By Jessica Ann I’ve forgotten how voices sound, movements of letters unfurled like a fetus. I breathe quietly; if you were here you’d tell me to hold it. You’re so helplessly cruel; I can’t help but grasp you tight like a telephone chord, twirling you between my fingers to hear what you’re saying in that staticky voice of yours in case you change your mind. You never say much. I twist, turning as Orpheus. You’re there, I think. My fingers curl, the carpet grimaces as I skin

By Susan Aurora Irvine The face of a bat, tiny, Fol de rols of flesh Cunningly contrived to fashion Palaces of vibration in mid-air, Cone architecture Generating from orchid, From snout with twisty horn, From crumpled tissue with eyes That look beyond Or nowhere, this face Building walls, enclaves, Naves and porticos From squalls of shredded sound Thrown on a potter’s wheel Of pure dark, flung back To ears that have ears Within ears, foldable, Big enough to be wings, Catching

By Dr. exit In the quiet hours, When the world forgets its own breathing, I hear the soft cracking of the soul, Like ice underfoot, Thin, trembling, Pretending it’s strong enough. There is a room inside me, Where the lights never learned how to live. Shadows sit in the corners, Hunched like old prophets, Whispering truths no one wants to claim. They tell me sorrow has bones, Fragile but honest. They tell me joy can bleed, Yet still be called joy. Some nights I touch the