Stop, Think, Stare • Juan Zapata Jr.


Juan lives in NYC. His photography is geared towards
singularity, whether it means loneliness, oddity or place;
he strives to establish a presence for the ones already
existent on his themes.

How to Eat a Kiwi • Hannah Dow

Buy one just
for the occasion, wash
under cold water, scratch
off excess fuzz,
raise to your mouth, think
this could feel
like kissing someone
with a beard. It is
like that, then
use your teeth,
expose flesh,
think of the animals
you dream about—
the ones who tear
off your clothing
with their teeth, the animals
who see you naked.


Hannah Dow is a PhD student in poetry at the 
University of Southern Mississippi's Center for 
Writers. Her work has appeared in Contrary 
Magazine, Literary Laundry, and Abramelin.

Three Poems • Darren C. Demaree

Emily as Receding into Silence

Without human words,
Emily appears to be
developing a distance

from the rest of us,
appearing to translate
that distance into meaning

& if she didn’t smile after
that flight of flight, we
would know we held

no weight against her,
we would know how
un-pinned we all are.


Emily as the Floor Wells

There are times when the soul
of our house appears to yield
to Emily’s height, her lack of it

& I will see her be giant in one
room, only to return to her slight
wave in another. If this house

clings to her needs, then what
place do I have in it? I could
make sure the house is kept

in good order. I could hold it
together and keep it able to raise
Emily up, like a gift that reaches

past the ceiling, into the shallow
firmament of Ohio. Neither of us,
the house or myself, are crazy

about these doors. I have a key,
of course, but we both know
it would never allow us to leave.


Emily as Grief that is the Universe

I assumed Emily
wanted, would rely
on the all-energy

to build us into a deep
cycle of the physical
love. I was wrong.

I assumed the rest
of you wanted that
for Emily and me.

I’ve assumed the rest
of love would bend
to my own constructs,

the come mostly
from my own world.


Darren's poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in
South Dakota Review, Meridian, The Louisville Review, Grist, and the 
Colorado Review. He is the author of "As We Refer To Our Bodies" 
(2013, 8th House), "Temporary Champions" (2014, Main Street Rag), 
and "Not For Art Nor Prayer" (2015, 8th House). He is also the 
Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology. He lives in
Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.

Scranton, Pa • Erren Kelly

I keep thinkin about a
She kinda reminds me
Of the one in elton’s
Tiny like a snowflake
But moves like a
This tiny dancer has
Starlight in her breath
And holds jazz in her
I bury my face between
Her breasts
And find milk and honey
They say to sing is to pray
With sound
To dance is become
To hold a dancer is to
Embrace fire

For M.M.E…


Erren has published his work in Hiram Poetry Review, 
Mudfish, Poetry Magazine (online), Ceremony, 
Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg 
and other publications. He is also the author of the chapbook, " 
Disturbing The Peace," from Night Ballet Press. 
He received his B.A. from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge.

Four Poems • David McNaron


Kids prospective mates will flee,
alimony, ex-wives and husbands—

and more, the traces, the scars
they leave. As if we

were servicing it,
like debt. Indentured servants

of the emotional world.
When all we really want is

to start anew, open to trusting
once again, with more ahead

of us than behind. The way a 20-year old
enters his first apartment, looking

happily, with anticipation,
at those blank white walls.

And maybe no baggage is a kind of
baggage too. Still on the sidelines?

Where’s the gain—a jersey
that’s clean at the end of the game.


My Parents’ Bed

Lying here where I began
I suddenly see
the world

from their
vantage point.

by the antique space—
looking out
over the horizon

of responsibilities.
Trying to fall asleep I think
how they must

have worried:
House secure?
Bills paid? Kids safe?

This frame’s too small
for me, and far
too big to fill.

Sleigh for a journey ending
precisely where
it began.


Mrs. Burson’s Private Christian First Grade

We learned phonics, art, and the Blood of the Lamb.
The UR Sisters, E-R, U-R, and I-R: Sue Bee Honey

squeeze bottles with small yellow caps.
Nicholas, an enormous German Shepard,

mostly slept. The hamsters, unfortunately,
ate their babies, which looked like red wet thumbs.

Mrs. Burson would get on to me for saying dern,
learned from Daddy. When I acted badly,

according to her lights, she’d say ‘There’s a little demon
on your shoulder!’ My pastel of Calvary

was praised. I sanded the work with tissue. The stones
of the cave were smooth, Christ’s blood trickled down the hill.

Her son, Jack, who was in advertising,
was nearly killed by a dog food truck

that crossed into his lane coming over a viaduct.
Everything was God’s will. He worked his mysterious way,

turning me into an atheist.
Hers was the prettiest house around.

We met in the finished basement.
We made nice friends. Billy Amari and I

once pushed kids over the woodpile.
Both his parents died within a year,

his father washing up at his feet,
drowned, at Panama City Beach.

I need a little tag to place here, but I’m fresh
out of insights. I can only say that I remember,

and each time I remember there’s something new,
as if I were adding something.

And sometimes remembering is
a consolation for all the things that were lost.

I’m not afraid, or sorry for anything, anymore.
There are people who will always be with me,

and who speak to me as if from a well,
into which I look and see myself.


On the Shyness of Horses

They’re stroking the Derby winner,
shielding his eyes

from the glare of the cameras as he pants,
froths at the mouth.

In slow motion I see the full power
of his strides, propelling him beyond

the pack, the suppleness of the body
in rhythm, flowing like a river.

He seems to want to race,
but who can be sure?

The beauty of the horse lies not
in what it thinks.

And somehow respect seems in order
for all their ken, the powers

of their senses, so well beyond ours,
the will instantaneous with the act.

And just when I’m on the verge of an important
truth, it recedes, refusing to show itself.


David McNaron teaches philosophy at Nova Southeastern 
University in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He received 
the MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine 
Arts in 2003. His poems have appeared or are 
forthcoming in Poetry East, The Midwest Quarterly, 
Ellipsis,, Gulf Stream, 
Third Wednesday, Deep South, Red Booth Review, 
Summerset Review, Tor House Newsletter and other magazines.

Two • Charlie Baylis

Lightning flashes on the strawberry fields, stems
Twist and weave to the moon’s silver - night is
White and a storm gather her pace. Flash. Green bulbs

Memory, cracks the grapes blue on the vine and the vielle
dam dances to the tune of the sea, in an unlit room
The bridges are all on fire, explosions of silence. Calm

Over the ridges the clouds loom grey the wasps, waspish
A boom of thunder erupts the field vanishes to snow. Flash.
The torch of desire breathes. Moonlight on the raspberries.


Charlie Baylis lives and works in Nottingham, England. He reviews poetry for Stride. His own writing has appeared most recently in Litro, Boston Poetry and Agave. He spends his spare time completely adrift of reality and tumbles, sporadically, here.

Parts • Winfred Watson



Winfred lives in Silverton, Colorado.

Hummingbird • Howie Good

come here,
it flies away,

a needle-

the window

in a dazzle
of wings,

a sort of


from another

the blue

Van Gogh

to cut off
his ear.


Howie Good's latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He has several poetry books forthcoming, including Fugitive Pieces (Right Hand Press) and Buddha & Co (Plain Wrap Press).

Waiting For Superman • Erren Geraud Kelly

like lois lane, she sits
in a coffeehouse, eyes pensive
trying to find a happy ending
in a dime store novel
her hair is black as midnight
i ask her if i can sit down
she says," no thanks, i'm waiting for
superman "

she's waiting for the bus and
her eyes are holding the dawn
she grips her briefcase
like its the presidential football
i notice the swell of her breasts
her eyes could be my kryptonite
i make small talk
and her words are gold
but she says " i'm waiting for

even if i could detect her secrets
with x-ray vision, it would be futile
she is gone, though she sits next to me
i see the american flag flapping like a cape
in the wind
she's heading home, another lonely
night, she's " waiting for superman"

i've got swag like a football team
enough nerve to leap tall buildings
i make ordinary words extraordinary
i could love her like the world
was ending
but she'll sit at home again
waiting for superman


Erren has published his work in Hiram Poetry Review, 
Mudfish, Poetry Magazine (online), Ceremony, 
Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg 
and other publications. He is also the author of the chapbook, " 
Disturbing The Peace," from Night Ballet Press. 
He received his B.A. from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge.