Cover image: "Mountains at Night" by Sarah Kilgallon
Gallery 1
Still learning
Maggie Rue Hess
Call Me Garden
Dew-grass plastered on my heels:
another morning
you haven’t forgiven me
and I only half apologized — our woundings
woven
remorselessly into a nest
of remembrances and abnegations.
I deposit
spittled seeds
where words hunt them.
In absentia,
you forget
that you can’t see me in the green season
without the thorns;
you won’t
see the petal-patient froth budding
forth, only the weed-
eaten plot
miraculous in phases — and me, too.
Chlorophyll callouses
me against other springs:
Northern soil, the roots in my mouth
acclimated to new
rains, whether watched
or dormant. Don’t call me garden
and
curse my growth.
Maggie Rue Hess is a graduate student living in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her partner and their two crusty white dogs. Her work has previously appeared in Rattle, Minnesota Review, Connecticut River Review, and other publications; her debut chapbook, The Bones That Map Us, is forthcoming from Belle Point Press in 2024. She likes to practice latte art and share baked goods with friends, and she can be found on Instagram @maggierue_.
Nina Clements
For Lisa, June 30
Algae swirls on the surface of the lake,
the smell of rot in your nose.
Another year and you mark
your sister’s birth as June fades
away. Whorls of ink cover
her skin, large holes divide
her earlobes. She redrew
herself, but she is still
your mother’s daughter. Still her
depression and mania, never slow
and steady. As a baby, she screamed
whenever her tender
feet touched sand.
Nina Clements earned an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. She is the author of the chapbook Set the Table and the poetry collection Our Mother of Sorrows. Her forthcoming collection Choosing the Lake will be published in 2024. Her poems have appeared in The Penn Review, Prairie Schooner, Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Thimble Literary Magazine, and other places. Originally from Pittsburgh, she lives in Madison, Wisconsin.
Website: ninaclements.net / Instagram: @ninaclementspoet / X: @biblioscribbler
Greta Hardy-Mittell
Land Available:
one of the signs on my bus ride
across the Midwest, that large swath
of clouds so low they could stack
on one endless field. every road
a scar, every parking lot
a burnmark. there were no signs
the day we invaders arrived, decided
to call this West & call this ours.
available sometimes means, we’ve gotten rid
of the people who belonged.
getting rid sometimes means, we’ve written
the Wikipedia article so resistance
& removal are read in passive voice.
there are empty lots everywhere.
it’s easier to tear down a home
that’s never been yours.
on the drive, I’ve learned to wonder:
what would this land look like
Indigenous again? what gardens
would rewrite these cornfields, what forests
would supplant these fenced-in trees?
I’m still learning to ask
where I would be.
Greta Hardy-Mittell is a young, queer poet-activist. They grew up creating worlds in the forests of rural Vermont (unceded Abenaki land). Now they roam the prairies of Minnesota (unceded Dakota and Ojibwe land) while writing new visions for this world. Greta’s work explores themes of family, place, community, art, social justice, climate change, (queer) relationships, and more-than-human life. Their poetry and nonfiction have been published in BreakBread Magazine, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, 86 Logic, Planet Forward, and The Bloom. You can read Greta’s work at gretathewriter.com. Instagram: @gretathewriter
Harry Bauld
Harry Bauld was twice All-Ivy shortstop at Columbia and broke Lou Gehrig’s records. (His academic records.) Books: The Uncorrected Eye and How to Paint a Dead Man. He has performed as a magician and jazz pianist, and his paintings have been exhibited in group shows in Vermont and New York.
Zoë Luh
ode to red but not in anger
in the russet of early-june pinecones soft tendrils
at sunset touched by a lover
in honey-rimmed mountainside the glow of sun’s last goodbye
a last kiss of warmth falling
in the first buds of spring jade cacti blooming
heavy air fresh with possibilities
in laughter on a scarlet july day
standing over fish-scale mountain peaks
in the last smoke-filled breaths
curling out from between lips
in pomegranate tongue in between
something soft juicy sensual
in the mulberry juice, this wanting
stretching towards a faraway lover
in the last flowers of september
tips of sun-soaked grasses
in the first leaves of october
brittle blood orange memories falling
in my hair under the highest sun
wool coat with worn lace tearing at the seams
in the tangerine speck on my niang-niang’s jade bracelet
wildfire at the break
in red silk on my altar red envelope
ancestral colors the inside of char-siu-bao
in flushed faces turning at the party
cherries in mixed drinks
in blood rising out of a papercut
lover’s lips meeting where the skin splits
in sun glow made to hold me
i swear i was made to linger here
ode to red but not in hope
in sparks on dry grass
the first fire of summer
in fire rising over treetops
the last summer standing here
in the cracking crashing soundtrack
flame’s last goodbye
in dust storm over desert plains
hazy city sky hiding smoke signaling
in the burning of nostrils smoke ash
the last water drops on pavement
in bloodshot eyes spilling secrets
last kiss stolen in lover’s last breaths
in stinging hands touching intertwining
goodbye fading falling in the last moments on earth
Zoë Luh is a poet, artist, lover, silly goose, and serious goose. They are currently living in the beautiful high desert in Tiwa land, but have their roots in Southern Ohio. Zoë recently graduated Oberlin College with a degree in Comparative American Studies and a minor in Studio Art. Her first book of poetry, [and time erodes like thunder], was published with Assure Press in the spring of 2020, and she has since been published in several journals and featured in In Between Spaces, an anthology by disabled writers.
Nancy Jorgensen
Babies in Bloom
Jack
In the deciduous forest near my Wisconsin home, May gives birth to Jack-in-the-pulpits. Some along paved roads. Many more next to bark pathways where the scent of humus and oak leaves lives.
Like a fetus, Jack-in-the-pulpits begin curled into themselves. They hide, umbrellaed under triplicate leaves. For years, I never knew they existed, so well were they camouflaged. Now, I wonder how big will this one grow? Which way will that one turn? How deep will this one color? Slowly, day by day, each reveals its vertical maroon stripes. Shy but spectacular.
Lily
A local nursery re-landscaped my city lot. Before the reincarnation, bleeding hearts elbowed peonies. Hostas jousted with trilliums. Asiatic lilies stretched their necks, nosing for air. And lilies-of-the-valley skipped where they pleased. The designer separated, created space, replanted, and added.
I know that invasives like lilies can steal moisture, sunlight, nutrients, and space. I know invasives contribute to the decline of endangered species and can displace native plants and lead to erosion. But in spring, when lilies-of-the-valley bloom, they wear my nana’s face. She tucked them in beds near her house, nurtured them like cherished children, and gifted them like priceless inheritances.
The landscape designer, who never knew my nana, said, They can fend for themselves. From August to April, I worried his growling backhoe had destroyed my heirlooms. I hoped somewhere a root lay dormant, ready to surface again. Then in May, pairs of leaves poked the earth. One clump under my clematis. Another on the shaded side of a hill. I coddled the new babies. Delicate, though dangersome.
Hostas
In that deciduous forest near my home, at the crossroad of three paths, fallen branches have been assembled into a teepee-like structure. No hide covering, just a conical frame. There are too many gaps to protect from rain. Too wide an opening to provide privacy. Perhaps it is simply sculpture.
This year, miniature versions popped up, like mint or strawberries on a runner: close to the parent, but independent. The cluster resembles a family. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, Baby Bears.
My hostas look like that too. The landscapers tried to divide them evenly, but I still see the mamas—sturdy after years of beating sun, tramping boots, pissing dogs. Like human mamas, they shake off the world’s worst and focus on survival, babies close by.
Stanley
My daughter Gwen and her husband gave me my first grandchild. Five-year-old Stanley wears his father’s face but considers the world like his mother: with persistence, determination, and a compulsion to compete and conquer. He reminds me of those baby hostas, pulled from their parents and transplanted, each a genetic replica.
Gwen is a transplant herself. After growing up in Wisconsin, she set roots in Minnesota, then Oregon, and recently Colorado. She lives close to Boulder, neighbor to the Flatirons, Boulder Creek, and trails where wild iris, mariposa lily, and prickly poppy grow. Perhaps one day when I’m there, I’ll search for her state’s flower, the blue columbine. I’m already familiar with Wisconsin’s red columbine, a hardy plant that can propagate even after wildfires.
Marshall
In December 2021, Colorado’s Marshall Fire grew from a few flames in the grass to the most destructive fire in state history. Residents near Boulder were issued evacuation orders. As Gwen, her husband, and Stanley left their home, fire scorched 6,000 acres and destroyed 1,000 homes and businesses. Miraculously, hers was spared and news reports listed only one death and one person missing.
Five months after the Marshall Fire, trucks, backhoes, dozers, excavators, motor graders, and skid steers dotted the landscape. Gaping holes marked footprints for new foundations. Cones and caution tape demarcated new construction. Like the Wisconsin red columbine, citizens of Colorado proved hardy, sustaining devastating damage to survive and propagate.
Perennials
Jack-in-the-pulpit reproduces in two ways: through short, squat stems called cormlets that arise from the parental corm; and when pollen from male flowers is transferred to female flowers. Lily-of-the-valley spreads through rhizomes, horizontal underground stems which put out shoots and roots. Columbine grows from a caudex or vertical underground stem.
Although they appear to live forever, perennials are not immortal. Some are even short-lived, lasting only two or three years. Others self-seed, seeming to live longer than they do. They fascinate me. How do they flower, die, and rebirth themselves, over and over, sometimes after great harm?
Perhaps humans are perennials too? The strongest are born, suffer spiritual, emotional, or physical deaths, and return to live again. Others sustain damage and remain forever weakened. Like those perennials in the dirt, human appearance is relatively short-lived, but with some self-seeding may endure.
George
A few months ago, I traveled to Colorado to meet Gwen’s new baby—my second grandchild—George. I wondered—will he be like big brother Stanley, headstrong and talkative? Or like Mama, with fewer words but deeper thoughts? Maybe, like lily-of-the-valley, George will spread his spirit with abandon. Or, like columbine, come back stronger after every setback. Maybe, like glossy hostas, he will ground himself, dependable and beautiful, and remain close to his family roots.
Nancy Jorgensen is a Wisconsin writer, teacher, and musician. Her most recent book, a middle-grade/young adult sports biography, was released in 2022, Gwen Jorgensen: USA’s First Olympic Gold Medal Triathlete (Meyer & Meyer). Her essays on music, equality, family, aging, and education appear in Ms. Magazine, River Teeth, Wisconsin Public Radio, CHEAP POP, and elsewhere. Find out more at nancyjorgensen.weebly.com.
Jennifer Willoughby
With her creative focus in the fine arts, Jennifer Willoughby works in mixed media, photography, alternative print making, jewelry design and all things digital. She is inspired by the artists of the Vienna secession, Arts and Crafts movement, and Chinese Engraving. With several decades as a commercial artist, and experience that spans marketing, photography, illustration, graphic design for both print and web, video production, and 2D and 3D animation, Jennifer Willoughby uses her experience as a designer to create art that challenges the confines of traditional process. She is a Colorado native and currently resides in the city of Westminster, Colorado. Discover more at linktr.ee/JenniferWilloughby.
Lauren Jappe
Love Poem for the Holocene Epoch
Last night someone dreamed of you. Your soap-soft body appeared
as a prophet might to an unbeliever.
You both saw the pink beach, flooded,
shark’s fin tracing a shifted coastline. And school was in session,
or it wasn’t. Time had turned over on itself,
water surging toward the indifferent sky.
Were you children or weren’t you? Your money
and your titles thinned into flotsam, drifted away
like polluted seaweed. You stood in it
because it felt like earth, felt like
what greenery had been,
back when forests pressed against the sea
as tightly as a dream does
against waking.
Your dreamer laid their head to your chest.
A jellyfish wandered the ocean
in search of long-lost plankton. That’s how an invertebrate yearns:
with nerves full of salt,
caught in a vortex of their own making.
How long had it been
since the world ended, anyway?
And when did this one begin?
Lauren Jappe is a Boston-area writer using fiction, journalism, and poetry to explore themes of social justice, trauma, and family secrets. You can read more of her work at www.laurenjappe.com.
Nicole Farmer
What is Lost, What is Blue
after Noor Hindi
I am remembering your eyes. I am gathering joy. The creeks in these mountains cannot compare to your mesmerizing stare. Mi hija. I rush to Lowe’s to vandalize their paint samples. I scan the choices and search my memory for your exact eye color. Nothing compares. It has only been since Christmas, still I can’t imagine your sparkling orbs in the California sun. Crystal Lake. Jamaican Dream. Sea Wind. Dolphin Blue. When I say blue I mean pain. Estrangement. Mia Figlia. When I say blue I mean you have sent me to the moon. I strain to see your aqua world through the tiny spaceship window, but you have stolen one of my eyes. Blue Echo. Sapphire. Below Zero. Ice Cave. You freeze me out, but my heart still waits for you. Kazim. I struggle to crawl inside your cerulean cave but you have erected bloody word spears in my path. When did I lose you? Nae Ttal. Those frigid teen years? Big Chill. Valley of Glaciers. Blue Flame. Burn me as you like but when my charred skin peels I will still be standing here, raw, with love in reserve. Meine Tochter. Midsummer’s Dream. Symphony of Blue. Gentle Sea. There in your Hollywood home you can wander to the Pacific shore any day you like. I can swim the continent to arrive waterlogged and you will scrub salt and sand in my wounds. M’iníon. Certainly, we have done this before. Cycles of trauma and triumph. You play your part, I’ll play mine. Pain in our veins for generations. Watashi no musume. Open your heart. When I say blue I mean hope. Abnati. Forgive me, Blue.
Nicole Farmer’s poems have been published in over forty magazines. She was awarded First Prize in Prose Poetry from the Bacopa Literary Review in 2020. Her published books are Wet Underbelly Wind (2022) and Honest Sonnets (2023). She lives in Asheville, NC with her husband and grumpy Carin terrier. Website: www.nicolefarmerpoetry.com
Tracy Ahrens
roots
roots etch horizons;
people are blind to futures
mapped below, above.
Tracy Ahrens lives in Illinois and has been a journalist/writer for over 30 years. She has published eight books, including two non-fiction works, four children’s books and two books of poetry. As of 2023 she has earned 105 writing awards. She has been published in Wild Roof Journal before. See her website at tracyahrens.weebly.com.
Clive Knights & Terriann Walling
Canadian poet Terriann Walling and English collage artist Clive Knights have completed a two-way collaboration inspired by a desire to bring artists and writers together to generate new work. Four pieces in two pairings are included here, representing the output from their collaboration in response to a word prompt: “belong.” The word engages questions of orientation at both personal and existential levels in a global context of cultures splintering into a multiplicity of identities.
First pair: Terriann wrote the poem “It all belongs” in manuscript form and sent it to Clive to use in a new collage that continued an engagement with the common theme. He created the collage “Chaos beyond chaos” in response, incorporating physical printouts of the manuscript.
Second pair: Inspired by the word “belong,” Clive created the collage titled “From the deep surface of the fascia” and sent it to Terriann; she responded with the poem “She frequently met him on the mountain.”
She frequently met him on the mountain
She frequently met him on the mountain
{he said it was a crime}
A muse of Bedlam depth unknown
{Unworthy of love and time}
He couldn’t rise above abandonment
{tragic in his design}
From deep within the surface
{poetic divisions of the mind}
With every ounce of longing
{For pirate treasures cast aside}
layered elements of divinity
{hormonal secretions in the crime}
His bellow filled the mountains
{aware of fallen time}
Shouting for her ministry
{to illuminate the sublime}
A now hero of distinguished reign
{the goddess intertwined}
Stars connected in golden remoteness
{Belonging by design}
Clive Knights is a collage artist, printmaker, and co-designer of festival structures. He is represented by the gallerist Laura Vincent in Portland, Oregon. Since 2021 he has had 3 solo shows of his collages and monotype prints in Portland, and a solo show at Sacripante Gallery in Rome, Italy in May 2023. He has exhibited in over 30 group shows in multiple US states and overseas nations, including England, Scotland, Norway, Italy, Belgium, Slovenia, and Poland. In April 2022 he curated an international exhibition titled Corporeal Gestures in Portland that included 100+ collages by 100+ artists from 22 countries. In June 2022 he published his first monograph covering work from the last 3 years titled Gestures from a Body at Work: Unsuccessful Attempts at Grasping Eternity. He attended a residency at Chateau d’Orquevaux in 2022. Website: www.cliveknights.com / Instagram: @knightsclive
Terriann Walling is a multi-faceted writer and artist whose work spans various mediums and explores the nuances of healing, trauma, human experience, whimsy, and magic. She has been featured on platforms like Harvesting Happiness Talk Radio and Invisibly Wounded: New Frontiers in Healing Trauma. As an editor, her collaboration on “FANO – The Educational Village” showcases her dedication to artistry in educational settings. She co-authored poetry book Tegera and Permeate & Penetrate: Trauma and Reformulation Poetry. Her 2022 residency at Chateau d’Orquevaux in France and participation in exhibitions like “This is a Photograph of Me,” curated by Halka Sanat Projesi, display her ability to evoke thought and emotion through visual art combined with poetic expression. She is a collaborator at heart and loves working with others to create unique and beautiful pieces. Instagram: @walling.terriann
Alex Rasmussen
knowmad
if you’re looking for it
check the corner of the smoky Arizona tavern
behind the pool table where leather-clad bikers talk trash
over the din of a liquored-up rock band
search the adobe hut on the rough side of Albuquerque.
will you find it among crystals, candles, sage,
red wine, and green chiles?
is it wrapped in the blankets of
an ethereal beauty who sees
spirits in her prophetic dreams?
peer into the shimmering waters of the
Pacific Northwest’s soul-cleansing rivers and
scour Southern Utah’s awe-inducing red-rock trails at sunset
comb the wave-kissed beaches of the California coast.
keep an eye out for gray whales and nuggets of jade
call its name through the thick air of a Louisiana swamp.
listen for a reply amidst the chirping of frogs and
buzzing of mosquitoes
a Texas night glitters with a million stars.
beneath that endless sky is a campfire.
will you find it seated beside the blaze with an acoustic guitar,
strumming gut-churning chords between sips of scotch?
if not, ask the old Memphis bluesman where it’s gone and
the Detroit bartender when it’ll return.
if they won’t tell you, the dancer from Los Angeles can give you a clue.
follow that lead to the winding back roads of West Virginia . . .
and
as your search for it continues,
leaving you with more questions than when you began,
remember that these places
and these people
are the answer to everything
From the Pacific Northwest to New Orleans—Tennessee to the Texas hill country—singer, songwriter, novelist, and poet Alex Rasmussen has spent much of the last decade traveling the United States and sharing his art, inspired by the adventures and heartaches of a nomadic spirit. His self-published novel Coloring Outside the Lines (2015) dives into the mind of an ambitious street musician as he travels between Seattle and San Francisco in pursuit of a dream…and enough cash to buy his next meal. Alex’s poetry collection Inside out, also self-published (2019), covers a wide range of topics from love to loneliness, eccentric painters to hollow consumers. The Seattle native has returned home for the foreseeable future to finish his second novel, write poetry, perform, and work on new songs. Website: www.wordsandmusicbyalex.com / Instagram: @wordsandmusicbyalex
Sarah Kilgallon
Sarah Kilgallon is originally from Boston, MA and now lives and creates Lisbon, Portugal. Her visual and written works have appeared in Willow Creek Press Calendars and Bark Magazine. Her photo series, “The 6 Feet Project,” appeared in two galleries (UMass Dartmouth and Women’s Art Institute at St. Catherine University), in addition to folk singer Monica Uhm’s debut music video, “Anthem.” Her wall-sized photo collage of 2,000+ dog photos, curated from her 13 years photographing them, is on permanent display at Boston Children’s Hospital. Her photographs of iconic Lisbon are featured in Salta Restaurant in Lisbon’s city center, and she has recently exhibited in the “Thank You Ocean” group exhibition in Lisbon.
Christine Weeber
Free
Sage stem. Arrow flight of the wren. Warbler feather perched crevice of limb. Sun eye. Desert sand quick under foot along Colorado River. Tender skin flushing. Oceans ringing with whale song. Water slips through cupped hands. Flames jump ridgeline. Tendrils wind underground, the laugh a web. We recognize one another’s soul songs. Connect to the love of dry grasses. We don’t need to flee.
one beak full
another gathering flight
snug the belly
Be at ease. The canyon wren silent but for morning’s sonic bath; its soft barring measures powdery red rock. I am with the migration, a longitudinal sigh. My songline. We can love.
map our routes
safety in being
medicine everywhere
Christine Weeber is the author of two poetry chapbooks, In the Understory of Her Being (in English and Spanish) and Sastrugi. Her poetry and prose have appeared in Wild Roof Journal, Kyoto Journal, The Fourth River, Solo: On Her Own Adventure, and other publications. Christine is the poetry editor and copy editor at SAPIENS, a digital magazine that illuminates the world of anthropology for a general audience.
Cedric Albertini
As a graduate in arts, anthropology, and design, Cedric Albertini found himself creating structures and shapes. Child of the digital age, he mainly works with computer and graphics tablet. Inspired by various artistic styles such as Brutalism, Minimalism, Surrealism, and Abstract, he tries to put colors away from his work and return to an almost childlike spontaneity. Using only black & white for a year now, even in his digital creations, this process has led him to engraving and linocut. Mixing it all together, Cedric creates pieces that capture the essence of simplicity.
