers
and hers before
a field of red
and gold

you feared
the empty pot
as much as you feared
its filling
what waited inside
matryoshka
each successive doll
carved open
the rings of a tree
collapsing in on itself
rotting wood
you feared
the end
the center
of the nest
hairless
skinless
cold nothingness of
unborn eyes

By Jacob David Snyder

Biography:

Jacob David Snyder is a freelance writer and editor. His work has been published in Eunoia Review and featured in the East Village variety show Hottie Bop. He’s contributed to the production of several publications, including Poems in the Aftermath: An Anthology from the 2016 Presidential Transition Period by Indolent Books. He lives in New York City.

Wish Bottle

[the corked bottle sways→and tips→with the horizontal movement→of the waves]
[the waves→spike dark water→up→down→sending the bottle→tossed by the moon]
[the moon→unseen past the stone-grey sky→pushes the bottle forth→toward shore]
[the glassy shore→receives the bottle→as the water subsides→at the boot→of a man]
[the man→looks rugged and white→all over→and picks up→hungrily→the bottle]
[the bottle→is empty→is opened→is empty still→is raised to the man’s pale eye]
[the man’s eye→eyes the rim→of the interior→of the bottle→and grins hard]

[first wish: absolve] “Absolve
the world, please.
Among the glimmering,
decadent points in life,
human hands have forged ruin.
Though, I wish forgiveness.
The men who have broken this earth,
each other,
have done so in fear, in hope,
and—yes—in selfishness.
It comes with the territory
of being human. I wish to
absolve the crime of
not knowing how to live.”

[second wish: surge] “Surge
the world, please.
So many lives
have had their vibrancy sold
in pursuit of love, security, pennies.
I wish wonderful ferocity.
Unblock our numb dams
and flow fantastic feeling
through every body. Good.
Bad. Everything. Unavoidable.
Just for a second,
I wish to surge all life
with living.”

[third wish: decompose]
“Decompose the world, please.
Unwrite every symphony.
Erase every map charted.
Undo the done.
We’re finding less and less

discovery to be found. We’ve
lost wonder. I wish
everything anew.
Turn the world unturned.
I wish to decompose
and give way for our new lives.”

By Ensor Stull