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Equinox: Inner Chambers, Secret RoomsThis literary journal is a compilation of the creative works of writers and artists included in it.Copyright © 2025 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 Cover Design: James EllisPage Design: Vanessa ZimmerPowellPoetry Judge: Elina PetrovaArt Judge: Dean LuttrellProse Judge: Georgina KeyInterior Cover Photo: Orvieto, Craig ButterworthMaker's Corner Image: Cistern, Celeste BudwitHunter (p. 90)Art Finale: I Live in a Crazy Time, Alaina Hammond (p.99)Published online, March 2025Publisher:hotpoet, Inc.hotpoetorg@gmail.com

DesignJames Ellis: Cover DesignVanessa ZimmerPowell: Page DesignJudges Elina Petrova: PoetryGeorgina Key: ProseDean Luttrell: Art a hotpoet publicationEditorsKelly Ann Ellis: Managing EditorVanessa ZimmerPowell: Art Editor Carrie Kornacki: Consultant Editor a hotpoet publicationVol. 8 2025Vol. 8 2025

ContentsSECTION 1: LIVING ROOMCorridor Craig Butterworth (art) 9Writing this poem, Priscilla Frake (poetry) 10Summer Place Jean Sutherland (poetry) 11Allow the House to Speak Claire Poole (poetry) 12Compression Kevin Bodniza (art) 13Fantasy World Aaron Beck (art & poetry) 14Paul’s Tattoo Rebecca Spears (prose) 15Lapis Julie Forgione (poetry) 16Endless Hoops Jennifer Martelli (poetry) 17Run like Wildfire Rachael Ikens (poetry) 185 Patricia Sahertian (art) 19The Last Road Trip of Jackson Brown Alison Moore (prose) 20Eye of the Needle Craig Butterworth (art) 21My Psyche’s Amsterdam Room Sandi Stromberg (poetry) 22Mask Alaina Hammond (art) 22Diving Deep Elisa A. Garza (poetry) 23Vines Laura Peña (poetry) 24Journey Into Evil Vivian Wise (art) 25Pain is a door Christa Fairbrother (poetry) 26beyond the red door K.L. Johnston (art) 27SECTION 2: BEDROOM Love Portal Robin Young (art) 28Night after Night David Meischen (poetry) 30Untitled 1 Marie Carbone (art) 31Houdini Alaina Hammond (art) 32The Hyde Park Babysitter John Milkereit (prose) 33Native Jennifer Ettelson (poetry) 34L’ Étranger Patricia Sahertian (art) 35Shadow John Slaby (art) 36Shades of Tennyson and Darr Audell Shelburne (poetry) 37Unbuckled David Meischen (prose) 38The Puralator Kevin Bodniza (art) 39Corners of Poetry Elisabeth ContrerasMoran (poetry) 40sanctuary Myles Allan (poetry) 41What I Want Most Dana Kinsey (prose) 42Meeting in the Hall Carol Louise Munn (poetry) 43fallingwater jp thorn (poetry) 44Confined John Slaby (art) 45Pulse / Cleave Kimberly Hall (poetry) 46have you placed marigolds on the alter of us Brigid CooleyBeck (poetry) 47Altar Vivian Wise (art) 47

ContentsSECTION 3: ATTIC Hiding in Plain Sight Robin Young (art) 48Living Tomb Sasha Powell (poetry) 50Step Down K.L. Johnston (art) 50Things I Never Knew Charlene Stegman Moskal (poetry) 51abandoned Terry Dawson (poetry) 52All Fall Down Margo Davis (art) 53Carport Shelter Marcella Wilson (poetry) 54Color 4 Cynthia Yatchman (Art) 54Walkin Closet John Milkereit (poetry) 55Omens Hugh Findlay (poetry) 56Mitsui Brianna Roberts (art) 56After Moving into Her Remodeled House,Julia Tutttle Speaks About the Haunting Jen Karetnick (poetry) 58Untitled 2 Marie Carbone (art) 59Inner Sanctum Janet Orselli (art) 60Breaking Ice Colin James Sturdevant (poetry) 61Meditation After the Election Rebecca Dannelly (prose) 62Doppelganger Cindy Huyser (poetry) 63there is one who watches over you jp thorn (prose) 64 Traverse Janet Orselli (art) 65beyond assurance d. ellis phelps (poetry) 66This is Not Freedom Gail Plunkett (poetry) 68This is Not Freedom Gail Plunkett (art) 69SECTION 4: SUN ROOM Up Staring Robin Young (art) 70Prayer Angélique Jamail (poetry) 72The Last Fact Anna Genevieve Winham (prose) 73 Jacob's Well Celeste BudwitHunter (art) 74Treasure Gail Plunkett (poetry) 75Blue Plate Special Roe Sonye Sprouls 76At the Museum of Serendipity Mary Ellen Talley (poetry) 77Hands on Shoulders Patricia Sahertian (art) 78Her Beach Eileen Lawrence (poetry) 79Billy's New Digs Joe Blanda (poetry) 80Untitled 3 Marie Carbone (art) 81Cushion for Ed Edward Gonzales (prose) 81Home Lauren Hall (poetry) 82Dwelling Between Janet Orselli (art) 83On Teddy Bears and Burning Questions Margo Stutts Toombs (prose) 84I Am Jamie Danielle (poetry) 85Color 3 Cynthia Yatchman (art) 86Garden Amorphous Melissa Bonin (poetry) 87A Shy Beginner Susan Martinello (poetry) 88Color Cynthia Yatchman (Art) 89

ContentsMAKERS' CORNER ART Celeste BudwitHunter, Cistern (art) 90MAKERS' CORNER Elina Petrova, Poetry Judge Premonition, (poetry) 92Georgina Key, Prose Judge Syllables of the Briny World (prose) 93Dean Lutrell, Art Judge The Cottonwood (poetry), Untitled (art) 94Carrie Kornacki, Consultant Editor What Light Does to a Room (poetry) 95Post Houston (art) 95James Ellis, Cover Designer Untitled (art) 96Vanessa ZimmerPowell, Art Editor Colombia's Oldest Daughter (poetry), Untitled (art) 97Kelly Ann Ellis, Managing Editor poetry as junk drawer (poetry) 98ART FINALE Alaina Hammond, Frank (art) 99MAKERS' BIOS 100Honorable MentionsPoetryPriscilla Frake: Writing this Poem, (p. 10) Jennifer Martelli: Endless Hoops (p. 17)David Meischen: Night After Night (p. 30) Jen Karetnick: After Moving into Her Remodeled House, Julia Tutttle Speaks About the Haunting (p. 58) ProseAnna Genevieve Winham: The Last Fact (p. 73)ArtMargo Davis: All Fall Down (p. 53)K.L. Johnston: beyond the red door (p. 27)

Contest WinnersPoetry Julie ForgioneLapis (p. 16)Prose Rebecca SpearsPaul's Tattoo (p. 15)Art Celeste BudwitHunterJacob's Well (p. 74)Judges' CommentsPoetry: Regarding the winning poem, poetry judge, Elina Petrova writes:“Lapis” is a poignant, nuanced glimpse of a constrained, nunpatrolled classroom where the narrator’s younger self starts a quiet rebellion with her cartridge pen. The conformity of dull navy uniforms contrasts with the lapis of ink in which the poet ultimately writes her story of triumph and escape. Prose: Georgina Key, prose judge, reflects on the work she chose: “Paul’s Tattoo” struck me with its seemingly simple subject, a hand tattoo, balanced against the weight of so much more. Here is a parent struggling with worry over the “desecration” of a son’s body. But on a larger scale, this Native American symbol is an “indelible” mark of the genocide inflicted upon its people. And the banging of the spoon against the castiron skillet is an echo of the sacred drum ritual, the heartbeat of mother earth, a prayer for healing.Art: Dean Lutrell, art judge, comments on the winning piece:The first glance at this intriguing work of art suggests an appealing abstract composition with greens, blues and light emerging from darkness. It asks for more than just a glance, though. A closer examination more clearly reveals a landscape showing a body of water reflecting beautiful green trees, blue sky and white rocks, the dark forest a background for the body of water. Because this darkness comprises nearly half of the composition, it is an important part of the work. It is not necessary to interpret the darkness as a void or asdanger, although that is a possible reading. It can also be viewed as a forest birthing what is more clearly seen in the foreground reflection. Light, water, trees and air—components of life—are more prominent because of this darkness. As Robert Frost wrote, “...for dark is what brings out your light.” What is captured here is a world within a world within a world.

Corridor, Craig Butterworth

Living Room Corridor, Craig Butterworth

Priscilla FrakeWriting this poem,I conjure the structureand build it around me with twobyfours and twobysixes,plumbing and digestion, a ductworkof bronchial tubes. I framethe kitchen with the whistle of a kettleand stale smells of frying. I roof in the clouds and a little rain. I splice wires & nerves behind a skin of plaster. I saw out windows, and hours of dreaming.I staple in basal ganglia and nail down plank after plank of habitual thought. I build in shelves to hold volumes of study. I make love spill out ofthe bedrooms. I persuade the closet to open and prop its doors. I frame extra corners for spiders and build a room under the sofa for dust bunnies and lost coins. I rust the stainless appliances and wire in code violations. I dust every room for fingerprints,then pace the distance between attic & basement, ankle & rib. I pinch the nostrilsand force life into the ventsuntil I hear the house begin to breathe on its own. I invite others in. I leave by the back door and walk a long way down the road until wind rearrangesthe mist and I can start to seethe distant hills. I begin again.

Jean SutherlandSummer PlaceEven after fifty years,I’d know it right away.Drop me there blindfoldedAnd at night, I’d know:The way the screen door squeaked,Lower pitched than the bunks’ springs,Louder than the rattling shutters;The smells of mothballs, seaweed,Baby oil that clung like tar.The barnacles on the rocks,The pilings from the docks,The bussized boulder just off shore—Perch for lone sentinel seagulls—Those remain, indelible as the chisel scarThat splits my thumbprint.The cabins are gone, burnedIn a fire training exercise.Beach grass, jewel weed, plantainsConceal the trails; weather and windHave felled the signs. No matter.My feet would know the way.The paths, the walls are real,Filled with the ghosts of other summers.

Claire PooleAllow the House to SpeakI have a memory. It is full of love. A mother,a father and four offspring,the oldestand the youngest10 years apart.Both towheaded girls.Brownhaired boys in between, like a sandwich cookie in reverse. In the center, a kitchen smelling of fried chicken, pot roast, pork chops and apple sauce with red hots thrown in, for the children. They wouldall gather around the breakfast table, except for thefather, working late again.Then tears on my floor, the drinkingandcheating dad moved out, bare wire hangers in his wake. The older brother bedriddenafter being thrown from a car,legs unable to walk. His moans coming through the walls of the girl’s room,her tiny hands over her ears. The mother found love again, a new man walked through my door.The two sold the only home the children ever knew.Several more families cameand went before the bulldozers arrived, leaving only the skinny pines to watch overthe destruction of me. No, it didn’t hurt much when the glass shattered and walls came down, collapsing onto each other. A new house sprang up in my place. Did that stop the first familyfrom sprinkling the ashes of their dead brother in my green St. Augustine?No it did not.

Compression, Kevin Bodnizan

Aaron Beck

Rebecca SpearsPaul’s TattooA hand. A hand imprinted on his chest. A native American symbol, he explained. I don’t care what it is, Son.Walking through night, I nurse other troubles, but this one lands at the top of the heap. Every muscle fills with the word desecration. Instead of screaming. This is my routine, traipsingthe night house, not screaming. While he sleeps on the lumpy sofa, that dark hand floats on a shimmer of white skin bordered in night’s blue. Indelible. As if someone is always with me, here, he said.He arrived home today, unexpectedly—abandoned university for a few days, having ended it with his girl. I imagine the howling animal that consumes him, pounds on him, leaving its marks. This evening, while cooking our dinner, I had to bang a spoon against the castiron skillet to get hold of his skittering attention.

Julie ForgioneLapisA private rebellion was all you had.What good would banners, shouts, and raised fists have done?Face lowered, you scratched deeper into the ruts in this year’s desk,the cartridge pen point jabbing, leaving ink divinely ultramarine, so near to the lapis of the Virgin’s robe, so far from the navy gabardine dull on the backs of the other girls, so far from the black of the blackrobed nun who patrolled the rows, silent in the thick of silent childrenalphabetically arranged. And still in that highceilinged fluorescent room, Among the sniffles and pigtails, the herded desks, the cold linoleum scarred with scuff marks,you wait, not knowing yet to plan an escape or how to scratch out a dream. But listen! I’m telling your story in that flowing blue, my hand reaches for the knob of the classroom door, and as I yank it open I’m yelling your name.

Jennifer MartelliEndless HoopsTwo rib bones of a vole, picked clean,tips sharp enough to pierce skin,my silver earrings hang to my jaw’s hinge.Once I wore diamond studs I was too scared to lose.They shone like the mirrors in a manyfaceted room.Faceted, they shone like the mirrors in that tangled roomI lost myself in. I was too scared for refraction that big.Now my sterling earrings hang soft at my jaw’s hinge,the tips sharp enough to pierce through the tender skin,light as a winter vole’s pickedclean ribs.

Rachael IkinsRun like WildfirePast keening claws in the hall of the house that sprouted me.Fangs drip turquoise.Living room corner, wide chair and a half where I rodemy Daddy’s horsie, handbuilt floor lamp, spitting fluorescent bulb,an overournecks spy. Tightshut upstairs door, unforgiving mouth. Safety my belly flips, I can’t stay here. Whatever they are outside these walls, lined up vampires, women who cannibalize small children. My skin heats hot, my heart a stuck car, spews gravel, a revving scream lifts me out of nausea. I float. Water’s busy fingers needle between muscle fibers, fuss away pain, anesthesia laves my thighs, all those tiny tongues.In the droughtgarden early this morning, bees swarmed hose spray, begging. Shower sluices aches while New Mexico burns. Ashes steam, smoke the mirror. I cough yellow. Or is it gray? One gold earring clacks to the shower floor. I grope for it, garnet gleams, an ember, shampoobleared eyes, fingers knock it away, gem catches, melts the lip of the sucking drain.

5, Patricia Sahertian

Alison MooreThe Last Road Trip of Jackson Brown—so ok—I admit it—I’m still willing to be moving—in a big hurry, especially now—high on cheap cognac and decent weed—wide awake since I pulled up my feet from that corner in Winslow and hit the road, runninon empty in fear of my life. In a 1960 Dodge Dart getaway car, with pushbutton transmission.At least a hundred miles from Flagstaff I’m going 90 to nothing on what’s left of Route 66 when I’m passed by Johnny Cash and Jack Kerouac in an El Camino with no muffler and can only wave and follow—break on through the Road Closed sign near Kingman because I am not prepared to stop either or follow the Prius pilot car but can only keep going—watch it all go down in the rearview mirror—the American Dream in a Walmart truck with blown tires burning in the breakdown lane—a doubledecker stack train a mile long past the last Burma Shave sign that once explained everything. I’m beyond the reach of any encouraging words and I finally get it that there’s nothing left but the white line and the fever of Ariadne’s broken thread that surely must still lead to California and even though I know in my bones it’s too late baby it’s too late and it’s been at least a dog’s age since Jim Morrison sang the real anthem—the West is the Best, Get Here and We’ll Do the Rest—I still want to believe it’s true—what would Woody do but let go of the wheel—tear a page from the road atlas that is the left part of Texas and find a pencil on the dashboard to get it all down just in case and hardly notice when the engine shudders and quits and the Dart begins coasting to the coast down Tehachapi Pass past the El Camino in a Casino parking lot just as the grid goes down and it’s dark enough by Santa Monica pier to see the Pleides above the frozen Ferris wheel in Funland. I don’t hit the brakes. I want more than anything to keep going and drive right off the end of the pier. This Dodge Dart may be the last safe place on earth. A time capsule with an 8track tape and headlights that can only go so far in the Pacific. There’s something happening here. Where? Out there. Beyond the dashboard. Back there, out of range of the rearview mirror. In here, hands off the wheel, it’s the Dodge that’s driving me.

Eye of the Needle, Craig Butterworth

Sandi StrombergMy Psyche’s Amsterdam RoomOn dreary days, my mind finds solace on the sagging sofa in Harry’s living room, 182 Javastraat. Our mutual love of the written word bridges the oceanbetween us. He a poet, artist, bookseller. Light filters through windows grimy with pollution. Dust mites dance with the dry smell of secondhand books, yellowing pages. On teetering bookshelves, mysteries mingle with poetry, art with psychology, history with music. As my thoughts linger in the comforting space, I imagine him walking through the woods of Van Gogh’s Gardenof Saint Paul’s Hospital (aka, Leaf Fall). The bulk of his body, lodengreen hunter’s hat, overlong overcoat. Around him, the trees gnarl with age. Branches twist toward an unseen autumn sky. Leaves crunch under his feet.

Elisa A. GarzaDiving DeepI imagine that cancer survivesas a fiery oozing lava cloisteredin underwater rooms of my bodybehind doors that glow then openlike ocean crevices. When active, the lava sputters, flings mutationsinto other rooms and lymphatichallways, sparks that burn tales before darkening. To find it, I must listen for those stories, seek cancer’s melting narratives, the steaming lyrics of multiplying.Mask, Alaina Hammond

Laura PeñaVinessnake through window cracks in this bare room of square hard spacesnaked glass windows devoid of curtainslike my opaque heart devoid of transparencylights track in different directionsdusty corners where spiders lay eggswaiting to hatch their stories I will spread them thick as my history would you know the difference from the liesbarren chimney when was the last time your fire warmed this roombare feet, sandaled feet, booted feetpress against the wood floorwater stains spread as far as the moisture I feel trapped inside will go before I evaporate

Journey Into Evil, Vivian Wise

Christa FairbrotherPain is a door we are always on the wrong side of. A cat scratching to be let out, let in; it knows the other side is better. Doctors call every woman Alice. Give us pink pills labeled Eat Me like Valentine’s hearts. They shrink us, but once little, we no longer reach the keyhole, and we’re still too big to slide under. Now petite and ineffectual, this was the real purpose. To make our voices small, so there’s no speaking our truths to the power of pain. the burbs, every doorbell rings alike, but opensup to unique tears

beyond the red door, K.L. Johnston

Bedroom Love Portal, Robin Young

Bedroom Love Portal, Robin Young

David MeischenNight after NightTawny slips out of our bed —off into a trackless territory of dark. Each night we hear cries mournfulas a forsaken loon in the bleak expanse of an icebound northern water.I am lost, she laments. Find me. Our Dickens orphan I call her—this scrawny alley kitten who materialized in our backyard one day out of nowhere, patently undernourished, demanding company.Tawny harbors the sadness of all abandoned creatures before and after Dickens. We are lost, she reminds us. I am lost. Save me. Love me while I breathe.

Untitled 1, Marie Carbone

Houdini, Alaina Hammond

John MilkereitThe Hyde Park BabysitterMarcus, the medical student, babysat us when my brothers & I lived in a condo. I don’t know how he slotted time for us, biking in his dark blue scrubs, stethoscope circling his neck. Yet, there he’d be on a Friday night, face halfshaven, plopping his wrinkly clothed self on the sofa, ready to watch Cher with us on TV. After fish sticks, we knew what he needed. A galaxy of Cheerios orbiting milk. He was like a zoo animal we weren’t supposed to feed, who skipped breakfasts until he could eat for free. He was our entertainer for a live show we didn’t pay for, who wouldn’t launch into burping lyrics until we tucked ourselves into bed. Crude melodies Cher couldn’t cover. A disruption of fantasy, dreaming of Cher’s hair cascading into our faces, a magical sheen, a fringe cut caressing our pajamas. After we left Chicago, we never saw Marcus again. I remember he said he loved her after a deep screen gaze the night she unraveled a pink pompom revealing a contoured waist with a gateway navel. Later in life, Marcus became a hotshot doctor. I bet he met her backstage somewhere, finishing his cereal at home before their rendezvous.

Jennifer EttelsonNativeI was eleven whenI had a purple roomThat was another girl’s roomI was moved into after she moved outHer dream of purpleAnd the love of someoneWho made it trueSomeone who lovedIn violet ice cream paintAnd shag carpetThe color of crushed blackberriesYou could run your fingers throughAnd lose themI’ll tell you the feeling in that room Like opening a heartshaped box of chocolatesAnd finding them goneIt even smelled like thatThe scent of a boxWhere chocolates had beenBut here’s a thing about nightsIn that roomOpening the windowLike she may have, the girl they loved,I heard a songDrifting across the upturned armOf road in the spangled darkSix syllables that repeatNam myohorengekyoA mantra of devotion I didn't know Sung by strangersWho arrived in cars and blue jeansEvery evening to sing me to sleepWithout knowing

L’ Étranger, Patricia Sahertian

Shadow, John Slaby

Audell ShelburneShades of Tennyson and Darr…put truth and people in their rightful angle in the sun...find the shadow, what it falls upon.~Ann Darr, “Advice I Wish Someone Had Given Me”The poplar catches light, casts its shadowacross the solitary wife who fearswidowhood and knows winter nightswithout warmth. Weary sighs echotimeless laments, dreary eyes weepas shade creeps to the empty bedin the cottage on the moated grange.She dreams of her wandering mate,weaves mirrored lancelots in websspun in airy nothings, sees the sungleaming on his sweaty brow,feels the heat of his hand on hers,spins her tapestry toward ever after,happy or not, but mates without end.She wakes with the taste of truffleslingering on her tongue, feels presencefor that instant before cold morning airpulls her back from fairytale lives.She sees the sun rising, knows the shadesfollow. She rises, dresses for the day filled with shadows and light

David MeischenUnbuckled501 West 37th Street, Austin, Fall 1970Dishes piled at sink and counters, pots and pans haphazard on the range, leftovers fuzzing in the fridge. Evenings Paul departed in hospital whites—between shifts, flinty with anger, flailing, while Karl brooded behind his closed door, deep into Heidegger, in love with a woman who did not love him back. I had no time for them.treasure mapcopper buttonsdown the fly on his jeansAt Halloween I stirred oneninety proof into limesherbet gingerale punch. We had spiderweb cutouts, dry ice fogging from the corners. I held someone’s head while she threw up into a flower bed. When November came, I smoked reefer with a man I hardly knew. Stillness inside his garden cottage, ripple of candle flame. aftertaste of ejaculate British Sterling Bitter LimeNights after midnight I played solitaire, crosslegged on the front room floor. Lamplight and shadows, my fingers at the deck, flipping the top card over and slapping it down. Flip, slap, flip, slap until the cards defeated me and I reshuffled, eyelids singed by sleeplessness. first light at the curtainswater for a drowning

The Puralator, Kevin Bodniza

Corners of poetryinto the folded down / corner of a page / when the door is left ajar / poignant polaroids faded / and delicate ancient / jeans velvet soft against / slumped scuffed cowboy / boots dirty patched / loose strands of a shawl / threadbare and comforting / pushed down deeply / into squared pockets / wrapped with twine dusty / old letters inside broken / hinged brown suitcase / on the upmost shelf / out of stretched reach / even on tiptoe / threelegged stool unsteady / wobbling wiggling puppy teeth / barely holding on / hungry nip bite / with canines strong / time moves imperceptibly / forwards decadent scent / nostalgia pulls back / sepia toned memories / condensed down to points / rent spine of a book / moments melted coalesced / evaporated remnants of / dreams disappearing echoes / I hid pieces / of myself there / as I used to be / as I once was / as I hoped to be / as maybe I will be / and you / I hid pieces / of you there too / the you I tried / to curve and curl / myself around to force / a perfect fit / breathing heady intangible / possibilities into dark spaces / deep pockets / weathered writing in margins / folded down corners / of poetryElisabeth ContrerasMoran

Myles Allansanctuaryi found a little jerusalem todayin between two mountainsall tucked away where no one can find usthe roads are paved in scar tissuelined with fauna made of stubblehip dip homes built on broad shoulderswhen the valleys groan, the wind cracksand as the sun buries itself in the treesthe crescent wanes and swoons above us how lovely it is to be the man that i amloved by a man like me, so that i might be within and without these winding hillsi find myself a poet stripped of diction for how can i bastardize my mother tonguein a way that puts us to rest?how can i explain that i am swept upin your calloused hands yet don't fear themas i do my father’s?how can i describe the way i slidedown the arch of your nose andslip over your lips like gentle water?how can i understand the brutal misshapen sacreligious ways that i love you without the words given to me in scripture?i don't know what books to read to find youi don't know how to squint at the portraitsor how to grace my fingers along marbleso these words must become a new language native to our little jerusalem townbricked in between expectation and pretense.

Dana KinseyWhat I Want Mostare ways to praise this man whose mind is a blue flourish, a true cathedral ceiling under which I worship. To let you hear his voice, painting my empty walls with honey and gold dust, sweeping hair from my eyes. I suggest you lace fingers with him after he rosins the bow, rests his thumb on the neck, presses the violin strings of my doubt in lovers who revel in touching foreheads to exchange dreams. Here’s the startling part: the thinnest slivers of me long to slip between the layers of his thoughts. Slide under sheets, press myself to him, make my kisses linger, quiet what wakes him before dawn, convince him the world relies on his gifts while I’m content with the wrappings.A Heart Defined, Vivian Wise

Carol Louise MunnMeeting in the HallWe’ve harbored love for twentyseven yearsmaking a home in this old house, a bed for us, a bed for youwho wakes in the night leavingto stretch, the dark cornersunder our sheets too cool and tightto hold you for long. I never knowthe difference between asleep with youor without until I wake alone crosslengthin our bed. I think I miss you when you go,but what I know is that I want to see your facein the morning, every morning, for youto still be here, your arms around my bodyin the hall that is all that separates usfrom the low fog of sleepless nights.Every morning, every night I love youlike the rain that comes downbecause that’s all it is made to dowhen clouds are full. Nothing can stop the earth from wanting what it needs.

jp thornfallingwaterthe darkest place i know is my mind, a cave full of daily tasks, being a functioning human that made breakfast despite indulgent shame, house built on falling water. listen closely: i am a bundle of sticks, oversaturated plant that will dry up beg for moisture again. some days i am pluto looking in on the solar system without me, maybe that’s just dissociative. some days iam two letters & a pin prick; it’s a must to leave a mark. most days i’m scraping by, pyramid head dragging my great knife into ground, irrigating rainfall but not at fault. the house still needs something to preside over.

Confined, John Slaby

Kimberly HallPulse / Cleaveread three waysfour chambers in a cage / walls sway under pressurethrough mortar & skin / moonlight scattersa shield punctured / a murmuration trapped by flightnightsplit surge of thunder / & no sky to rise intono haven any longer safe / bodies become doorsfor loving / open wounds swallowed as timefalling into another / carves closed space a mouththe hunger & ache / tooth to nail to hollowed throatstoking embers from stardust / shot smokerawhome sinks away from home / ventricles turn loadbearingatria empty of song / siren wails over shelter’s wreckbut the foundation remains / divided by bullets & hailfirebleeding hand over heart / veer & wing cut downbeats now out of time / running blue to red to black

Brigid CooleyBeckhave you placed marigolds on the altar of us?nestled between your best harmonica, my favorite books and do you wipe the dust off clean the cobwebs every time you walk by? are the items on the side table forgotten, the same way i lost track of your birthday, you ignored my questions or do you attempt to keep what once was alive, at least one day of the year beg the autumn chill to breathe new life into this corpse: relationship whisper of a word that used to mean something now only ghostsAltar, Vivian Wise

Hiding in Plain Sight, Robin Young

Attic

Stasha PowellLiving TombBehind the ribs, a lockedaway spire,Veiled halls echo with whispers, dire.A heart beats dim in shadowed bloom,Guarding inner chambers, secret rooms.Cobwebbed corners clutch forgotten sighs,Dusty memories beneath dark skies.A mirror cracks, its shards confessThe buried truths we can’t suppress.Each step within, a creaking groan,Each breath unearths what’s carved in bone.Tombs of thought in gilded decay,Where echoes of old ghosts play.Drink deep the ash, a bitter draught,The soul becomes the tomb it sought.Empowered by what once consumed,We live as haunted, living tombs.Step Down, K.L. Johnston

Charlene Stegman MoskalThings I Never KnewAt night the shadows knew,night birds broke the silence; they knew,so did the bright lights and neon signs,so did the rooms that held the stinkof cigarettes and BIC lightersin the stained claws of lost songbirds.How was I to knowhis brightly colored plumage kept secrets; his car hid his hollow bones under the seats.The door unlatched at dawnbrought home alibisin the shape of feathered kisses.Only later, much later did I listen to the sounds of frightened birdsas they fell out of sync,as truth croaked hoarse with its own song.Pushed under the cracks, into the cranniesof denial; the night birds became mute.And despite the strangled soundsI made the choice to keep the flyer safefrom all the things I never knew.

Terry DawsonabandonedBrooklyn, NYC, 2012his taste ran to the desolateand film—always film; he despised alldigital facsimiles—and everything black and white, of course abandoned steel mills, shipyards,railroad buildings falling in on themselves: hissubjects of choice—usually one industrial state away from his NYC home, where he clothespinned in a windowless room his photos like dingy, dripping laundryat first, his mother's camera bag,like the interiors of his favorite ruined places—lurked unseen in the cavity of a hall closet—its black canvasslouched like a roof about to collapse,supporting a thick crust of dust akin toa scorch of bituminous coal and rustthe pictures of her and the one she'd taken of tinted leaves splayed on city asphalt that he'd taken down from their Brooklyn coopleaned there as well—never to go up in his dad's much smaller Soho flatthe year before they divorced, heceased speaking as if he, at six, hid in his body’s dark room to prepare for what was comingstill, he proved not ready for what developed: one of them stopping completely, and worse, shrinking slowly out of focus, with an expanding tumor in the narrow closet of her skull when hefinally began to lift the hidden chamber of her camera with ungainly lens, needing two hands, like her at the end, to take aim, his eye, peering through the dark box, bore its own peculiar filter on a world leaving much of what he prized behind

All Fall Down, Margo Davis

Marcella WilsonCarport ShelterBefore a rainstorm broke,ions charged the shifting airup ahead, a darkening cloak,our block, a yellow dare.We stood in the carport, my father and Ilooking out, a quiet pair,inner thoughts, we didn’t share,taking in the sky.Color 4, Cynthia Yatchman

John MilkereitWalkin ClosetI didn’t know that when my mother had an abortion,the ghost sister staked a tent in my bedroom.Flashlights flicker when I’m half asleep,thread undone from pearl buttons off a cowboyshirt to craft moon earrings. Sleeping bag unrolled smelling like rose perfume. Maroon washcloth balled up wet on the bathroom sink. Aroma is burnt wood is an orchestrated walk is a forest. Fingers dialing clockradio knobs for Karen Carpenter. My ghost sister is typing her overdue English paper on the Royal, driving me to sleepwalk to school in 3 a.m. snow. How many times did she augment the weather—the blizzard canceling my driving test? How many more peanut shells cracked open, bombarding the floor at Medici Pizza? At sixteen, we moved south. She liked tapered, purple candles lit at dressup dinners—the limp sauerkraut and blackeyed peas—scraps in a napkin for the golden retriever under the table, which he never ate. Decades later, she moved into the walkin closet, cedar chips scattered on the laminate. She is squatting, cold. The air whiffles. A gentleness against my neck. Yes, this is how. This is how I know what she says.

Hugh FindlayOmensshadows at the doorbird in the house stealing soulspictures fly off walls

Mitsui, Brianna Roberts

Jen KaretnickAfter Moving into Her Remodeled House, Julia Tuttle Speaks About the Haunting*Note: When Julia Tuttle, “mother of Miami,” moved to the Biscayne Bay area, she bought Fort Dallas on the Miami River and moved into the former officers' house.I confess that I hear knocks on doors. The dogs, nosing air, barking at the corner ofthe coral rock ceiling. And the whisper of my first name, a slither of snake, to bring me out of deepening sleep. They’re benign, I say about the spirits lurking, they just want to be recognized fortheir work, or Of course, I live on remains, the Tequesta mounds around me leveled withthe exception of one hill that we hail as monument,the river steeped not with planttannins but blood from buried hearts. Some things I can’t explain about these quarters that I purchased, formerly filled withFort Dallas officers, built by slaves. But I know what Ihave done and what’s been done in my name, even these decades later, and now I, too, am restlessness incarnate, my unexorcized breath twisted into molecules that makea blaring energy thatonly animals detect, I am the one who strikes woodbarriers behind which I stand invisible, I am the specter hissing in ears the words needed to wake up.

Untitled 2, Marie Carbone

Inner Sanctum, Janet Orselli

Colin James SturdevantBreaking Iceis when I feel the snowsettle in heaps within my lungs& I won’t know any better—I’m living in a time of insensitivitylike the temporary stillness of icebefore it matriculatesback into the earth’s gills of soilback into the gutters of DC's streetsback into the clothes that will tumblein a machine until possibly dry. cookiesnot even thought of during yuletide. kitchenslosing a battle of sovereignty in America to feed the hungryone must realize all poemsare political poems.

Rebecca DannellyMeditation After the Election After “Meditations in an Emergency” by Cameron AwkwardRichI stay at home and it breaks my heart. I smoke cigarettes and it breaks my heart. I don’t answer my friends’ messages and it breaks my heart. I forget to write and it breaks my heart. I never walk anywhere. Scabs cover my calves. They itch and itch and itch. I’m always scratching, and it breaks my heart. I could quit smoking and give up sugar. But I’m always lighting up. I’m always eating candy and cookies and ice cream. When she was two, my baby sister figured out that ICECREAM meant a trip to Baskin and Robbins and would actually scream if we didn’t go. I shouldn’t go, so I sit on the couch watching T.V. I sit on the porch and smoke cigarettes. I sit and sit. When I consider it, I’m terrified because the fearmongers have won again. It’s easy to veg alone. It’s difficult to remember I am needed. It’s difficult to remember I can ask for help. In a story, a lone woman inserts a stained key into a rusted lock. She forces the heavy door open with her pale shoulder and chokes on the cloistered air of corpses. The widower's wives. She clasps her mouth shut like a cupboard door, tastes iron and dust, anyway. I will sit in the shade and smoke cigarettes. I will sit in the shade and smoke cigarettes and think of you. I will sit in the shade, scratch the scabs from my sores, and wipe away blood with a used napkin. Think of how, in England, a napkin is a pad to soak up blood. Maybe I will call you and ask how you are.

Cindy HuyserDoppelgangerI look for someone who looks exactly like me except they grasp what’s under the haspless steel box with brass straps I call consciousness, a double of the art piecesomeone wisely titled Repression. WhenI see them, I’ll wave my arm, and when I waveI’ll get my own attention. Soon enough I’m shaking my own hand, a vigorouspumping that goes on a bit uncomfortably long, like anxiety’s halflife refusing to decay. But soon it’s clear there’s a figure behind meand me, another and another, an infiniteseries of reflections inside the container’s mirrored interior, a tomb for shouts that die to barely perceptible vibration. The pressurein my chest feels like suppressed emotion, trying its relentless bestto get my attention.

jp thornthere is one who watches over youmy dear vesuvius, you’re overdue on eruption: tiny screw still turns into the frame of our body, we're deconstructing though true will hovers above; it is compassionate & sage.it's when we speak i hear crows lodged in your throat rasp out aware you forgot to postscript the future, blissfully pompei. fear itself frightened sinks talons deep into your larynx; a sore throat makes you tremble about death, speak hoarsely about specter kids who stalk from around corners, toying you with hypotheticals until you've gotta test the placebo effect of suicidal ideation for yourself,right back to scarceness of childhood bedrooms where you'd rest your head on some god's eyelids, sleep to dvd menus & train sounds as they pooled into one great ocean at her feet. there, you are free from trying, held only to selfmade standards though timeclouds weather, oftentimes more scalding than lax.nowadays, do you still wish to flee? two tickets purchased because i'll probably go, too: palm your remainders into my pockets then head for the door, notice a shadow break inches of light through the keyhole: maybe you were right about us always being watched.

Traverse, Janet Orselli

d. ellis phelpsbeyond assuranceBut thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.~Matthew 6:6 KJVit is easier to imagine an anthropomorphic god —a gentle manwith magic powers a tender touch a thought that heals somewhere in the heavens —the almighty’s right hand —the one anointed son than to sit in the silence empty ~ it is easier to imagine that this one will save me from all my humanness will greet me on the other side that somehow beyond all reason he hears my supplication —answers my prayer than to be in the stillness a witness watching~

i have been immersed in holy water holy hands on my head have blessed me i have read the verses and said them i have heard the word confessed my sin again again yet all these genuflections have not summoned the promised land ~ so i leave my camel at the gate all these questions: full sacks laboriously filled~ beyond the asking beyond assurance herei am herewhere i have always been

Gail PlunkettThis Is Not FreedomBack inside chaos, she is a far ranging, meandering diaspora of all her different selves, seeking,needing to know what is Out There.What’s Out There is wildfires and hurricanes of uncontrollable cacophonous, symphonic maelstroms of incomprehensible interconnected and overlapping terrors, beauty, wonders, lies, truths, limitless possibilities, and illusions of beginnings and endings. No boundaries. No clear paths. No certainties. No rest.In the face of all this, she shuts down like a hibernating animal, her inner warden the only sign of Life.She is locked up again without a fight.Time crashes on without her as she again sleeps, unconscious but not, this time, dreamless.

This is Not Freedom, Gail Plunkett

Up Staring, Robin Young

Sunroom

Angélique JamailPrayerafter Carol Ann DuffyI have endured the drawn chants of a man’s throat fogged by incense and wine, of a boardhard bench and its crumbling missal, the flatcushioned kneeler and cavernous vault of impatient children in starched and frilled clothes, laceedged socks, patent shoes made holy by the noise they clattered on a floor. But no doledout conditional grace can match the sacred quiet of morning, when the house is perched on the edge of sleep, when the birds call matins in their arc, when an old lighthouse burns in a shaft of sun like a near star on the horizon.

Anna Genevieve WinhamThe Last Fact

Jacob's Well, Celeste BudwitHunter

Gail PlunkettTreasureShe builds windows and doorways into her walls, and pathways that take her safelyin and out of the chaos outside.She decorates her walls with treasures collected Out There.In time, she exposes the inescapable nature of treasure,the way it always, when left unattended, piles itself up into an energized mass thattransforms boon into burden, jewel into thorn,and trophy into stain.But with all of it comes more than one lesson. She learns about letting go and moving on, and how to use them like weapons against excess accumulation to keep the way clear for her light, her vision, and her hope.

Roe Sonye SproulsBlue Plate SpecialShe cleans her refrigerator,starts just by shifting mother'sunopened jelly: two summerssitting, a peach trophy whose lidhas resisted the strongest,hardest, hottest. She sensesher absent mom's knowing grin,admits she can tell a lot about herselffrom the contents of this box. Outof milk, she rearranges artistic shoppingspoils  arugula, shitake, kalamata, lekvar.Pushing past a favorite brown bowlwith a blue willow plate coveringits overcooked Tuesday noodles,another with carrots, eggplant,red pepper sauce, she wishesboth contained chocolatemousse. Her apricot robe slipsopen to the chill. Slippery sashnever holds amidst a morningfrazzle: leaking bag of defrostedraspberries edge the patternof each day's haphazard poignancy.Magenta geometry with a gutturalgrumble, and warm sponge spreadpale pink streaks across yellowingshelves: dawn before a bentwoman in incandescent light.She plays Apollo, pushingher day forward with each wipe.Rising to unstiffen her back,shoulders, knees, she loosensher scowl and recognizes the continuum,then rinses until the water runs clear.

Mary Ellen TalleyAt the Museum of SerendipityIt is as if we are inside swirling colors and whimsical remindersof how it feels to be observed—just like the street corner skeleton treewrapped in variegated yarn,…as if we are branchesfrom a windstormfallen, straddling the sidewalk,left there like ladders ready to ease a squirrel’s climb,…as if we are tiptoeing on summer cobwebs stretched leaf to leaf across spaces on a bushwhere petals have fallen. All rooms are forestsfull of trees,floors blanketedwith pine needlesand cones.All trees are people on a sidewalkfilled with heartwood.There is an empty room at the museum for us to enter,listen for a heartbeat and dance.

Hands on Shoulders, Patricia Sahertian

Eileen LawrenceHer BeachShe told me about her beach—the sun on her face, the waves kissing her sandaled feet, the margarita in her hand (the beach boy who brought fresh margaritas to her)—and how she’d walk along her beach, where the wavesrushed the shore, to cool off.She told me that she’d made that beach—each grain of sand, each drop of saltwater—from need and wisps of dreams and memory, over decades of her long marriageto a man who loved the sound of his own voice more than he loved her.She’d perfected living in double:one self folded laundry, cooked dinner, washed dishes, ironed his suits, and made listening noises—face fixed in rapt attention—while he prattled on and on and on andone self lay on her beach, warm to her core, the rushing waves and calling gulls drowning out any other noise.

Joe BlandaBilly’s New DigsA little tworoom affairOn the outskirts of town,With just enough charmTo ward off enchantments.When company arrivesLike a chill in the night,Billy checks ’em out cautiouslyFrom safely inside.Like a subatomic particleAware of being watched,He perks up abruptlyWhen the light finds his eyes.For everything works outOf darkness into light—And Billy’s no different.As the twig is bent,The more poignant its predicament. Billy digs in like a sliver of darknessUnder twilight’s tight blue skin.Says, “Come in.”

Edward GonzalesCushion for EdUpon exiting my meditation room, I had freed a memory of another of many rooms created:*This one from my teenage years where we fashioned a space under the stairs within my basement bedroom appropriately named the Veg. This space contained a cushion and a shelf for my fullsize plastic darth Vader helmet, to be worn by the operator, it has plastic lenses to look out while hearing only your own breathing, while we continue experiments with psychoactive compounds and experience the melting of everything around us.*Following that was a series of closets from different living spaces cleared out to allow me some quiet time to free my thoughts by allowing them to float away, clearing my mind from what my brain has done to it.*At this point, I am finally aged like fine tequila, now have a whole room to place my cushion and gong, pay no attention to all the 12inch action figures strewn throughout the floor area, which has been renamed “the toy room” by my grandchildren. *In conclusion, while not officially a room, I find that sitting under virtually any tree can be another type of secret space for me.Untitled 3, Marie Carbone

Lauren HallHomeIt’s fully dark leaving the airportneon signs flanking the highwaynone of them destinations but just places you wind up.A friend calls, high on ediblesand her impending divorce.It’s strange, she says. The longerI live the less I want to go home.I tell her I’m not sure I believe in home anymore, not with bombsexploding over hospitals and citiesflooding or burning, dependingon the day or the season, but laterthat night I roll my tired suitcase into your house and imagine how it would feel to live here.I move a wine glass, adjust a pillow,fold warm towels from the dryer.They don’t belong to me any morethan you do, but they’ve become familiar. I press one to my faceand inhale, weighing the idea of it,wondering if it could ever be enough to call this place home.

Dwelling Between, Janet Orselli

Margo Stutts ToombsOn Teddy Bears and Burning QuestionsWarning: This is ablaze with punsThe sacrifice on the pyre of our 2024 Thanksgiving weekend ritual was a 4foot teddy bear with reddish blond hayhair and small hands, wearing white collar and cuffs. The only thing missing from the likeness of 45/47 was the red tie; long enough to strangle if one were not careful. Every Thanksgiving weekend since 2008, my cousins and I have gathered for a retreat to share stories of the family and do some serious soulsearching. Part of our contemplations yielded plans for the new year as well as unachieved goals and disappointments from the year to burn in the fire pit. This weekend felt particularly dark and foreboding.* * *Three weeks earlier, the election results invaded our livingroom TVs as we prayed for the blue wave to wash over the red flames of anger and lies. We hoped in vain that we had extinguished that fire only to discover the zombie embers waiting to flare up when the wind conditions were right. We worried that we had burned down Democracy.* * *As we gathered around the dinner table at the B&B and planned our bonfire, the owner breezed through the back door suggesting we add the teddy bear version of youknowwho to the fire. We cheered, “Count us in!” The next night, we huddled around the fire pit and held our collective breath. As President Teddy Bear burst into a toxic orb of flares and gas, we laughed and hooted and toasted with wine. I hoped the ceremony would give me some closure. But instead, it left me with more questions. After a ritual like this, could we return to our benign burning of failures to let go of in the new year? What happens to our psyches when we participate in faux violence? Is it fighting fire with fire? And if we do battle this way, will we perish in a pile of ashes?

Jamie DanielleI AmI.I am unbalanced,daylight today and darkness tomorrow. I amstorms rising at night to breakloose in the unleashing light.I am clean washed skies and limpid twilights pregnant with promised delights.I am windswept plains of long grass bowed before tornadoes.I am deep green pools of water bordered by slim reeds swaying beneath dragonflies. I am openwide, open wild. Unexplored. II.Heart jewel, mine is uncut stone and raw facets.Unbrilliant, yet lightpours through. I am opal andaquamarine, like water,green and blue glintingdepths, heavy with meaning, Comeread into them all.Notice the flows, gold, holdingtogether chunks of broke stone. Look, hold my heart upto the light. The shadows theycast tell stories. Thereis the long night of my soul.There, my resurrection morn.

Color 3, Cynthia Yatchman

Melissa BoninGarden AmorphousIf your eyes are lit by amber, sugar harvest sky,follow it to milkbrown bayou’s edge. Click both heels and ask permission to enter alluvial banks. Shuffle yourself between elephant ear and wild, purple iris, French girl dreams and queen of heartstucked inside your worn, jean pocket.Look up! Hummingbirds fly on the back of a steamy gulf breeze pushing south to meet you in September grace. Take your place in the garden amorphous, a lotusamong gnarled cypress roots. Know that you bloom along the path of others' holy boots.Catch the floating ash adrift from burning cane. Smooth it between your fingertips. Remember, its stories are smudged in deep grooved cave walls of ancients.For a long while, wonder over water sirens and driftwood, river nymphs who roll and glide past you with one eye open. Sun’s fingers script florescentorangelight flickering on ripples and waves.Stitch its message inside the fleece of your heart.Gather your blessing as you leave. Close elephant ears behind you.Seal the path cut between grass and lowlying branches.Leave the garden undisturbed. You, ancestor of tomorrow, hold the cards. Dorothy, Toto and Odysseus wait for you at home.

Susan MartinelloA Shy BeginnerLaying open the inner abyss to rainbleeds the tender frescoes of the heartof myth in all its color, light, and shadeapplied by worshipped masters from the start.Deep, seeping madness eats away the limein layers, melting the shell of drought. A shybeginner paints fresh dreams with a clear paletteand leaves no brush stroke, just a shimmer on air,without the daub of faithful imitation.Where no path is worn, the traveler and guideare one explorer who awakens new,as in a jungle of leafdrops glimmeringacross an Andean dawn, infinitereflections, not of ruins, but of light.

Color, Cynthia Yatchman

Cistern, Celeste BudwitHunterMakers'Corner

PremonitionSolemn are lonely mornings in February.Snow drops off poplars with shivering shyness.On weathered wallpaper the outline ofa windowpane slants with trembling ochre.Oboes launch into a procession of chaconnes,and leaves still rustle, falling from slowlyrevolving chandeliers.Forgotten by someone or by us,there’s an open Rieslingand years sealed with wax.The home we left belongs to the dustyboots of an alien, nomadic spirit —discomfort, the flying clang of tramsthat won’t take off, the curtains, oncepulled shut with their segment of the sun,cut in vermillion.Donetsk 1990 (Translated for “Equinox”)Elina Petrova, Poetry JudgeTo learn more about Elina's poetry and to purchase her books, visit her site:https://www.elinapetrova.com*See Elina's bio. on p. 100.Photo by Vanessa ZimmerPowell

Georgina Key, Prose JudgeExcerpt from Syllables of the Briny WorldAgnes and Earle:Flames from candles placed throughout the room cast quivering shadows that licked the walls, syncopated with the rattling windows and howling wind. Rain drummed on the plywood boards. The house swayed back and forth on its skinny pilings in time with the arcing palms outside, a ritualistic ghost dance. Even the electrical poles listed in the strengthening gale, bowing to its power.“Agnes, I'm going to the attic—I need to see how it looks out there.” Earle wondered how long the boards would hold as the wind ripped and tore. Agnes didn't reply, but held her small leatherbound Bible in her hands, her lips moving silently, eyes closed. Earle pulled on the cord to the attic and unfolded the rickety stairs. As he climbed, his arthritic joints complained with each step, and he pushed aside a stab of fear. A tiny ventilation window in the roof seemed too small to be emitting such sounds, beastly growls and shrieks that rattled Earle's bones. He followed flashes of lightning and then pulled hard at the slats, rainwater drenching his face, so he washalf blind. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he stretched tall to reach his head above the rooftop.An endless black ocean spread before him, churning and foul, erasing the world he knew. Cars swirled and roamed as the current pushed and pulled. A rooftop floated past him, brushing against the house so that it groaned and shook. A flash of lightning revealed shapes floating in the water, thin and pale as rag dolls.https://www.instagram.com/keygeorgina/https://www.georginakey.com/https://georginakeyart.blogspot.com/*See bio. on p. 100.

Dean Luttrell, Art Judge For more information about Dean's art:deanluttrell1969@gmail.com*See bio. on p. 100.The CottonwoodThe towering cottonwoodStands tall, solid in my backyardAs it has for over 50 yearsToday, perfectly silhouettedBy heavy fog, a street light behind itIts thickest branches and smallest leavesSoftly show through mist and filtered lightStoic and motionlessIt awaits whatever daybreak brings

Carrie Kornacki, Consultant Editor See bio. on p. 100.What Light Does to a RoomThe city’s rib, a boat of bone and flatware,thrusts skyward its powdered quicksilveras Mercury, God of Commerce, stands in vaporon the highest roof blessing every gleaming structure,every liquid draft of crystal and gypsum pouringthrough these windows on the 14 th floor of the Marriot.I watch you dream and know tonight is a promise.Your luminous slope, wilderness againstcityscape, begins a tuft of mountain grass,a cut of rock, a summer sprout of sleepgathering flecks of ice as it glidesdown into your deep hibernation.I touch your scar, a shadow,your snowy skin candescent.Post Houston image by Carrie Kornacki

Frank, Alaina HammondJames 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 p.100.Art by James: Untitled

Vanessa ZimmerPowell, Art Editor and Page DesignerVanessa's Links:Cinema Poems:https://tinyurl.com/bdzhsen9Chapbook:https://tinyurl.com/aefpdxsr*See bio. on p. 100.Columbia’s Oldest Daughterafter viewing JohannaCalle’s, “Obra Negra”I am a housewith a mouth of milk.Lengua de leche,I give and giveto Mama’s children.My shoes hold upthis house.My arms are galvanized wire—I am electricity.Sometimes you seethrough me,like windows. At night, Mama returns from scrubbing,and I wishI were her little girl,but I am still this house—its holes,its only room.*First appears in Woman Looks into an Eye, chapbook, Dancing Girl Press (2017)Photo by Vanessa ZimmerPowell

Kelly Ann Ellis, Managing Editor The Hungry Ghost Diner is available at: Barnes & Noble Amazonhttps://kellyannellis.com poetry as junk drawersunflower seedsbroken corkscrewshoelaces, unopenedbut bursting with potentialthe valentine you never readaddress you planned to loseyour lover’s hairyour daughter’s navelthe piece you cutthe part that fell offtry to organizewonder whyhold onto all this stuffempty it outwhy notKelly's book is available...* See Kelly's bio. on p. 100.Published by Lamar University Press

Frank, Alaina Hammond

Elina Petrova is from Ukraine, where she published a poetry collection in Russian and worked in engineering management. After moving to the United States in 2007, she published two poetry books in English: Aching Miracle and Desert Candles. Elina’s poems have appeared in Notre Dame Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, Texas Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Sequestrum, Southwestern American Literature. A film presenting her poem at the 2023 Miami Chroma Film Festival won in the category Best Cinematic Poetry. Elina’s current manuscript is the winner of the 2024 Mutabilis Press chapbook contest, with publication forthcoming.Georgina Key is an awardwinning author whose latest novel, Syllables of the Briny World, is a followup to her debut novel, Shiny Bits In Between. She is a recipient of the Phoenix prize for Best New Voice of 2020 and a finalist for the 2022 International Book Awards in women’s fiction. Her poetry has appeared in several journals and anthologies. Georgina was born and raised in England and currently splits her time between the UK and Texas. She is currently working on her third novel set in the UK.Dean Luttrell, a Houston resident for over 30 years, is a poet, pianist and artist. He holds Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in music with an emphasis in piano. He has recently completed the requirements for a Certificate of Achievement from the Glassell School of Art in Houston, where he will graduate in June. His poetry can be found in Archway Readers 20th and 25th Anthologies and he was awarded Third Place in Houston Poetry Fest’s 2016 Ekphrastic Poetry Contest.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 in 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 five 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, poet, and worked as a graphic designer in the 1990s. She holds a BA in English literature and an MA in Communication Sciences and Disorders. 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 selected and featured at ReelPoetry, Gulf Coast Film Festival, and Nature and Culture Film Festival, Copenhagen. She won an honorable mention for her onewoman cinemapoem production of Dislocation at the 2023 REELpoetry festival. Her chapbook, Woman Looks into an Eye is published by Dancing Girl Press, 2017. She was a finalist in the 2024 Mutabilis Press chapbook contest.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 in 2023.Makers' Bios

a hotpoet publicationhttps://www.hotpoet.org/equinox