art by Richard Hanus

by Penelope Ioannou

in this poem out of

respect for the phase

I am going through. I’ve

always wanted a New

England summer with

the weeds and the man

who is by no means

extraordinary grilling

bland burgers on the bbq.

The humidity would be

sufficient and I would

be formidable because I eat

lobsters and think the stupid

corgi is adorable and

use this man for his boat

or his body or his

stainless steel pan.

photo by Yasser Alaa Mobarak

by Sisary Poemape-Heredia

authored in June

to dance attuned,

after the sun is down.

where the glow is not but a breeze

caressing a nightgown’s scars
                
				under
               
				 in town.
un pueblo is a constellation hidden light years beyond

a mansion at the top of a hill,

even if no kings

—especially if no kings—

are throned to be

between the ages of seven and seventeen.
i am king

and at seven needed a hymn

of Andean musing

and love cruising

warmisitay infused,


photo by Allison Guan

by Maureen Mancini Amaturo

This New England morning wears a grey shawl.

Traffic, lights, store fronts, and footsteps recede with the tide.

A shy sun finds gulls laughing, cackling, and circling pewter views.

Water slaps piers and boat bottoms.

Dories waltz.

Rusted chains hang like necklaces around rigging and pilings

Pitted metal anchors lean heavy.

Faded circles bearing ship names no longer save lives.

Ropes, thick and strong, twined and defined like teen-aged braids

enwreathe coiled hoses, nozzles down,

photo by Allison Guan

by Julia Morrison

The tree has too many hands
for me to trust it’s from anywhere
but the future

I keep trying to leave
you before night
falls out of my body

Too many birds
at bedtime
I don’t have enough blue left

for another morning
Oleander tephra, volcanic ash and glass
layers of the glacier under the microscope,

otherwise we don’t see it.
The noise and snow of the image
developing,