An excerpt from “Triage,” one of three poems by Adrian Blevins (poetry, ’02) from the collection, Appalachians Run Amok, and published at Blood Orange Review:

Triage

Each time I fly I look a little longer out the window, so that’s good, that’s maybe
upgraded depth perception, but who knows since I didn’t take physics

on the Smoking Block as a girl in overalls in a Mustang at the fair
sitting cross-legged in the back with a joint or a bottle or some other joy thing

illegal, alien, licked, fringed, and laced. It was Frank O’Hara. It was D.H. Lawrence.
It was Lawrence Ferlinghetti in my purse with me trekking the sweet fodder.

It was not needlepoint. It was never Einstein. It may have been Darwin
somewhere in the back of the little skull but more likely it was condoms.

More like it was a party in the hunting shack up on the parkway where we went to fuck
because it was fucking because it was forgetting because it was rural America on drugs in the 70’s  […continue reading here]

An excerpt from “In Everything A Little Remains” by Dilruba Ahmed (poetry, ’09) published in the Kenyon Review:

In Everything A Little Remains

In everything a little remains.
In our factory-farmed eggs, a little pasture
remains, one wide enough to cool
the pain of the fire-hot blade

slicing each hen’s beak after birth.
A freedom of the heart, if you will,
an imagined green—with waterfalls, and lilies—
to spare us the constraint of wire walls

that restrict a wingspan’s width, providing
no space to move without stepping
on another hen. Why think of each hen
stepping upon the next, when we can envision

the prairie—as the label depicts—
where the birds roam at will and do not die
cramped in piles of ten, unable to budge
from their trembling cage mates who

have not, and will not, spend one day outside?
In everything a little remains. In our “100% Whole
Grain” shredded wheat, a little pesticide remains,
just a little bit. A 100% weed killer, if you will.

An excerpt from “Lore” by Robin Rosen Chang (poetry, ’18) published at Up The Staircase:

Lore

Besides the eyes, I’ve always denied
any similarity to my mother.

But I too worry about birds, a lone egret
standing at lake’s edge,
one leg buckled backwards.

For flight, its wings beat
only two times per second.

I saw one pruning its white feathers
the day my mother died.

If I could, I’d ask her
why have a fifth child
when you were out of love
and had options.  [….continue reading here]

An excerpt from “Henry’s Turn” by Geoff Kronik (fiction, ’12) published at TSS Publishing. The story is Highly Commended in the spring TSS Flash 400 Competition

“Henry’s Turn”

That rainy Christmas Henry’s father put down Athena, their old German shepherd. A long-limbed man with a hanging face and opaque gray eyes, Henry’s father did everything with quiet care and Henry had idolized him. That morning they ate breakfast and then sat in silence until his father pushed his chair back.

“Okay, girl,” he said. Athena limped after him.

The shot startled Henry although he expected it, but when he heard his father sobbing he covered his ears. His father came back inside and Henry said it was all right, but his father said “no, it isn’t” and Henry secretly agreed with that and they never spoke of Athena or any past or future sadness again.

Now it is a cat and Henry’s son.

“Let me do it,” Matty says, “I watched a video. It’s peaceful. Almost beautiful.” April sleeps in a corner, too thin, orange fur dry, her tail a protective circle. Some boys never matured, others were old at twelve, Henry thinks. Who or what had made Matty? His mother left before he knew her, but he does not seem bothered by that or anything. Like mother, like son, Henry supposes, remembering her. He wouldn’t take it that well. […continue reading here]

An excerpt from “The Missing of the Great War,” one of four poems by Elizabeth T. Gray, Jr. (poetry, ’09) published at Cagibi:

The Missing of the Great War

Belgian Flanders, 2017

It was a test. She asked, Are they here or not?
Because the land is flat it is hard to see.

The men may be hidden in that empty space.
The canal was a serious obstacle.

The banks of the dykes are bordered with willows.
The lyric moment at its best.

At the edge of each moment I thought I saw movement.
It was a test. She asked, Are they here or not?

The lines kept changing but not by much.
Because the land was flat it was hard to see.

The men may be hidden in that empty space.
The banks of the dykes are bordered with willows.

You can read this, she said.
The lines ran right through this corn field. […continue reading here]