“what would I write if no one could see
I would write that I blame my mother
and then I would write that I was justified”
by Sara Grimes The sweetness of Convenient Amnesia, Donald Vincent’s debut poetry collection, took me to new heights before unsettling me in the pit of my stomach. Vincent catches us off guard by capturing breathtaking beauty before leveling us with the realities of twisted wrongs against the Black community. The first poem, “Lucky Charm,” sets the tone: “You knew about it but forgot like last week’s newspaper / headline. / I want to whistle whimsical feelings to white women, / Emmett Till’s charm.” Convenient Amnesia summons all the appeal and literary acumen required of it as a fierce debut book of…
By Cliff Saunders
What happens when you die?
I think you’ll open at last
into the pain of oceans,
into memory and its horizon,
into music, music, music.
I can’t tell you when the lilies
will be glorious, when red flags
will be singing over the edge
By Cliff Saunders
There is no brotherhood of smiling wizards,
no mantra against the bells of teen spirit.
No mystery here—stones celebrate with song
how they shape the world into mountains
and waterfalls, their voices full of gracefulness
and elegance. We ought to let them dream
By Cliff Saunders
Want to be happier?
Welcome birds to your
vast coral bed of remembrance.
You are assured of getting
your compass of moles,
your weekly copy of available space.
Give your heart a little bit
of soul, a pivotal spin
on the altar of your mountain porch.
by Sean Cho A.
and you wake. You’re in the passenger’s seat
now here’s the first choice:
look forward or
look left
what you chose says a lot
about trust. Let’s say you look left.
The man driving looks like your father.
Rachel DeWoskin is a five-time novelist and memoirist. Two Menus is her debut poetry collection which, despite being billed as poetry, does not escape a certain delicious fictionness, like here: “The night Des tore her hair out, it was literal. / White sheets beneath her lit the hospital,”
By Guna Moran
Mother
Bless me to turn into dust
Would stay stuck to both your feet every day
Mother
Bless me to be your teardrops
Would glitter in your eyes in times of joy and sorrow
By Guna Moran
A rock can only be made smaller
By beating and hitting
Can never be made larger
Rocks are generally homeless
They lay everywhere
by Lauren Rose burnt bush skeletons like a haze of unbrushed hair ohoo a dead deer, she says as we drive past it and never think of it again Lauren Rose was born on Misawa Air Force Base in Japan in 1999. She is a senior at Sierra Nevada University studying biology, creative writing, and outdoor adventure leadership. She currently resides in Tucson, Arizona. Her previous work can be found in issue six of Burnt Pine Magazine and will soon be available in the fall 2020 issue of Peregrine, the 2020 issue of Ricochet Review Poetry Journal, and the Running…