2 Poems

by Ethan Rivera

“Justice Be Like”

“My Passing”


Ethan Rivera is a poet out of Columbus, Ohio. He is the Slam Organizer of Writing Wrongs Poetry Slam, a weekly open mic and slam series. He is the coach of The Ohio State University Slam Team and runs workshops for writing and performance with high schools around the city. Ethan has two poems published in Radius and an essay with Black Nerd Problems. After the election, Ethan’s father told him that his only job was to “survive” and he is doing everything he can to make his father proud.

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Old Women Take to the Road

by Jude Marr

when siren-wail, not whale song, calls them to that shore where worlds
will end, shrink-wrapped in plastic—

braless in hazmat suits, scooping bullshit into zippered bags, they drag
their carbon-datable outrage toward the coast, pilloried
underpaid, temper-tossed—

their heads inclined, they spit on footprints made by crusted patriarchs
who, dripping brine from salted mouths, shedding
scales, shitting thunderbolts, still stampede
ahead as they’ve been taught—

at ocean’s edge, the women curse while fish-men pucker
panting, airless, beached among the trash
that humans leave—

women, just
catching waves in buckets, bowls and cups.


Jude Marr is the author of Breakfast for the Birds (Finishing Line, 2017). Her work has appeared in many publications, including Panoply and Cherry Tree. She is a PhD student at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, and also poetry editor for r.kv.ry. More on Jude’s work at www.judemarr.com or follow her on twitter @JudeMarr1 
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Phone Calls from Wyoming

by Meaghan Loraas

Say you remember, tell your father: camped out in the treehouse, eyes out
for wolves, dead chickens, bears, red
feathers when you wake up. Say you felt like a detective.

Then when you’re alone with her, in the BB gun aisle
at Walmart, look at her bare coastline clavicle and tell her how you felt
when Pa shot Travis, the neighbor man’s dog. Say you remember.

Say you love the farm, its gated garden and Pa’s whittled little men
made to look like your father and your future husband and your brother,
lost overseas until he wasn’t. Say you miss them all.

Then when you’re in her bed, tell her how Pa lost most of his hand
and she’ll tell you how her pa lost his. What are the odds? What is the lure
of Indian corn stuck in a combine? Say you love life’s bright splinters.

Say you love the farm, its water in rivers, and splintered wood you split for Pa
because he just can’t do it anymore, not in this health and he’s right.
Say to yourself: you won’t mind if she never, ever knows him.

Then when you’re home, out but river-bordered—forget she exists for a while.
Look for yourself in your father’s eyes instead of rambling landlines.
Say you love the farm.


Meaghan Loraas is a writer from Auburn, Alabama. Meaghan is a current second year MFA student in the Creative Writing Program (Fiction) at Texas State University San Marcos and is the PR Manager for Front Porch Journal.

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Apology

by Timothy Dailey-Valdés

I’m sorry
that I did whatever I did
to mislead you
into thinking
I was
fragile.

I’m sorry if
wolfhowling
startles you
and if you can’t understand
necessity.

I’m sorry
if you’re caught
in the ruins
of a crumbling edifice
that has no permit to stand.

I’m sorry you couldn’t hear my voice
before. I’m sorry

you thought I was fragile.


Timothy Dailey-Valdés lives and writes in Central Texas. His work has appeared in North American ReviewAssaracusThe St. Sebastian Review, and other journals. He has worked on the editorial staffs of Bay LaurelSouthwestern American Literature, and, most recently, Front Porch Journal, where he served as Poetry Editor. He earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Texas State University in 2016. In his spare time, he mostly alternates between daydreaming and battling neurosis. For the morbidly curious, more information is available at timothydaileyvaldes.com

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Yes, I Am

by Brittani Rable

changing,
gloriously
morphing like
basalt melted
down red,
2000 degrees
and dripping
as if from
a wound,
cauterizing
open flesh,
cooling around
pockets of air–
the words
that I will not
let myself waste
my breath on.
I am not sorry.


Brittani Rable is a graduate of The Ohio State University with a Bachelor of Arts in English and minor in Creative Writing. She has previously been published in Mosaic Magazine and Us for President. She currently lives in Columbus, Ohio, where she works in marketing and freelance writing.

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