Little Ship

On our final voyage
passing Saturn
the human race will pause
its flight, engines on standby, to admire
the celestial rings
one last time

From the vast expanse
of windows in our departing ship
we will see the particulate rings
the many-as-one
and we will think of earth
of armies, nations, riots, mobs,
protests, stadiums full
of cheering crowds,
of plagues, of flocks and herds
of long-extinct livestock
and the many-as-one that is
what is left of us on our exodus

And we will realize we are
as we have always been
a microcosm, an ecosystem, whole
worlds inside us
and at the same time we are the worlds themselves
floating away in our little ship
afraid and brave, destitute and beautiful,
pinballing across the universe
the same as everything else

By Jay Douglas

Biography:

Jay Douglas is a recent graduate of Indiana University of Pennsylvania with an undergraduate dual degree in English and Religious Studies. Jay enjoys cats, not going outside, collecting yo-yos, and being unapologetically queer.

to wolftime pastures the winter horses go
like winds between the wheat fields
steering into moonlessness
tender their vows, that yet dance into darkness,
worn with earth’s ware weighing

will they journey those white fields, winged eros?

a body is missing
bending and bending over the wildgrasses
for a voice that is not their own

o, body, this relic cannot be cradled
as it travels through all that once was

within such sorrows, assorted gleams
cocoon of mist, high pasture, bony
and vivid

the hunter passes from notice, the pale mares
claim victory on the lake of cranes

devotion pours from the ignorant mouth
like light over a familiar face

too many animals for the soul to hold on to

and so the heart is beneath night’s final chamber,
thirsty, black clouds stretch the heavens
remembering their old love of the river

– gone from them

exile, in spirit, lightless leaves, pitiless flame
set upon the heart of the darkest waters

a woman’s body bound in ash, bathing
in a lightless horizon:
windweaver shadowwalker thistlewolf rivermask
and the winter horses, like prayers tow their heavy tongues,
escaping into loneliness

into what is, what was, will be

a world where all is patient and ever-waiting,
a world where one drinks air and the heart hatches
summer-blooms and the sea-taste of sincerity

kneel, beloved, all is here still

By Eleanor Gray

Biography:

Eleanor Gray is, well, the other co-founder of Figroot Press. She currently resides in California with her cat, PS4 and a very beloved collection of books. She graduated from Sacramento State University with a BA in English Literature and has been writing and reading religiously for as long as she can remember. It is hard to find an open and vibrant community of other writers; she wishes to attain and commit herself to a little world consisting of other passionate poets, artists, writers and readers. You can find her on Tumblr at: http://smakka–bagms.tumblr.com/

Suicide Wrapped in the Scent of White Florals

My skeletal hand forever reaches forth.
It holds fast to the railroad spike,
rescued from the tracks
where she threw herself in front of the screaming train
over and
over and
over again.

With a shaking fist raised to the sky,
I bring it down to first face hell
then against the wall,
iron against iron.
Reddened rust turns to bone meal,
fluttering snowflakes you will never again taste
with your outstretched tongue.

Seasons pass behind me,
the once bare walls now etched
with lines of parallel white headstones.
Soon enough my tendons will snap
my bones will break
my blood will congeal
my muscles will atrophy.

Do you hear the hollow rolling across the dusty floor?
The echoing noise cut short by the next ever-grasping hand,
still slippery with tears formed in the wrong ducts.

Let’s pick up where we left off.

By Rachael Gay

Biography:

Rachael Gay is a poet, and artist living in Fargo, North Dakota. Her work has appeared in felan, Eunoia Review, Daily Gramma, and errata Magazine, Literary Orphans and The Bookends Review. More of her work and her favorite pieces can be found at witchinghourpoetry.tumblr.com.

Carnes Crossroads

You left before the spring came, without any
warning, just as you said you would.

Breakfast sausage still spitting in the pan,
you wanted to feed us, one last time,
food that would stick to our ribs. For the love of God,

we would be fed. Fortified, we would be ready
to reap our inheritance:

shots of moonshine from your leather-encased flask,
the one engraved with your initials,
twenty dollars—

don’t say, I never did anything for ya.

Mama called you Daddy. We called you Deacon.
You belonged to us, but your language was not ours,
soaked in brine—a gift, you said, from the angels,
the stars, Jesus Christ, and so on.

The town called you D. They thought you were
divine, possessed, chosen—that you could hang,
pretty, on their walls.

Now your face is a cracked plate. No longer
our father, your tires burn
through Carnes Crossroads.

Can you smell the dead fire in our hair?
We carry you on our backs, forever branded
your children. Still, we search this forsaken suburb of garbage
and sunlight, not knowing which way to go. We call out

in the mushrooming dusk—

Can you hear your name on our tongues?
We are hungry.

By Britt Canty

Biography:

Britt Canty received her MFA in Creative Writing from The New School. Her writing has appeared in New Plains Review, Bookanista, Volume 1 Brooklyn, and other places. She’s a co-founder of HIP Lit, and she lives in Queens where she’s at work on a novel. You can connect with her on Twitter @BrittCanty.