Issue #9

    Hell & 

    after H.D.’s “Helen” 

    Tyler Friend

    All this grease, these stained hands. Still eyes 

    like olives & stands of white hands

    reaching up. All these Grecian revels, these smiling faces. 

    Remember the past? That was sick. We were sick & 

    our daughter unborn, thank God.

    Tyler Friend is a non-binary, probably-human entity found in the rolling hills of Tennessee. When not writing (and often while writing), they teach high school, check out library books, and draw on post-it notes. They edit the online lit mag Francis House and design for Eulalia Books

    when i touch myself i think about a hand rubbing circles on my back

    Danielle Rose

    because want is like a hammer / & i flatten

    like a paper fan / here is an analogy

    it is grasslands then a forest

    & then grasslands again

    i am thinking

    about a hand on my back 

    rubbing circles / & i flutter 

    like a girl discussing all the possibility

    in the words if maybe / & if this is where my mind 

    travels during sex i cannot be a temple / i will not 

    become a cloud of incense & just quietly depart 

    because between my legs 

    is a valley i named & renamed & dedicated

    again & again / on my back a hand a birdsong

    a sudden frost / a detour / a way to make myself

    into a fond memory that calmly drowns

    Danielle Rose lives in Massachusetts with her partner & their two cats. She is the managing editor of Dovecote Magazine & used to be a boy. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in The Shallow Ends, Barren Magazine, GERTRUDE, Luna Luna Magazine, Empty Mirror, Homology Lit & elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter or at her website here.

    noon beach scene

    Jan Ball

    Today, no black snake claims territory

    coiled beneath the sea grapes to absorb

    the noon sun like an ebony Victorian

    funeral necklace displayed on the chest

    of a buxom elderly lady in black satin


    Instead, beside the Gulf of Mexico, 

    the over-seventies stay inside at noon,

    eat half a ham and cheese sandwich

    with a cup of chicken noodle soup and 

    sometimes drink a glass of buttermilk,

    the way my mother used to, sprinkling

    salt, pepper and Tabasco sauce in it; 

    they stumble along the faded sand 

    at dawn in search of shell skeletons, 

    plastic supermarket bags in hand like 

    invasive brittle jellyfish ballooning 

    in the subtle breeze.

    Tonight, at cheaper, early seating 

    Happy Hour, the blue-tinted women

    emerge in helmut hair and chic knee

    length shorts and blouses with YSL 

    logos on the pocket to sip Rob Roys 

    or “tinas” as martinis are euphemized 

    on Longboat Key, accompanied by hearty 

    balding men in Tommy Bahama plaid 

    pants who later smoke cigars outside

    companionably, then pick at their salmon 

    filets with a Caesar salad side until 

    the waiter, inconspicuously brings the bill 

    and soon prepares the table for the next 


               four water glasses with knives 

                    and forks in a navy blue paper 


    Jan has had 299 poems published in various journals including: Atlanta Review, Calyx, Chiron, Connecticut Review and Nimrod, in Australia, Canada, Czechoslovakia, England, India and The U.S.. Jan’s two chapbooks and full length poetry collection, I Wanted To Dance With My Father, are available from Finishing Line Press and Amazon. When not traveling, Jan and her husband like to cook for friends.