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Equinox: Just Add WaterThis literary journal is a compilation of the creative works of writers and artists included in it.Copyright © 2024 by hotpoet, Inc. and the individual writers and artistsAll rights reserved.ISBN 9781736785119Managing Editor: Kelly Ann EllisArt Editor: Vanessa ZimmerPowellConsultant Editor: Carrie Kornacki Page Design: Vanessa ZimmerPowellInterior Cover Design: Vanessa ZimmerPowellCover Design: James EllisPoetry Judge: John MilkereitArt Judge: Dominique Noelani NguyenProse Judge: Patricia McMahonInterior Cover Photo: Vanessa ZimmerPowellJournal Background Photography: Vanessa ZimmerPowellPublished online, March 2024Publisher:hotpoet, Inc.hotpoetorg@gmail.com

EditorsManaging Editor: Kelly Ann EllisArt Editor: Vanessa ZimmerPowellConsultant Editor: Carrie KornackiDesignJames Ellis: Cover DesignVanessa ZimmerPowell: Page DesignJudges John Milkereit, PoetryPatricia McMahon, ProseDominique Noelani Nguyen, Art a hotpoet publicationVol. 6 2024a hotpoet publicationVol. 6 2024

ContentsSECTION 1: RAIN 8Great White Heron K. Wayne McClane (art) 8First Charles Darnell (poetry) 10Waterfall Marghi Allen (art) 11Early Afternoon, Midsummer, Seven Minutes. David Meischen (prose) 12Holy Water d. ellis phelps (poetry) 13Sweat Margo Stutts Toombs (poetry) 14Water Baby Serge Lecomte (art) 15Vacuuming Storm Water Cindy Huyser (poetry) 16You can Break the Ice butNever the Water Dana Kinsey (poetry) 17Water Cycle Perspective Michael Galko (poetry) 18Becoming Hugh Findlay (poetry) 18Her Lawn Ryan Scariano (poetry) 18body Maui Smith (poetry) 19Raindrops Margo Stutts Toombs & Harwood Taylor (art) 19Tidal Ellen Mary Hayes (art) 20Guided by Perfume to Look at the Stars Dale Going (poetry) 21On the Point Ann Howells (poetry) 22Orpheus and Eurydice Marie V. Ricalde (art) 23SECTION 2: RIVER 24The Line Up Vanessa ZimmerPowell (art) 24A Thousand Years of Waters Jean Sutherland (poetry) 26Siren John Slaby (art) 27Free Boy Hugh Findlay (art) 28Swimming Lessons Julia Ross (art) 29Watershed Kumari de Silva (prose) 30Apart Marie Ricalde (art) 31Find Your Shoal Jade Hutchinson (art) 32never mind Brigid Cooley (poetry) 33Deciduous Thirst. Lumina Miller (poetry) 34"O" is for Optimism Holli May Thomas (art) 35Dendrochronology Elena Leila Radulescu (poetry) 35Make Yourself at Home Nina Yates (poetry) 36Still Life Insert Human Robin Young (art) 37Just Add Water Barry Lewis (poetry) 38Grey Liza Linder (art) 38Red Sky at Night Gerry Moohr (prose) 39Through the Years Samuel Gilpin (poetry) 40The Crossing Susan Martinello (poetry) 41Deep Blue Vanessa ZimmerPowell (art) 41ContentsSECTION 3: STORM 42Crocodile K. Wayne McClane (art) 42This Year Rachael Ikens (poetry) 44Dry Land Jade Hutchinson (art) 45The Flood Lauren Hall (poetry) 46Flood Vanessa ZimmerPowell (art) 46After AfterHours Alison Moore (poetry) 47Dar Vueltas al Horizonte Laura Peña (poetry) 48Lake, Surface, Depth Liza Linder (art) 49We'll Burn that Bridge as We Cross It Tracy Lyall (prose) 50Alice's Analysis Deborah Gorlin (poetry) 52Swamp Alison Moore (art) 53Wild Waters Hugh Findlay (art) 54 Hurricane Water Saleem AbdalKhaliq (poetry) 55when things were bright— Margo Davis (poetry) 56The Weirwood Trees of Oxford Robin Young (art) 57it has not arrived Terry Dawson (poetry) 58Watershed Kimberly Hall (poetry) 59Beach Business Hugh Findlay (art) 60SECTION 4: SEA 62Flamingo K. Wayne McClane (art) 62 Gravid Jen Karetnick (poetry) 64For the Birds Vanessa ZimmerPowell (art) 65Winter Soil John Peter Beck (poetry) 66High Desert Poem Joseph Machado (poetry) 67Dry Baptistry DE Zuccone (prose) 68Mountains of Ararat John Slaby (art) 69Beach Reunion Marcella Wilson (poetry) 70Refuge Angélique Jamail (poetry) 70Rain Song Ellen Mary Hayes (art) 70Oatmeal Judy Trupin (poetry) 71Learning Husbandry Sandi Stromberg (poetry) 72The high column and the green laurel are broken that cast a shade for my weary thoughts. Aaron Beck (art) 73Duckdive KaiLilly Karpman (poetry) 74the capricious nature of water Georgina Key (art) 75Spirits or Gnats Carol Louise Munn (poetry) 76I am the Shores Elisa A. Garza (poetry) 77Deep Blue Vanessa ZimmerPowell (art) 78Diver Charlotte Moskal (poetry) 79

ContentsSECTION 3: STORM 42Crocodile K. Wayne McClane (art) 42This Year Rachael Ikens (poetry) 44Dry Land Jade Hutchinson (art) 45The Flood Lauren Hall (poetry) 46Flood Vanessa ZimmerPowell (art) 46After AfterHours Alison Moore (poetry) 47Dar Vueltas al Horizonte Laura Peña (poetry) 48Lake, Surface, Depth Liza Linder (art) 49We'll Burn that Bridge as We Cross It Tracy Lyall (prose) 50Alice's Analysis Deborah Gorlin (poetry) 52Swamp Alison Moore (art) 53Wild Waters Hugh Findlay (art) 54 Hurricane Water Saleem AbdalKhaliq (poetry) 55when things were bright— Margo Davis (poetry) 56The Weirwood Trees of Oxford Robin Young (art) 57it has not arrived Terry Dawson (poetry) 58Watershed Kimberly Hall (poetry) 59Beach Business Hugh Findlay (art) 60SECTION 4: SEA 62Flamingo K. Wayne McClane (art) 62 Gravid Jen Karetnick (poetry) 64For the Birds Vanessa ZimmerPowell (art) 65Winter Soil John Peter Beck (poetry) 66High Desert Poem Joseph Machado (poetry) 67Dry Baptistry DE Zuccone (prose) 68Mountains of Ararat John Slaby (art) 69Beach Reunion Marcella Wilson (poetry) 70Refuge Angélique Jamail (poetry) 70Rain Song Ellen Mary Hayes (art) 70Oatmeal Judy Trupin (poetry) 71Learning Husbandry Sandi Stromberg (poetry) 72The high column and the green laurel are broken that cast a shade for my weary thoughts. Aaron Beck (art) 73Duckdive KaiLilly Karpman (poetry) 74the capricious nature of water Georgina Key (art) 75Spirits or Gnats Carol Louise Munn (poetry) 76I am the Shores Elisa A. Garza (poetry) 77Deep Blue Vanessa ZimmerPowell (art) 78Diver Charlotte Moskal (poetry) 79

ContentsMAKERS' CORNER 80Vanessa ZimmerPowell Maker's Corner Image 80John Milkereit, Poetry Judge Untitled (poem) 82Patricia McMahon, Prose Judge Abecedarian for a Funeral in HemingfordAbbots, Cambridgeshire (poetry) 83Dominique Noelani Nguyen, Art Judge Untitled (art) 84Carrie Kornacki, Consultant Editor Poem and photography (untitled) 85James Ellis, Cover Designer Snakes in the Grass Beneath Our Feet (art) 86Vanessa ZimmerPowell, Art Editor & Page Designer Seine (poetry), Still Waters (Image) 87Kelly Ann Ellis, Managing Editor March Snow in Tennessee (poetry) 88Page Image by K. Wayne McClane Hoary Frost (art) 88Makers' Bios 90Art on Final Page Walking On Water Without Making a Splash, Serge Lecomte 91Honorable MentionsPoetrySusan Martinello, The Crossing (p. 41)Deborah Gorlin, Alice's Analysis (p. 52)Sandi Stromberg, Learning Husbandry (p. 72)ProseGerry Moohr, Red Sky at Night (p. 39)ArtSerge Lecomte, Water Baby (p. 15)K. Wayne McClane, Crocodile (p. 42)Robin Young, Still Life Add Human (p. 37)

Contest WinnersPoetry Terry Dawson (p. 58)it has not arrivedProse DE ZucconeDry Baptistry (p. 68)Art Georgina Keythe capricoious nature of water (p. 75)Judges' CommentsPoetry: Regarding the winning poem, poetry judge John Milkereit writes:This poem amplifies the human condition in a political and ancestral landscape by inserting the journal theme of “just add water” as surprising and often disturbing syntax. The poet performs a dynamicmathamatical equation—one where adding water is the expected solution, but instead subtracts convincinglywith heartfelt disruption. The gentle tone is a subtle multiplication, magnifying the violence portrayed—from a “village burning” to a “fetus singed.” Yes, this poem arrives and pours deep. With urgent voice and lyrical weaving, this poem reminds us why poetry matters. It is not easily forgotten long after turning the page.Prose: Patricia McMahon, prose judge, reflects about the work she chose:“Dry Baptistry” pulls a moment out of time: the author's visit to the alien landscape of Las Vegas. From casinos to dust roads to visits to a sad and unexpected enterprise, all the way through to the inability to findDeath Valley, the author chronicles in careful detail his disconnect from this strange place where he has landed and reveals how a moment of beauty has the ability to literally stop us in our tracks.Art: Dominique Noelani Nguyen, art judge comments on the winning piece:As a designer, I am drawn to contemporary, abstract art, a form which I think is often underappreciated.This painting appeals to me because of its color composition and subtle conveyance of movement andemotion. The relationship between the work and the title, with its playful use of the phrase “capriciousnature” suggests that art can give life to that which might otherwise go unnoticed or be consideredunremarkable.

Great White Heron, K. Wayne McClane

Rain

First Charles DarnellWe were not somegranulated powderwaiting for the pourof hot liquidto burst into being,like instant tea.No,we started with water.Do you remember whenit rained for two millionyears?Long before the hint of life,infinitely long before sentientbeings.Do you remember crawlingout of the sea?We crawled out of water.Do you remember seeingland along a thin horizon?We looked for it bobbingon watery waves.For all the countless daysof the world,the endless number of nights,water came first.It was us who were added.

Waterfall, Marghi Allen

David MeischenEarly Afternoon, Midsummer, Seven Minutes. Thunder jostles Valerie out of her nap. Her feet pound floorboards; her words pummel stillness.Get up get up get up get up.Judi David Larell Vance rush from their rooms. The back screen door slams open,clatters shut. Barefoot, they rush to clothes lines heavy with sheets shirts jeans towels dresses. Amother, her children—they yank at clothespins as wind arrives rushing in the hackberries andrain creeps across the north field. Thunderheads above a haze of gray.Fresh smell of rain, clean smell of clothes, armloads rushed into the house and through thekitchen to the nearest bedroom—flung onto the nearest bed.      ~ ~ ~ ~Rain stops them halfway back across the yard, wilting clothes still on the line, hems and cuffsmudspattered.Judi David Larell Vance run circles in the downpour, chasing laughter. Valerie stands stillas Lot’s wife, ribcage tight against breath.Inside, the children shuck their wet things to the porch floor and rush to their rooms. Valeriestands among the discards. Her washing machine hulks in the corner, wringer broken, each pieceof clothing handwrung into the first rinse tub, handwrung into the second rinse, handwrunginto the tub carried out to the lines. Her arms ache knowing she will wring the wash againtomorrow.      ~ ~ ~ ~In her bedroom Valerie puts on a faded cotton blouse and pedal pushers fraying at the hems.Quick as it came the rain stops. Outside, her clothes hang sopping on the lines. The silence thatsettles after rain rings in her.Looking on from her dresser, a bride beside her groom, white spray of feathers in her hair, whitecarnations crinkling at the neckline of a bodice washed in light.

holy water d. ellis phelpsmy mother fills the vasewith water—food coloringone drop dropped inred or blue sometimes yellowin our sparse spacegrey walls green and gold flecked sofaa landscape painted by my mother’s auntabove the hifiand in the dining roomthere’s the last supperin ceramics: a moldfired and painted by my father’s mother—the two single red rose paintings she painted hang in the kitchenlater she will heat brown beer bottleshang them by their necks in the kilnuntil they stretch their bottoms downand land flat puddles of glass on the bricks their thin fragile stemsstill stuck in the wireand bring them to us on sunday afternoon when she visitsand then my father and his motherwill argue over our souls—the southern baptist v. the church of christtheir voices rising: pitch & tonehot like the steaming hell i imagine where we my father my mother & mewill surely gomy grandmother saysas though i—a child—am not in the room and yet my mother will set out her vases: holy watermolecules combined by an unseen force & drawn from the tap—another kind of miraclea few thoughtful dropscommon to the kitchenused in an uncommon waymake the vases decoart:decanted colorist formsgracing the table lacing the windowsill—translucent —stalwart —iterationsstatements of faith madeno matter how manynights she will spend bent over —her sorrow spinning within her

Sweat Margo Stutts ToombsExcessive sweating is a family curse that began when my profusely perspiring mother coupled with my dripping dad and begat offspring who live in a perpetual state of wetness. Not the good kind of wetness that escapes the body when hormones catch fire. No, sweat is the wet that keeps folks at arm’s length. The barrier that makes hugging awkward. The dampness that sparks the silent “Ewww.” I was a toddler who awakened from afternoon naps in a pool of saline. I was a kid the church bully called “Sweaty.” I was a teenager who rushed from the school bus to the airconditioned band hall to cool off and pat dry before my classmates saw my wet face and asked, “Are you sick?” I am the adult who searches out the coolest part of the room and the nearest exit in case the faucets open. I am a human brinemaking machine.There are medications and surgeries for this disorder of body dampness, but the side effects are annoying, e.g., a red face. I prefer to whine, use cool devices like a neck fan, and make lemonade out of lemons or in this case, salty dogs out of sweat. My favorite way to deal with disappointments is to turn them into performance pieces. Several years ago, my friend Neil and I performed “Sweat Dance” at a Fringe Festival in Austin. We were the last act on the program. The pieces before ours were about death, dying and suicide. I could feel the energy of the audience going down and down and down. By the time we got on stage, they were ready for something ridiculous. When it was our turn on stage, the lights came up, we ran out, and drenched each other with water pistols. Then we “danced” to this poem – Make me sweat, dance. Make me a dance.Stream hot rain down back and butt.Sparkle my skin with crystal drops.Make me sweat, dance.Make me a dance.Cleanse my pores with briny fluid.Slide my breasts in salty juiceMake me sweat, dance.Make me a dance.Hug and squeeze my fountains dry.Cross hot face with slimy bangs Open the faucets…flood the floor Make me sweat, dance.Make me a hot, wet dance.Scent my skin with eau de beach Plunge me in ocean wash me to shore.

Water Baby, Serge Lecomte

Vacuuming Storm Water Cindy HuyserSweet generosity of heaven,there’s no escaping ground water, the rain that rises to displacethe least bit of air. By nowthe ground is saturated.Days of Biblical rain and my mother pleadingfor my everlasting soul,repeating again why transwomen should be banned from sportas I sit with my crossdressed armsfolded across my chest. I retreat to the basement,where water’s coming infrom unpatched cracks. I tugthe blackribboned hose, pressits flat mouth against the growing pool. Shall we gather at the river. Weeping at the baseboardagain. Sucking it up.

You Can Break the Ice but Never the Water Dana KinseySomeone once told me I was broken,but doesn’t everybody need a break?Happilyeverafters depend on spells broken by handsome prince kisses. We break chocolate bars into squares momentary shares of melty sweetness. I felt warm water rush from my body, broken like a dam before my son arrived. He’s alive because something in mebroke open to release him head firstinto a world where he’ll break patternsof men ashamed to speak with softness. See, I break silences like an Olympian breaks records. Gold medal me please. Codes were designed to be deciphered,broken by mathematicians stopping warslike referees breaking apart brutal boxersbefore blood pours into puddles onto mats. What matters most is breaking falls,saving skin and bones from concrete. Blockbusters break box office recordswhen actors crack hearts into halves.Having bad days sometimes just meanssunrays haven’t broken through clouds. Only broken horses know to run, escapereins, thrust lustrous manes into winter wind. Artists use the golden repair of kintsugi to heal breakage, turn tragic cracks into rich history. In the future, don’t ever circuit break me, just measure my currents by testing my will against yours when you break open my body,a pomegranate packed with rubies shimmeringfrom a place where I will never be less than whole.

Michael GalkoWater Cycle Perspective Attentiveto the cloud,the puddleevaporates.Inattentiveto the puddle,the clouddrifts onHugh FindlayBecoming [s]he sprays rose water, steps into its holy cloud, becomes a ladyRyan ScarianoHer Lawn My blackberry my hammockMy honeybee cloverMy beetle my mothMy sunset ghost sparrowMy teeth tongue my flutterMy wing beatMy patio moonMy dandelion dawnEarth scent of my airWhen her sprinklers turn on

body. Maui Smithheaven cracked open unto you alone take communion from them pool it in their navel create lakes and making love on the eighth day we lay ruin by methodologyname what we should learn by our hands take my name in vain kiss it into my lipsbite it into my shoulder nature is justthe body without the fearRaindrops, Margo Stutts Toombs*Composition background by Harwood Taylor

Tidal, Ellen Mary Hayes

Guided by Perfume to Look at the Stars The density of light alters, “feeling mortal again.”Falters. As: nothing material has permanence. As: the discovery of black holes as all galaxies’ given. As: the pearl silence of moretti, button in the mouth masks Venetian women wore for the halflife of Carnivale. As: the inkblack, the forced, the open. The puncture Floods, rushes. Silk tenancy of flesh, deft taffeta cadenza. Timbre of light in a tumbler. As: water is tumbled light, ground down. Black so buoyant and steadfast. As: central, not anomalous, an excess. The tempo being offgives its perfection. What about love? It too must rise, spread out like a flood plain, its silk blue crescendo––ground, garment, sky––“now, at a cadence.” Now, like a prize, alert and surging. Dale Going

Ann HowellsOn the PointEvening stretches languid across warm sand,humpback bridge a silhouette against sunset,incoming tide a fluty melody underscoringraucous voices, snatches of rude speechfrom fishermen on the bridge. June’s heavy web entangles a young couple,passion obscuring windows of his old blue Chevy. He kisses fluttering eyelids – one, then the other, as sun eases below a redtinted horizon.Breezes ruffle the river's surface, limbs tremble. Rising moon chuckles; he’s seen it all before.

Guided by Perfume to Look at the Stars The density of light alters, “feeling mortal again.”Falters. As: nothing material has permanence. As: the discovery of black holes as all galaxies’ given. As: the pearl silence of moretti, button in the mouth masks Venetian women wore for the halflife of Carnivale. As: the inkblack, the forced, the open. The puncture Floods, rushes. Silk tenancy of flesh, deft taffeta cadenza. Timbre of light in a tumbler. As: water is tumbled light, ground down. Black so buoyant and steadfast. As: central, not anomalous, an excess. The tempo being offgives its perfection. What about love? It too must rise, spread out like a flood plain, its silk blue crescendo––ground, garment, sky––“now, at a cadence.” Now, like a prize, alert and surging.Orpheus and Eurydice, Marie V. Ricalde

The Line Up, Vanessa ZimmerPowell

River

Jean Sutherland A Thousand Years of Waters Navigating back as far as I can chart,The English Channel carried my Norman blood.The waters then grow foggy,Before the jump from Thames to Tidewater,North Sea to Mississippi,Mispillian, Ohio, and Wolf.It traveled down the ClydeThen paused by the Cayuga shores.By long boat, coal barge, iron clad, by sail and steam,Carried by tides of politics, blown by winds of war and poverty,My hydrology traces many springs,Half of my blood sourced, the rest unknowable.If a single drop of water takesAlmost three millenia to circumnavigate the globe,What flows in me may still have far to travel.Will it fly faster, borne by ever warming currents,Or will it sink into Antarctic depths?`With what new waters will it meet and meld?Blood of my blood, your journey has just started.

Siren, John Slaby

Julia RossSwimming Lessonswhat makes a nonswimming bodyinto a swimming one? the edge has to be too far, the watertoo deep, legs too scrawny, not grownintoyet. the parent dry on the deckhas to sit on her hands. there has to bea held breath, skipped heartbeat,stopped second hand. to become aswimming body you must flail,however briefly, before you find the rhythm. Free Boy, Hugh Findlay

Kumari de SilvaWatershed You’ve seen her before, you just can’t place quite where. . . there’s something about the smooth chestnut brilliance of her hair. It fairly sparkles. Is she looking at you from behind her huge, dark, JackieO style sunglasses? For a moment you hold your breath. But then no, she is turning back towards her car, opening the door behind her to release the buckle on a car seat halfhidden from your sight. You sigh. The graceful billowing of her loose maxi skirt reminds you of the muumuus of your youth on Oahu, back home.Perhaps she is simply the cashier at the grocery store where you buy your weekly stash of beans, rice, butter and eggs. People look different out of context. But she seems too pretty for that; she seems like someone people notice. Was she a former neighbor? Someone you thought you knew but never really knew because the first day you meet she says. “Call me Susan,” and just like that, you’re on a first name basis.But then six weeks later you realize you’ve never said more than “hello,” or “hey there” or “nice weather we’re having,” and you don’t actually even know if she’s single or married and if any kids live in that upstairs apartment with her. You only know she drives a beat up Honda Accord that appears to have more than two hundred thousand miles on it, but it’s hard to say because she has not ever offered you a ride, not even to the bus stop.Six months later you realize you have not ever seen the inside of her abode. She’s glanced inside of yours while you were exiting with your dog and maybe she mentioned she liked your poster of Matisse. But maybe that hadn’t been her at all, maybe that had been your postal carrier, Brandon, who had commented on the fluid lines and vibrant colors when he handed you a package you had ordered: a Hawaiian quilt from Etsy.com.Six years later when you leave that apartment building to move in with the man your mother calls her “former son in law” you realize you have never learned Susan’s last name. You only wish you had, because her smile has proved to have more stability than that fragile fiveyear marriage. You had grown used to seeing Susan pull her car up to the curb. Like clockwork she arrived home in the evening from wherever she worked. You two seemed to be at the mailbox at the same time, daily. Always a chance to make mundane remarks, which had anchored you at that time in your life.“Honey?” you hear someone say. “What are you looking at?” And that’s when you realize she isn’t your old neighbor at all. She’s that waitress, the server who had brought you water, only yesterday, the one who had flirted with your partner while you had sat silently by.

Apart, Marie Ricalde

Find Your Shoal, Jade Hutchinson

Brigid Cooley never mind tap the walls of a fish bowlwith too much forceand its contents will come rushing outglass shards and seaweedwater inching downturquoisepainted cabinetscreating puddles on creaky hardwoodabstract image of losssomething so delicateturned hazardousno more dancingbarefoot in the kitchenno more socked feetpadding past the bedroom, carelessonly hardsoled shoessecondguessed footstepsnever mind the dustpanand the broomattempts to tidy up the messrecover what came beforeunrepairable, despite superglueand good wishesbetta fishes left gaspingbut oh, how their scalesstill sparkle in thisrosecolored morning light

Lumina MillerDeciduous Thirst. Fortynine vignettes,whispered intothe somber circlesof birch trees.Can’t keep myhead up overrumbling, risingwater.Disoriented,tense and coolto the touch—fighting,the urge to driftand be filledwith sodium suffuseddefeat.End overend, find the pocketb r e a t h einto footling’s breech.

"O" is for Optimisim, Holli May Thomas Elena Lelia RadulescuDendrochronologyThe oak treewill not rememberthe storm that plucked its upper branch and tossed itinto the teeth of rabid winds.The silver birch will not recall the birds, their soundspeeling the night away,ushering in warm days,green tender leaves.Only the bounty or the lack of wateris worth remembering,written down,ring by ring,year by year.

Nina YatesMake Yourself at HomeSeveral years ago, the cracked and crippled teapot baked with my greatgrandsomething’shands started pouring bitter tea and never stopped.My skin is crawlingwith the scratchiness of thisforsaken upholsteryand down the hallwayall the pictures blend together into one: a crying little girl withone braid in her hair andanother in her handthat empty sorrow she must feel having one less braid to adorn her head.The clocks tick an offbeat rhythmthe pots so rusted they glow dullywith the kettle’s flame andafter all that brewing and boiling, my tea has gone cold.

Still Life Insert Human, Robin Young

Just Add WaterYou two, passionfused,always looking, always touching.Within you a plantedseed. Love,and you just add water.You are so careful, he is sosmall. His father fears, youhold him dear, lovecocoonfilled with water.Water breaks in the produceaisle, knowingclerk patsyour hand and smiles. Cleanupin aisle three, so much water.You fear everything he does,speedcharged superheroson. Sparrow born to fly, amother’s tears just add water.He enlists, earns his wings.Letters belay fears, Mother’sinklings. Tearstained pages, lovekissedsealed with water.Black Hawk down,you call me often. Nationfears, flagdraped coffina mother’s tearsjustaddwater Grey, Liza LinderBarry Lewis

Gerry MoohrRed Sky at NightFive years after his funeral, my husband joins me on the deck of the river house, our retirement home in Virginia’s Northern Neck.He asks, Ready for a beer?He doesn’t ask, Where’s our boat? What have you done with Crystal?I figure he knows I’d sold it—and for far less than he’d paid. Best not to talk about it.We walk down steep stairs, onto a ramp, then along the long dock toward the space where Crystal used to float.We take our places on the Adirondack settee, our seats joined by a wide arm exactly wide enough to hold two bottles of beer and a wooden bowl of pretzels.We sit in silence facing the sun setting over water, by habit hoping for the red sky at night that promises a sailor’s delight. Watch as the tide raises the skiff (which I have not yet sold) so its lines slacken and then watch the lines tighten as the tide ebbs.OR.I walk with my dog, another Crystal. Alone but not alone. Down the long gravel driveway to an asphalt road, turn left, proceed a half mile to the state road, turn back. No need to step aside when a car approaches, drivers give walkers plenty of room, and we exchange obligatory waves. Everyone here waves, even strangers. It’s something about country roads.OR.I finish projects we’d planned together: adding a banister to the stairs that go down to the ravine, installing robust storm doors against winter wind, replacing a worn kitchen sink. Then begin projects we dreamt about: building a faux Japanese bridge on the driveway side, planting dogwood trees and boxwood bushes by the garage, constructing, with my brother’s help, a drystone wall on the river side.OR.I placate an embittered neighbor who frequently berates me, this time for allowing weeds to encroach onto her half of our shared drive. Sip wine with more amenable neighbors, envying their togetherness. Decline invitations to volunteer at the local library. Do not join a quilting club.OR.I sit on the deck watching the river rise and fall with the tides. Listen to leaves silently falling from trees and softly, softly landing. Keep an eye on Crystal as he rolls a plastic jar around the deck, excitedly licking away every trace of peanut butter. Observe watermen on workboats as they lift, empty, and reset their crab pots. They wave, too, in a straightarm, handwide fingersspread salute that I mimic in return.OR.I drive west to Charlottesville with Crystal in the back and watch the mountain sky glow pink, fade into orange, deepen into red. A sailor’s delight, no longer for me. I join crowds at movies, haunt used bookstores, snack at friendly coffee shops, sink into the warm embrace of timelong friends, think about staying for a while.

Samuel GilpinThrough the Years full dusk beginning only to unravel,the orange brown of dried pine needles,every so often speech fails me.bone spur bare branches barrenness leaving but a traceI feel so passive, so powerless.flowers wilted in the patio pot.a few voices in the street.the black bark, wet and broken.the world does not conform to our description. when I awake you are still sleeping.

Wake, Vanessa ZimmerPowellSusan Martinello The CrossingI am going home on the early boat.The pale, morning clouds muffle my passing.The drowsy harbor hushhushes the waketo ripples and whisperings of parting.Oh, I bought my ticket a good time backwhen your mother went. She loved the ferry,its comings and goings sure like the tide.Bringing and taking away.She is my beacon as the boat rounds the point.I throw my penny—I am coming backin sea diamonds and argyle waves at the rip,but now the scalloping season is done.With the sweet gift of knowing from her to me,I give myself over to this crossing.

StormStormCrocodile, K. Wayne McClane

This Year Rachael IkensDirtyblonde trees fade to crisp,sugar gone up in smoke becauseJuly cracked open.Summer stacked tight. Rusted.Earth fills chairs’ hollow legs wheretheir feet dug into earth the days of heat, after rain.Goldfish in the bathtub, koi, the jacuzzi,Survive against all odds. Claws.Water too warm, salty as blood.Two needles stitch gold on blue over burning sugar, goldfish in the bathtubJacuzzi full of koi, a stock pot down a field dumped into the pond.Floorboards buckled in the turquoise days of heat and rain, stacked tight, pried open by ants. An orb weaver spins a net.Sit. Sand runs from your pants’ cuffs, chases ants into the darkness. What lives in the cracks? Two needles stitch gold on blue over burning sugar,Goldfish in the bathtub, Jacuzzi full of duckweed, a stock pot down the path. Dump the pond.Petrichor stitched gold on blue, two needles, heron stabs green for fat oranges. Survive the odds.Spring, fry.Leaping.What masked creature crawled under the porch last July to birth her babies in the days of deluge and broil. Starved for suet you tacked to the maple tree.You saw her, oneeyed summer, leaping as she bit the metal feederso hardit bent.

Dry Land, Jade Hutchinson

Flood, Vanessa ZimmerPowellThe Flood Lauren HallThe day the city floodsI do, too. I let my mouth fillwith unruly admissionsand spill them at your feet.I am better on dry landbut we don’t get to choosewhere we meet our end. You saidthe universe is likely uninterestedin orchestrating something soinsignificant, but I am too vainto believe otherwise. Nothinghappens by chance. I am trappedin an Uber watching cars float bywhen my driver kindly offersto teach me the Mandarin wordfor shitshow. He cautions thatit doesn’t fully translate, and I knowthe feeling. After you go, I forgetabout water entirely and drinkonly bourbon. It solves nothingbut at least it bites back. I sleepin my clothes and am surprisedto wake the next morningto clear skies. I didn’t intendto drown, but thought itinevitable. I didn’t intend to confess to the IV nurseeither, but she finds my veinso easily, insisting all the while that everyone, everywheremakes better choices oncethey are fully hydrated.

Flood, Vanessa ZimmerPowell Alison MooreAfter AfterHours By 2:05 a.m. there will be a line out the door at The Loaves and Fishes AllYouCanEat Café. That’s what the regulars call it. They know when it’s half price—stuff yourself silly for $4.99—it won’t keep. The late shift from the printing plant on Townsend races to put the morning edition to bed, and when the printing plates bend to the rollers and everything is fastened down, the Heidelberg Harris gallops like a highstrung horse headed for the barn. The folders finish folding, and when the cards are punched to prove the existence of time, the men rush out the back door. They reek of ink that never washes off.Flapjacks flat and shapeless as fritters are stacked and ready, and the syrup made from maple flavoring waits to be poured. Mountains of hash browns steam like volcanoes. Pileaplate, eat, repeat. No checks. No waitress. No tips. Like the news, it only lasts for so long—until tomorrow turns into tomorrow—and another shift begins at six. They settle on the stools facing the window, look out on China Basin as the drawbridge on 3rd starts to close; a fishing boat named Saudade slides right on through, headed for the bay. Maybe someday, they’ll be on the water, too.They don’t say much. When the last bite has been almost tasted and swallowed whole, they wash it all down with coffee. They say “g’night, now,” head for the train, or the ferry, or whatever brought them here.A man from Malaysia clears their sticky plates, scrapes the smokes put out in the yolks. With deft strokes, he wipes the stainless steel with industrialstrength Dawn that leaves a stinging scent behind. He turns off the long row of aluminum trouble lights. Clipped to a rail, they serve well enough as warmers for the food—innovation of the owner from Taiwan. At last, he puts out the trash.The excess of America still astonishes him, the hunger without end, the unslakable thirst. The dumpster is overflowing with leftover bounty as the dogs in the alley gather with the stealth of wolves. They wait for him to leave before closing in.The man from Malay will soon have enough saved to buy a corner store on Hunters Point, to bring the rest of his family from Kuala Lumpur. They will work long hours together, not in shifts; they will eat together, also not in shifts. Live upstairs and look across the bay at the lights of Alameda. Go fishing at Warmwater Cove. Go to sleep and wake as one. America is so much less than he dreamed, so full of lonely, hungry, thirsty people with a longing they can’t even name. They have houses. They have payments. They are the ones who are never home.

Dar Vueltas al Horizonte Laura Penami sombra meda consejosmira estos granos de arena cada uno tiene historiaponlos en la tierranace un árbolmandalos por el vientocrece el desiertomezclalos con tus lagrimasy los mares se llenaranuna mujer arrolla su almasu vida no serala mismano dejahuellas

Laura Peña Turning Towards the HorizonTranslation of Dar Vueltas al Horizantemy shadow gives me solace and adviceadmire these grains of sand each one tells a storybury them in the eartha tree will growblow them through the winds a desert will be bornmix them with your tearsand the seas will risea woman destroys her soul her life will never be the sameshe will leave no footprintsLake, Surface, Depth Liza Linder

We’ll Burn that Bridge as We Cross It Tracy LyallDear Frankie,You’re a real shitbag, calling for me to pick up your dry cleaning the other day when I was in need of an espresso, the dishes were piled up for a week, and one of the stupid cats was shitting in the corner. There’s nice hardwood beneath this skanky carpet; if I pulled it up, I could treat and shine it. Now I have to dye the cat food with food coloring—1 green, 1 red, and 1 blue to feed those hairy mongrels individually in order to inspect their poop, figure out which one is crapping on the rug. You’re a creature of habit, Frankie, always the same routine. You buy the same coffee, sit in the exact spot, same cigarettes, same assumed masculine silence, so contained, and still a shitbag. Part of me longs to see you pukeface drunk with a bottle of Gin between your legs in an old LaZBoy and wife beater tank...scruffy beard.You clean up well, Frankie. You dirty well, too. Every rich man needs a nasty Euro trash woman to even him out because his pristine Lexusdriving, Heightsliving, starchedandtuckedin white shirt needs some shakin’. Like a shakenbake – raw chicken in a bag in a hot kitchen. Sweatnfry, sweet tea, and summer lovin. KoolAid for the kiddos in this welcometohell, industrylined, machineclanking, airfilledwithstench city, Houston, Texass – 6 million of steel and oil, 40 year old Shipley’s donuts, topless bars, Fiesta, and feederroad carnivals. I cry at thrift stores, I play dressup and pretend. That little mama pit dog is still sleeping in the yard with a stuffed kitty I gave it.Like I said Frankie, you’re a shitbag.Love, TracyDear Tracy, Rumor has it we should be careful what we tell you. Why is that? Your mouth too big for your britches? I guess you should have married further up in the economic bracket while you still had your youth and beauty because your mouth is your deathtrap, loaded gun, driveby, incarcerated prison bitch. It opens like a tsunami, drowning victims, or an earthquake, dropping bodies like black bags of war into a field of blood.Apparently, you annoy the hell out of people, invading their personal space like a weed, poison ivy, ants. No, more like termites, crawling beneath a structure until it crumbles. Everyone is afraid you’ll see through them, read them like tarot sprawled out on lacquered oak tables; little shriveled pink cocktail shrimp naked and exposed.Give up on sexy; you don’t pull off sexy well. I’ve seen more ass on a beetle. That little black dress is merely a coverup for the fact that you hate your life and yourself. Your jaded waif persona is played out. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a sweet girl but you’ve waited too long to snag a husband, and your sensitivity to the issue creates an uncomfortable air for others.

Maybe consider crossing the tracks. If you troll sufficient locales, the young women will adore you, fawn over you, admire your ruggedly handsome experience as artist, writer, poet, whatever. We have so much in common – twin souls – you’re just not my type anymore.Love,FrankieDear Frankie,The oceans have all gone black – dark as my churning stomach of rotten. Rusted motorcycle frames, pieces of broken children’s beds, nonbiodegradable plastics from Japan, the flooded nation washing up ashore on the California coast for us to pick through. Tar black, like when they fed me coal and rammed a rippled tube down my throat to pump my stomach. And even at that moment of near death, bright lights, and tunnels—guess what?Nothing happened. Nothing at all. No angels, no soulmate, nothing to but my own dirty body – unfed, covered in vomit, and wrapped in a hospital gown with that bitch nurse calling me stupid. After I recovered, I was pissed. What, no revelation, epiphany, or amazing neardeath vision to tell the grandkids about? I’d been robbed.Love,TracyDear Tracy,I’m a sick man. My thrills come from watching you with others: men, women, it’s a perverse fascination I cannot deny. From mother’s closet to 70’s garage rock bands to cocaine to heroin and overstimulation of the senses, to withdrawals, I needed a fix, and my girlfriend wasn’t enough. She was just the pet, accessory luggage, trips overseas – it became harder and harder to get off. I needed a deeper thrill, a chaotic strain, a shock, a jolt. It involved voyeurism. Do they have anonymous meetings for that? I chose something less to cling to. She’s penetrable and dull, a postitnote, paperdoll cut out; an offstage prop, background lighting, or music for the big show. Of course she loathes you, Sweetie. You are my obsession—the star of the show.Love,Frankie

Alice’s Analysis Deborah GorlinInspired by Pool of Tears 2 (after Lewis Carroll) by Kiki Smithhttps://tinyurl.com/5j696563After all those tears from the chapter before, it makes sense she’s washed out, drawn,etched so gingerly she’s almostpenciled in. Curious creatures occupy the chambray pool with her: capybara, eaglet, dodo, owl, perhaps a sloth, the covey forlorn, adrift in the alien aftermath, anxious forhome, their own comfort zones, sky, land, tree, cave, armchair near the woodstove. And though wanAlice swims with her dress still on, in buoyant crinoline, worrying eyes, she’s also one of them: her hands splay, claw blue, her mussed hair greyed, dunked, darkened, like a coon tail streamingfrom the back of her head. Nine feet tall, she caused this water, the fault of her heretofore unaccountable human weeping, when suddenly downsized to normal, she’s held responsible, their stunned shepherdess. So now what? She leads them stealthily, as if on tip toe, a loudthrashing noise could wake a sleeping monster, stir the uneasy water to rise up, exploit their wettened unworkable wings and limbs, pull them down. That crying thatcried her earlier, spilled her contents, runnels down her cheeks, then torrents pouring forthfor hours, until it stopped. They blame her for the situation, insist she take them out. “We don’t belong here, Alice, you conjured us,” cried animals, cried feelings.

Swamp, Alison Moore

Wild Waters, Hugh Findlay

Saleem AbdalKhaliqHurricane waterIt use to be hard to crys/he changed that… in a dayKatrina, woman of waves Brought seven levels of hell… in her wake1 bottle/less water2 still/stagnant water 3 dark/oil water 4 corpse/bathing water 5 amphibian/nesting water 6 putrid/polluted water 7. contaminated /noxious “help is on the way” waterTear water comes easily in the Big EasyHurricane water

when things were bright—I scooped stars from the watering holeone by one as our horse Ivanlicked salt. when things felt alright I would marvel at the night turned upside down, but now the well’s dry. our horse rots alongside clumps of dirt that don’t quite blanket. days devoid of water, light.Margo Davis

The Weirwood Trees of Oxford, Robin Young

it has not arrived Terry Dawson(Israel & Palestine, 2023)“A voice was heard in Ramah…Rachel weeping for her children.”— Matt. 2.18it has not arrived,the knot inside usstill intact all that lacksis water dry as a crumb —as a pinch of sand fired to glass(lightningstruck obsidian),but we are nota sea monkey colony: a palmof dormant morsels awaitinginstructions: “just add theflow of tap H20 —sufficient to makea village” it takesa village to grow a childto a village burning —a colony pregnant with children —one cannotjust add watersnatching a child like a crumb to duck into a tunnel —its flooding neither – won’tsecure the needed peacethe desert speaks in sand,the promise of waterunbitten on its lips“just add, just add”: a doseapplying its own subtractionfrom the sea floor of aquariums life bubbles up:a tea of motion —a spiraling stew of proteins“my pain, my pain,”both sides complain,the dry and the wetwhen met, an embryoswims like a minutein the clock of our noggins —as a “what might be”“just add, just add,”it ticks but “what?”never mentioned but implieddrop by drop it plummetsas a tear, as a sip,as a liquid glow lit — as afetus singed and soggy,reaching, but ithas not arrivedthe bombs and slaughter, yesbut not the water —not the Jordan severednor Dead Sea spitting saltnor footprints splashed across the topof lowlying Galilee “just add, just add”proves again not yet enough

Watershed Kimberly Halllike every child of the gulf coast, i once learnedevery name for floodby heart. first from natural histories, which i read the waymy grandmother took gospel. names like eddy. west nile.navasota. then, houseguests. josephine,allison. rita and matthew and harvey. every season sweptthrough the door with new faces for rain, new sounds and wavesto taste. i would sit quiet in my secondfloor room and hold their saturated shapesin my mouth, like hard candy, or the little alligatorswe saw once, down around the bayou, nestledso sweet in their mother’s deep jaws. an unsuspecting observermight anticipate tragedy – that dreadful mawsnapping down, the little crunch of bones under the weightof the sky. why don’t they just move?one might say. higher ground, safer shores. flee,little animals! get out of the way! these scaly giants don’t careif you swim or drown! don’t you see? the world is dissolvingbeneath your feet, don’t you see? of course we see,but we also know better than to trust first impressionsand short exposures – we know that everything true in the worldthat has ever been exposed by time was first exposedby water. by constructive interference, corrosion,erosion and weathering – exposed, the way the oceanexposes the seabedbefore the storm surge – the way the river exposesour insides as we carry them, flowing, through its mouth.it’s a myth that all rivers must flowsouth, but it’s also not the whole story. scylla breaksand rebuilds by the day. hurricanes turn themselvesagainst the clock, while charybdis doesn’t careabout contemporary physics. the real myth is that anythingcan flow backwards. the truth is, momentto moment, the whole world isirreversible. to pretend otherwise is folly at best, and at worsta curse. the truth is, levees will break and eggswill crack – streets and rivers and houses and nests will flood,and when they do, when the skies crash and those great oily giantslook down on us from above – well, the truth is, our waterlogged rootsrun deep, no matter what any billionaires or other invasive speciesmight say – the truth is, alligators have an average bite force ofat least two thousand psi, and they use those same deadly jaws to singlullabies to their children, all birdsong and thunder and gentle cradle – the truth is,we stay because we know the best way to hold something you loveis with your teeth.

Beach Business, Hugh Findlay

Flamingo, K. Wayne McClane

SeaFlamingo, K. Wayne McClane

Jen KaretnickGravidAfter Betty LaDukeWe know the rumors of our demise. The fish begs faithfully at the backwards, upward sky:a house of the god of light,scarlet through fierce belief.The memories shift in their skins at every moon slung slack.Sing to the ancestors all the way through time,back to where we’ve been.Someone has to make it out alive.The first cry opens your whole selfwith water electrified by instructions on what it means to be human.A Joy Harjo ekocentoSource poems:An American Sunrise;” “Eagle Poem;” “Insomnia and the Seven Steps to Grace;” “Once the World Was Perfect;” “Becoming Seventy;” “Everybody Has a Heartache: A Blues;” “Invisible Fish;” “Perhaps the World Ends Here;” “Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings;” “Granddaughters;” “Memory Sack;” “Praise the Rain;” “How to Write a Poem in a Time of War”

For the Birds, Vanessa ZimmerPowell

John Peter Beck Winter SoilCalm and serene, ... as cold as winter soil Sarah Bailey, The Dark LakeWe wait. Nothingcan get in or out. The fierce rainsand the February meltpush ever onwardto find a placeof rest. Coffinsline up like taxisin the airport, takinga number for the tripunderground. This bright whitedance floor will softenand the tiny impatient fingers,new and green, will openthis ground, this earthfrom below, in a marchtoward the brightening,the ever expansive blue.

High Desert Poem Joseph MachadoFor millennia uncountedthe ochre sentinels exaltedlong before the first sage strodeamong them, eyes wet with aweand smoke, dreaming new godsto story the cliffsides Where stony rainbows embossunblemished skies, hues ferrous and oreladenvaulted with the pulse of magnetic fluxwhere each rock has born a hundred namestotemic and fleeting, visonled deceivers of imprisoned mineral truthWhere the creeping darkness studies shadow tapestriesreciting an etched memory of rain and riveruntil the wolf shadow hungersand grows to swallow its worldonly then each gaping cave draws breaththen gasps a screeching winged ravenous cloudWhere the womb of the Apache and Yavapai still swellswith coyote, deer, javelina, hawk, and rattlesnakewhere the thin soil chatters, alive with lichensand fungi, it rations, and informs messenger beesto reassure the prickly pear, cypress, sage, manzanita, and yucca of the ever, ever, and everpromised rainsWhere a solemn boyhero, suckled on bitternesssearches skyward for the mountain thunderbirddagger hand and talon both itching to forehasten entwined fateswhere the decorated shaman whispers the wisdomof twisted juniper into the warrior’s woundsas to the bootlegger and to the skulking outlawWhere, even now, despite coffeethe height of the ridge entardies the rising sunand steals its crimson flourishyet the fertile moon framed between the mesa’s broad shoulders impassions and ennoblesthe nectar that is raised to herWhere a plague of pilgrimsensnares the land and declaresit sacred, who embrittles its truthwith wild sentiment and misconstrues the ferocious cruelty of its grandeurTectonic temple that outshines its congregationoutlasts the fashions of reverencewhen—at long last—the sea reclaims youknow that the eternal world will burst anew with fresh wonders unwitnessed.

Dry Baptistry DE ZucconeIt was midmorning at a conference in Las Vegas when I decided I would have been better off jogging in Death Valley. I endured two more presentations fueling my frustration. Maybe it’s the carpeted risk environment, or that extra oxygen secretly pumped into casinos, staying up too late wandering in crowds of stupefied people with comped cocktails—bad decisions seem inevitable. It’s inscribed on every gambling chip, scrawled on receipts, and tattooed on any tramp stamp in the lounge. You’re predestined to do something foolish and excessive. A religious vow in Las Vegas is no one in any kind of uniform will flinch whatever it turns out to be—bad choices are sacrament. I was in line for a nondescript pastry and coffee warmup, mentally murdering the next two people on the agenda. Half the conference had already slipped out to play slot machines. The registration committee looked betrayed. A blank faced speaker with a stack of stapled handouts sighed dully at their watch. Holding the conference at a hotel named The Mirage was a bad decision before any plane touched down into the heat sheen at McCarran. Nobody was happy. When you’re not happy in Las Vegas, just wander off someplace else in the desert—that’s redemption. The digital sign on The Strip flashed 2:03 / 104 ̊. Carol and I had a rented Skylark with an airport map in the glove box, a stolen afternoon, and a yen to be in Nature. I packed a towel I snatched from the chambermaid’s cart and a gallon of drug store spring water. The map said Red Rocks for a scenic hike. We drove out 159, finished the scenic drive, then warily watched a dust devil’s swirl around the trailhead’s shattered post. Nature both overwhelmed and disappointed us in under an hour. Time to kill.Death Valley is advertised as the hottest, driest place on Earth. I wanted to run in it, not far, not fast, just enough to say I had. Our tourist map didn’t show the turnoff I made. Dirt and white crystalline dust followed our car like surf curling over a barbed wire fence washing down into Blackbrush, Pinon, and silver thorned Cholla. Carol was understandably reluctant about driving twothirds of a tank of gas down an unmarked road to the geographical definition of death. Then ahead on our left, I spotted three trailers connected by a sunwarped wooden deck. If I ignored the aluminum walls, it could be the set of any Western movie—if I didn’t, it could be the set of a slasher film. A couple of dirt covered cars were randomly parked out front. They both pointed to a door that seemed the likely place to ask for directions to Hell.I was surprised when a woman opened the door before I knocked. She wore a shapeless housecoat like grandmothers used to wear housecleaning. I nearly apologized for disturbing her cleaning when she negligently opened her robe. A matched lace set and coal miner pale torso and thighs—I realized I’d knocked at the door of “The Rabbit Hutch.” Later would we wonder in a state where prostitution was legal, why a whore house would be on an unmarked road to Death Valley, but in the moment it felt ordinary. She didn’t know where Death Valley was or where the road went. As I said goodbye, I noticed another sign near the door,” No Soliciting.” Carol drove on ahead watching me in the rearview as I jogged twenty feet behind under blinding blue and a shapeless white sun. No sweat appeared, breathing scraped like hot splintered glass, my shorts and shirt seemed to scorch anyplace they touched. Like any amateur distance runner, I drifted along in my slow, familiar pace calculating proximity to exhaustion with how far before I quit. It was glorious foolish excess. The brush along the fence thinned to an open stretch of graybrown sand rising to a stand of Desert Willow. My breathing became coughing in the dust behind the Skylark. I slowed, distracted by a sudden muffled rumbling. Three mustangs galloped straight at the wire fence, nickered, and turned to run alongside me, and just as magically, disappeared leaving behind deep silence. It seemed a sign; I stopped. In the backseat I toweled off; the towel wiped only dust. I’d been evaporating into my own dream. We drove back to The Mirage, showered, then joined our colleagues for an evening’s promenade before dinner at Ceasar’s Palace. Salvation.

Mountains of Ararat, John Slaby

Beach Reunion Marcella WilsonAll the branches meetnear the gentle Florida gulfa score of voices chatterin the cabin’s kitchen shellthen the family drifts offto watch the ocean swelllittle running cousinsroughly in towRefuge Angélique JamailEvery drop of air in the beach house swells my pores, thickens every strand of my hair, blooms a verdant wetland inside of me. It takes two days to get used to the damp flavor in every breath, the clammy quiet snap of each bare footstep on the woodenplank floor.Rain Song, Ellen Mary Hayes

Oatmeal Judy TrupinSister IOats, water, saltBoilLet stand to thickenEat directly from potLet things be as they areLive a wastefree life.Sister IICook with milkRaisins and salt addedCinnamon and honey on the tableToast with butter on the sideLarge spoons and handmade ceramic bowlsFeed the familyEat with joy.Sister IIILarge potOats water saltPerhaps yesterday’s rice mixed inCook enough for several daysDefrosted summer peaches in the bowlOats ladled inWalnuts and flax sprinkled on topHeated milk poured overNourish and fortifyEat with pleasure.Sister IVSoak steel cuts overnight In vegetable waterWith dill seeds from the gardenMeasure oats, eyeball liquidIn the morning, cook on low flameWhile doing yogaScoop into bowlFlax measured inOne walnut on the side.Precision, strength and sustenance.

Learning Husbandry Sandi StrombergEvery blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.' —The Talmud i January After fifty years of husbands, I find myself solitary owner of a house. Aging refuge.Postagestamp yard. What happened,while I was grieving? Why do I,only now, see the grass, unwatered, has dried and died? Once husband terrain, now open invitation to fire ants, one hillock after another humping across dirt. Traversed by pitiful brown strings of St. Augustinelike lonely roads carved through barren deserts.I lock the door, set the alarm, look through a window, sip my tea.ii AprilI plant grass, add water. With a season’s kaleidoscopic turn and water, drab brownbecomes vivid green. The blue jayspeck at the blades. A red squirrel investigates.For the first time in our twentyfive years, I sit on the front steps, watching day dim.Evening welcomes the dark. I eat a peach and think of my second husband,how he stroked stones and sifted soil through his fingers. He would approve the shift of the tectonic plate inside me. The humid weight of a Southern summer not yet here,the earthy scent of grass replacingthe dry smell of dust. I savor the peach.The high column and the green laurel are broken that cast a shade for my weary thoughts.—Aaron Beck

The high column and the green laurel are broken that cast a shade for my weary thoughts.—Aaron Beck

KaiLilly Karpman Duckdive As a child, I remember watchingthe ocean turn roughfrom winds in LA’s heinous, white afternoons.I could not yet speak,so I wept in terrorof her mad textures.I called out for my mother, then.She taught me to swim underthe waves, to bury myself in what I fear.The sea’s brutality found new clarity in me,the way I let myself be drowned, then spit out.Now, under him, I askwho could endure this, if not for desire?

the capricious nature of water, Georgina Key

Carol Louise Munn Spirits or GnatsI would have believed it was spirits or gnatscaught in the peripheryinstead of parsley jerking up, sprigly applausecatching my eye like plantsnever do with their slow growing and dying.Who knows what they know?Never solve a mystery if you can help it.I’m in the kitchen boiling pasta for my supper. Plain fact.Absently poured my water glass onto forgotten herbon the countertop, thenMagic—like I knew before my own self stilled,dormant now in this distant country—back when what I needed would appear out of the whorlof desire. I need desire.To live without, I rely on a seismic eye able to countvibrations in the turbulent earth;every little thing pulses at a particular rate of motionand a device can measure every ripple.I need whatever senses what I can’t,responds to what’s beyond me,speaks to me in movement, decipherable gestures,green waves from the vaster world.

Elisa A. GarzaI Am the ShoresMy skin, sand under golden sun,holes for tiny crabs at rest as the wavescycle over, my blood pushing both airand pollutants into pores, seekingequilibrium: gulls peck the dead coldeyes of fish caught in seaweed nets.Jagged rocks scar the view as wavesburst into droplets, minute slaps of pain dulled by repetition. The gulls cry and hover, search the margins.Gull’s eye view, the shores of my chestin darkened hues that sharpen on closeglide, a browned flaky coastline am I,the shallows, marsh seeping to sea.

Deep Blue, Vanessa ZimmerPowell

Charlotte Moskal Diver So if his air runs out,if his eyes close around the reef,does he live on as a water ghost?Do his bones marry the coral,his hands fill with crusted flowers,his skull become a playground for hide and seek?Does the blue welcome, embrace himas fellow traveler where both time and loveare indifferent to phases of the moon?

Untitled Vanessa ZimmerPowell

Maker's CornerMakers' Corner

John Milkereit, Poetry JudgeI went crazy leaping to your shorelinebeneath the Pleiades—those seven sisters,and the lunar crescent, the bluegreenmidnightfilm, your mother’s voice, late spring wrappedin a beach blanket lodged in dunes. Here your originbegan beaded as a necklace of timewhen tide was the most moon stricken, rainbows,sun boats, bodies far in the cosmos yet close enough,breathing zones rising and setting, sketchinga shadowpitched perimeter. Measure the earthwork.I will go crazy if I don’t go crazy for your futuretreasure pit. I can’t promise bronze swords, hatchets,chisels, or spiral bracelets. I will start your memory plateand oars to navigate, flower gloss, and the illuminatedsheen from your gold orbs. Your surface will growas beautiful as your aura, conceived as thick, still starswatched from a clear sky while your mother’s nailsdrew enough blood to lick for a blessing.Your heavens will sew and synchronize like fields.The rhythm is sand dollars, broken by current.Kelsay Books https://rb.gy/09wtj1John's latest book is available...Amazonhttps://rb.gy/63qpuyPublished by Kelsay BooksPublished by Kelsay Books* Poem appears in Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated LoverSee bio. on pg. 90

Patricia McMahon, Prose JudgeAbecedarian for a Funeral in Hemingford Abbots, Cambridgeshire In memory of Jill Paton Walsh, Lady Hemingford CBEAt four in the morning, so far from me, solemn music, perhaps Bach,begins as the vicar enters. Or is he a priest? What do we properlycall the preacher in this small chapel meant for those who livedown the road in the grand house? Surely not preacher. No matter, he enters. Solemn. The coffin follows, carries the body of my friend. Afellow I have heard much of trudges in so slowly, stooped with woe.Goodness, the owner of the grey hair exclaims, she with the blackhat dead center in my screen. Such a day. Perhaps she knows not thatI can hear her, we all hear her, in all the many, far flung rooms, where wejoin our sorrows by screen. Here lies our friend of the words, she who knew everything about anything, took joy in the saying so. With me, she laid down the law over and again. Damn if she wasn’t, over and again, right. Marry that man. Where is he? Have you lost him? Oh, perfect, off you go toNamibia, yes, the Skeleton Coast will do fine. Do not settle, promise, till the Okavango wends itself into your heart. Take it all in my dear, soak in it. Put pen to paper, have a baby, and then tell me all. Tell me all, but slant.Quite a surprise, why I’m not sure, when but months ago, her new adventure,romance, arrived. Chances come, take a breath, then take them. Wait not for logic. She told me this more than once, so she did. And so she did. Jumped at love andtook this chance with glee. Moving in, she announced the news one month in, an update to delight the many. Marrying soon. Such news in such times. And suchvalor from them both. For truth be told, not a moment of time did they have towaste. Eightyfive and NinetyThree We did the math. They were heading to ChinaXian first. When the world tips right again, she said. Which it will, it will indeed.Yes, she’d tip it herself if needs be. Till she died, but weeks from the wedding. Herzeal for life whispered out of this world where we are as lost as the bridegroom.Director of the Moss Wood Retreatshttps://www.mosswoodretreats.com/Background image from the Moss Wood Retreats websiteFirst appears in CHAOS DIVE REUNION by Mutabalis PressSee bio. on pg. 90

Dominique Noelani Nguyen, Art JudgePhotograph by Dominique: UntitledDesignby Domhttps://www.domconcepts.com/See bio. on pg. 90

Carrie Kornacki, Consultant EditorPhotograph by Carrie KornackiSee bio. on pg. 90step into watersand fluxes awaybalance shiftsfooting unfounded

James Ellis, Cover Designer James Ellis’s art is viewable at James Ellis (@badgrowshop) • Instagram photos and videos.He is available for commissioned projects. Bio. on pg. 90.Art by James: Snakes in the Grass Beneath Our Feet

Vanessa ZimmerPowell, Art Editor and Page DesignerSeine first appears in Vanessa's chapbook, Woman Looks Into an Eye, published by Dancing Girl Press. https://rb.gy/edhjvi* See bio. on pg. 90Image by Vanessa: Still WatersSeineAfter viewing Claude Monet's "Sun EffectsSeine PortVillez"I soak myself in her paint,drip lavender and lemon.The banks of me, her shadows,call me until hunger.Each morning I returnarrested,unshaven,relearn blue, shape of leavesface of river.She is my death, my love.I repeat myself in her waters.Vanessa's chapbook is available....

Kelly Ann Ellis, Managing Editor The Hungry Ghost Diner is available at Barnes & Noble Amazonhttps://kellyannellis.com March Snow in TennesseeWhen blue bounces into the roomwe wake to the wedding cake farmreflecting a lakelike sky. Windows,naked, bedazzle with light so starkdust particles turn into snowflakesfrosting like powdered sugarthe sleeping baby grandwe plan to play today.Kelly Ann Ellis's new book is available...Image: Hoary Frost, K. Wayne McClaneImage: Hoary Frost, K. Wayne McClanePublished by Lamar University Press* See Kelly's bio. on pg. 90

Makers' Bios

Makers' BiosJohn Milkereit resides in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer and has completed an M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. His work has appeared in various literary journals such as The Comstock Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Panoply, San Pedro River Review, and previous issues of Equinox. In December, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for MyUnvaccinated Lover.Patricia McMahon is a poet, the author of fourteen books for children and the cofounder and Director of the Moss Wood Retreats, a writing retreat. Awardwinning work includes nonfiction, picture books, middle grade novels and poetry for adults. Patricia McMahon’s innovative nonfiction titles include ONE BELFAST BOY, LISTEN FOR THE BUS, CHIHOON, and DANCING WHEELS. Her books have been recognized by IBBY, the International Board of Books for Young, the Smithsonian Institution and the Rhode Island and Georgia State awards. Dominique Noelani Nguyen is an interior designer based in Los Angeles, California. Having graduated from UCLA’s School of Arts and Architecture with a BA in World Arts and Cultures and a Minor in Film and Television, Dominique is currently the Principal Designer at Dom Concepts, a Design Studio which focuses on luxury residential interiors. For the past several years, she has also worked for a Beverly Hills based interior design and architecture firm that specializes in both historical preservation and the curation of fine art and furniture.Carrie Kornacki is a teacher, poet, and fiction writer. She has a B.S. in Journalism from Ohio University and is a veteran English Language Arts Teacher, with years of teaching in the U.S. and in China. She also has taught Creative Writing for Writers in the Schools/Houston, coordinating and launching several youth chapbook projects. In 2015 and 2016, she was the recipient of “The Lucille Johnson Clark Memorial Award” awarded to the top Houston Poetry Fest juried poet who teaches public school. Ms. Kornacki has been a featured reader throughout Houston and has been published in various literary journals. James Ellis is a mobile digital artist who lives and works in Georgetown, KY. He has been the cover artist for three consecutive issues of Equinox. He has accrued several awards (including being the first prizewinner in the image category in the fall 2023 issue) has designed book covers including The Book ofRoger, by Kyle R. Smith; The Hungry Ghost Diner by Kelly Ann Ellis; and The Adventures of Tommy Rocket (forthcoming) by Joel Nobel. His work, which has been featured in TheAppWhisperer, an online digital art magazine, is also used as the cover screen for the IColorama app. Ellis’s art is viewable at James Ellis(@badgrowshop) • Instagram photos and videos, and he is available for commissioned projects. Vanessa ZimmerPowell is a speechlanguage pathologist, photographer, filmmaker, and poet. She holds a BA in English literature and an MA in Communication Sciences and Disorders. She worked as a graphic designer in the 1990s. Her poetry has aired on the radio, has been published in numerous journals and anthologies, and she has received awards and honors for her work. Her cinepoems have been jury slected and featured at ReelPoetry and Gulf Coast Film Festivals. She was a 2023 finalist for her onewoman videopoem production of Dislocation at the 2023 REELpoetry festival. Her chapbook, Woman Looks into an Eye is published by Dancing Girl Press.Kelly Ann Ellis holds an MA in English Literature from the University of Houston, where she also taught for years. A member of the critique group Poets in the Loop, she is the cofounder of hotpoet, Inc. and the managing editor of Equinox. Her poetry, which has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, wasfeatured in the REELpoetry festival for three consecutive years and showcased in the Houston Fringe Festival in 2019. Her fiction placed 2nd in The Short Story Show's 2020 contest and was rereleased in a “bestof” podcast in 2021. She was twice nominated for a Pushcart prize in 2020, and her poetry collection, The Hungry Ghost Diner, was published by Lamar University Literary Press.

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