A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

Dear Reader,

Communion. Memory. Maximum love. Ugly permission.

These are the marks that make poetry irreducible to me. It's capacity for embodiment; because it imposes no limits on wild good things or wild bad (or our passions for them). It enables us to create not only meaning, but sometimes truth itself: able to be uncovered beneath the lid of a deli tub just as easily as at the crest of a mountain.

The work in this fourth issue of Hood of Bone carries us across time and understandings to those critical junctures in our narratives— personal, poetic, communal—of discovery, what was versus what is. Some of these poems look out, some look up, some look down, backwards, and so on. A swivel of poetic attention to remind us that the mystery surrounds us totally.

I invite you to take this mystery and witness it, swallow it, wrap yourself up in it, bury it, lock it away for safekeeping, set fire to it in the middle of the day.

My endless thanks to Jackson, Nola, and Els— for their dedication to this work and the spirit of all things.

Thank you to our contributors and readers for helping to shape our hold.

Yours,

Grace Ezra

ORANGE CRAWLS UP THE BURNING

by Mischelle Anthony

bush, acorns bounce

off the sidewalk, light slanted so mid

afternoon crickets remind me of that

midnight when cousin Andy coaxes my white

knuckles around his Beetle's gear

shift before I pigeoned over Wal-Mart

asphalt. Mom's half face

smile closes the library

door between us before she ascends

carpeted stairs outlined in oak

parquet. I heard Andy's roll

away squeak as it took his six

foot-plus frame. Same year the frozen

Snickers, muted tv, dusty furniture

store proprietor's forty-year

son slipped Beethoven

cassettes into my palm next

to the Bubblicious evening on his

divorced dad couch, hyperthyroid

blue pupils search my April

sky Maybelline, braces just

off, front teeth shy. Eroica

fills the room, Larry's arm

behind the small of my

back then home before

Grandma trilled over your mom's old

school pal,

Dad coming to

an understanding, Larry breezing

past me evermore, my first

brush with culture beyond Reader's

Digest clogged built-ins, dirty

yellow as the rubber

wing wired onto my

fishing pole lazing in the garage's

mouseshat corner that borders

the Bondo-ed Corvette's chamoised tailfin. Matching

sunny straighback

chair. Only Michael

Jackson's documentary drills

me on grooming with a dash

of Nabokov and my friend Christine's

husband caught by a Statie posing

as fourteen willing to be coached

in love. I couldn't get over someone wanting

me around. I remember the first

time, the mustache coaching

me at Mr. Pizza: bank

shots on the felt's midcentury swimming

pool blue. His forearm guided

my scrawny torso, allowed

as long as one toe touched the wall

to wall in that cinder blocked

room of mostly men. A dark

beer next door before he showed

me his asbestos-sided two story

door to the sky. As if my dad's

pearl Lincoln two

door shocks floated by the trailer park and tiny

brick Assembly of God went lunar.

TWO POEMS

by Kale Hensley

NIGHTCRAWLERS

I did not take to the banks did not hear

the call of tall grasses stuck close to my daddy's

breathing his mind preoccupied by pond

the day off he peels back the lid of a deli tub pinches

pink lets it ooze in my palm the mini-fridge monster

pulses and searches each line as if to curse

my future saying you too will be a fat stream of blushes

dancing for a soon-to-be tooth in your neck

you too will think the hands so gentle before they cast you off

BIRDSEYE

Like the blights, I've always been drawn

to the idea of flight, its fleeting and cheesy, or the easy

idea of escaping. Questions? Trapdoors

in every conversation. I had none, instead, sprung up

on the roof of a house my elder times

four or more, who is counting, really? Oh, I am! God -

damned as I measured discreet my worth

by creaks, spying as I on all the ambling things: ruined \

garden, disheveled shingles, April's skirt

torn off and made a cape by May. I watched you too.

Oh, man of blue. Though, you look best

in red (I had already decided this). You strode, decided,

beside a man who liked to split the legs

of his students & keep them pregnant as a secret. Word

travels fast, doesn't it? Though, not like

the quiet which fell over my skin in curious, as I labored

in ledges to count the hairs on your head.

Nights later, I would discover you studied me too, but

only in shoes, that Puritan way about you,

the I-learned-the-books-of-the-Bible (but didn't I, too?)

Matthew, Mark, and Luke! But if ever asked,

cause no one asks, I would say that my favorite is Ruth.

She fell too, not to be subdued or in death.

No, her eyes may have simply been too big for her head.

If he let me, I wrote that week, I would drink

the seed from his hand. I would eat the sleeves of all his garments.

SUBURBAN CREATURES WITH A LINE FROM JEAN VALENTINE

by Rikki Santer

The curl of a baby deer's gutted body now beneath

a circle of stones in a backyard grave life from whom death

springeth green. Taut wire between fawn and coyote

howl and hot teeth in the night that pursued a wobbly run

stumble then church of bent grass damp with blood

and the vigorous beaks of vultures to swallow

two new eyes this morning's front lawn.

MONDAY

by Mackenzie Berry

The only day the City isn't sad.

On Mondays, we wear a clean shirt.

We fold our laundry and eat spoonfuls of whip cream.

We play music, a speaker on every hip

the bus full of noise stacking & stacking,

shoulder to shoulder, cracking open the windows.

We hang upside down off the couch

like toddlers told to come eat.

We eat tomatoes with salt like apples– I swear to you.

I solemnly swear, on Mondays it's a riot.

Monday is the day we make the earth,

throwing mud at each other in the street until we laugh.

Oh, we laugh. Did I tell you about the one

where we get out of bed?

We have a fine party. We bang pots and pans.

We throw dishes against the windows.

We throw all our cough syrup out.

We sit on the porch, panting with our lungs.

We have lungs! On Mondays, dear god we have lungs.

BARRED OWL

by Kenneth Pobo

As a washed-out morning

moon fades,

I see a barred owl.

Who cooks for you,

the bird asks. Not me.

I barely can cook

for myself. I gladly chat

with a bird

who tells me secrets

that birches only reveal

to chosen ferns. Or

how a cloud dispersed

while drifting over

a billboard recommending

a cereal no longer made.

Owl,

your feathers match

these brown early

autumn days. I'm cold–

I walk a little farther,

a little faster,

as you disappear.

UNDER THE FLOORBOARDS

by Dan Sicoli

there were murmurs under the subterfuge. you know the usual grumblings about bosses and lack of

opportunities. susan cried all night in the village square. we ate pockets of air and called out to stolen gods though our appetites grew in these fleeting moments of redemption. horace laughed like a wild

monkey as syrup wept down the bark. i tried yelling fire as loud as a foghorn but instead released

spores the size of maple leaves. i turned from a trace of wind. gagged when susan emptied her hands of

origami. communication was loss. we used sugar to graffiti the sun.

that's when the ants formed a line.

TWO POEMS

by Valerie Wardh

THEY'RE COMING FOR YOUR TURF GRASS

One hundred degrees, and the rock rose

is flashing seditious pamphlets.

I watched a sesbania burst forth,

tangled riot of bean pods, and shame

the unacclimated sapling.

There's a mob of wax mallow in the far corner,

brandishing maraschino torches. Even

the loose accordions of spiderwort

show defiance, flushing taupe

under their fat green leaves.

Pay no attention to this. Look

at your immaculate lawn.

Slowly, the splayed knives of yucca multiply.

ALL I NEED

after Jorie Graham

I exist between the tick of machinery,

in the resonant sigh of the fridge.

Smooth loop on the mug that cradles my hand,

warmth kissing the back of each knuckle.

When I bump the spent soda can, it gongs

a little, echoing like a ritual bell.

The neighbor's dogs are laughing, coughing,

my love is sitting across from me, talking

about what? The sparrows landed in a line,

now they pick at the pile of cut brush.

Pleasant aches pulse between the joints,

from deep in the forearm. Small pangs

behind the shoulder blades remind me

I have shoulder blades, and look,

the sparrows are still foraging,

my love is still talking, she pauses now,

an expectant look, so I swim down

to retrieve her question, shake the water

out with my answer. I begin to spin,

barrel on a hillside, thoughts unspooling into

words are a wide saw with two handles.

She yanks on one end, then I heave on the other,

a fine mist of sawdust expressing itself

in our faces, until the tree is dead.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

by Clint Bowman

The water is back

to talking in complete sentences.

I'm still nipping

at my fingernails—

littering myself

among debris fields.

No one believes

in the probability

of this not happening

for another thousand years.

Just last night,

I woke up to a thunderstorm,

and from my bed

I could hear the creek outside

slurring its words

as it crept closer

to my window.

Ceirra Evans, "Milk, Eggs, and Bread"

80x56

Oil on canvas

TAUPE

by Lindsay Stewart

I give you back 1948

(you were seven, and

knock-kneed, no doubt)

*

I've decided this poem

is a dynamic list

*

My mother's mother did her best, but

I'll say it

her best was not good enough

*

Colors that are just enough:

taupe

(an average gray-brown,

monotonous, difficult to define)

*

My grandmother lost her mother

when she was eighteen. She choked

on a chicken bone, before the Heimlich

maneuver was invented.

*

A lost person begets more loss.

*

The women I like best are,

at their bests, dynamic, and,

at the very least, immodest.

*

Taupe: a narrow hallway. Taupe:

the hue of a chicken bone. Taupe:

if I say it enough times, it sounds

like the word don't.

*

I give you back 1948, your time

with her is shrinking, and for

all our sakes, we need it back.

THEORIES OF RAIN

by Colleen S. Harris

FEED

by Emma Harrington

Before the chains,

and the rock,

and the eagle

tearing at tasty liver,

Prometheus warned man

about incoming rain,

flinging lamb's wool

into the sky

as harbinger clouds,

notice that Zeus

would drop water soon.

In County Limerick,

they said if you saw

clouds over the sacred hill

of Knockfierna,

Donn Fírrine was riding

his white specter horse

gathering them

to make rain.

In Kentucky,

we say if it rains

while the sun still beams

in a clear day's sky,

the Devil

is beating his wife.

We know itchy fists,

like good meals

and good sex

and good bourbon

can't always wait

until dark.

The deer come out

when we toss

hardened beads of yellow corn

at the lip of the forest

They come like a hot-breath

whisper—

soft bodies slipping out

from thin teeth of birch

Most will return if you feed them

Hunger is a loyal

emptiness

Hunger is heart-

lessly pulling us

out of the woods

OYSTERS AT KILL DEVIL HILLS

December 1903

by Baskin Cooper

back in Dayton we wait on word

sent the Wright boys off to Carolina

with wings of spruce and cloth

and notebooks fat with numbers

the first letters brim with science

wind speed, lift equations,

how the sand dunes buffer the gale

and the ocean roars behind them

yet by the second note

their talk of current grows shorter

while paragraphs stretch long

about day trips in fishing boats

nets dripping with mullet and shrimp

they describe oysters pulled straight

from beds, roasted in coals,

split with thin knives

or dredged in cornmeal, fried crisp and hot

served by the panful each evening

one letter tells of a drink

the locals mix in glass jars

corn liquor, lemon, a sprig of juniper

they call it a Kitty Hawk

and swear it can lift a man skyward

without the bother of wings

they still mention adjustments,

angles of attack, pitch and drag

but every page is grease-stained,

half the words gone to butter and smoke

I begin to suspect they flew on day one

and have not bothered since

those Wright boys are geniuses,

but they've gone and become beach bums

history will praise their vision

their craft and steady resolve

but here in Dayton we know the truth

it was oysters that kept them aloft

TWO POEMS

by Alyssa Canepa

INFLORESCENCE

and i am becoming

in my jesus year

thirty three times i swallow

the sun and some pills sink

low into cotton and sand

crowns of silt and soil

a day interpellated

it's so inappropriate to cry in the sunshine or twenty years later

sometimes root systems

strangle one another

fig battles oak

battles rose

killing

RESURRECTION

on a day of genocide the hound goes for the throat

backdrop of moss headstones and spanish shriveled

rubber condom

a still life in leaf litter and rot i have in a box

ceramic blankets old tea piles of laden papers within the plastic mass a

corner BIOHAZARD sticker must have been the small silver time

they found slumped over the wheel of a sedan bulbous thing destroys its

barrier i opened the and put it on

my wrist shattered weather is, i guess, baby bones

and unreasonably warm like many cemeteries

shrouded in the secrecy small pockets of shaded sorrows one dog's rage

run into my violence with abandon wish i could rip follow a glint

bloodied tooth sky behind us an

approximation, like behind the velvet to find linen still hazy

the moment a breath rises to the hilt of the climax mud is a mother

the woman a slab, my own and theirs our recognition a chasm of spirit

has of late lessened which i clocked out the

sound of winter sinkstone weight gut of the waste

and the spoil a bulb of bulging for now and release comes only in

comfort for days i grow

my teeth shake how drugs and great sex grow

not from a touch but a gas can vibration grow

the warmth of its fumes rushing

to walk away from everything you know to give up everything only immediate

where they are really coming from and stare at them to lay down in the pits of the

wounds

a rigorous application of acceptance when

you are suffocating under

INSECT

by Isabel Flick

cicadas hummed

over the sound of crickets

like radio static.

even as the thunder rolled in,

the cicadas

did not stop

their singing.

i had always hated the cicadas-

hated the way

they left the s h e l l s

of themselves

on every surface

they could embed themselves in.

they reminded me too much

of myself;

with the way I seemed to leave

layers

of

myself

on other people,

other things.

like they do, I shed my skin

over and over again

until I am nothing but a soft,

wet

thing.

ego is all i've ever had.

and yet i felt it flake off,

leaving f r a g m e n t s

of my psyche

somewhere between two lebanons.

i beg you to tell me,

at what point does the shame settle in?

who else will i pretend to be

until i find myself again?

i am choking on the desire

to be a cicada-

to find myself reborn every summer

instead of burning in the sun

until i am

the charred remains

of another failed version of myself.

Ceirra Evans, "Gotta Do What You Gotta Do"

38x52

Oil on canvas

PLUMAGE

by Sara Valentine

A pigeon in a conical hat meets a horse. The horse is eating an apple, red.

A bright, popping, sort of red that stings your eyes. Your eyes might already be stinging from the tears, it's

so hard to tell the difference anymore. That might also be the concussion. The apple might not even be

red, that could always be the blood in your eye.

A pigeon in a conical hat meets a horse. The hat scrapes the ceiling when she struts. These are high

ceilings, so it really is quite impressive. Vaulted, the realtor said. There is a difference between realtors

and real estate agents, unfortunately the pigeon doesn't know what the difference is. This pigeon has a

thing for gothic architecture, but late medieval headwear and weapons. Her hat drags gossamer along the

floor. Her claw clutches a flail. I'm sorry, there's dirt in your eye.

A pigeon in a conical hat meets a horse and they decide to elope. The pigeon is wearing a hennin on the

wedding day, the horse is wearing teeth through its cheek.

A pigeon in a hemmin meets a horse and the horse asks, "Why so high and mighty?"

A pigeon in a princess hat decides it's time to buy a princess dress. A horse decides it's time to buy a new

bushel of apples, The economy decides it quite likes pigeons and horses. Last night someone took it to far, cartilage torn apart like cobwebs. Tomorrow, there will be a batch of mash to ferment.

Next week, they'll be drunk on apple pie moonshine.

TWO POEMS

by Adam Jon Miller

HEY HEY

52-CARD DECK

after Sirens

Fore

father

yesternight

your back

ward super

stition super

seeded our

fairy tale

gone wrong

a larklord land

lord east of the dark

statue breasted

blackened by the back

ended saint Lilacs

offf heads like

personal omen

pray

gray ganglion dogs

thru seaaa

thru doors

as sirens sing such

mournful songs

silently screech

ya sssleep.

will divine

your next lover!

pluck em like a fly

outta "the" oil

black sky

one knows a mug

of tea inverted ain't

sacrilege as an un

circumcised

bee, Icee

a snapped

zapped tree

o lightning plz point

my pendulum

towards High Hell,

Texas

hold 'em satan ties

times' tie

into a bow

you row / you row / you row

your bloat

into the settin' satin sun

slide in as

sin ister "the" o in

tom o rrow

IN MOMENTS LIKE THIS, I HOLD HOPE FOR THE FUTURE

Tinker Cliffs, Appalachian Trail

by Emily Withenbury

Little fingers of lichen clutch the rock face

like blind hands learning the shape of their lover.

Pale green epiphanies fade into white as they etch

their way in tender progress. Centuries have passed

these mountains by, but here, at my feet, fervent

unions of fungi and algae slowly work to turn this

jagged rock into soil. September has finally begun

to loosen the elastic of the day's humid air. Just now

something lets go in the distance—a hawk, maybe?

I glimpse silent feathers flayed, fanning the mountains'

updraft. Out there, the thick air's still too full to take

in more sound. But, beneath me, a chorus of thin

voices are cheering. Such seemingly delicate rootless

forms, heartbeats drilling new life into this ridge.

I press my ear into the lichens' firm folds as their

celebration swells. What steady fortitude!

This keystone species, giving of their bodies

to enrich future land. Eons of earth get made

in this majestic process, a protest against its own

unwinding. We'll make it, they seem to cry, and I

can't help but agree. I step a little more lightly, letting

time's tiny pioneers spread their silver while I eye

a horizon that gets even truer the longer I stare.

SMALL PRESS FEATURED SUITE

THREE POEMS

by Andrew Mack

From Beasts of Chase (Loblolly Press, 2025)

"The Black Bear.

In the East it has always ranked second only to the deer among the beasts of chase. The bear and the buck were the staple objects of pursuit of all the old hunters.

Its meat is good and its fur often valuable; and in its chase there is much excitement, and occasionally a slight spice of danger."

-Theodore Roosevelt

Hunting Grisly & Other Sketches*

DEAD MEAT

Some bear in the woods

is up a tree, driven there

by a pack of

dogs—Their owners

yell Stay! Hold! Heel!

while they aim guns

towards treetops.

Some bear in the woods

is dead,

was dangling,

for a moment—

like a leaf

in the fall. The bear

is dead weight

an imprint of

hundreds of pounds

of acorns and

berries eaten in

a hyperphagic

frenzy, preparing

for the winter

it will never see.

Some dog in the woods

has hip bones that could cut

hiker's calves, and now,

knowing his work

is complete, the dog

looks to the bear

and considers what

he has done.

What kind of work

leaves behind

this sense of dread?

What kind of work

lives in the flesh

as grief,

kill against all instinct?

Some dog in the woods

breaks free, runs,

dew dripping along

his torso

leaves crashing

underneath his feet,

gunshots ringing in his ears, and through the valley

of his mountain,

the ridge line echoing the sound

of all these years,

urging us towards the trees:

warning us to run.

CRAVEN COUNTY, 1998

"The current world record black bear was harvested

in Craven County in 1998 and weighed 880 pounds."

HISTORY OF BLACK BEARS IN NORTH CAROLINA

Who knows

what will come from the hunt—

this gathering of men

in Craven County.

Leaves split and shatter underfoot.

They move in threes

shoulders brushing,

rifles steady,

seeking the secret black bear

known only in myth

and tall tales as

the stranger.

How long

have these men

been hunting

these woods—

yearning

for something

to show

and tell.

HUNTING SEASON

On Saturday mornings

I'm with their wives

at Food Lion,

examining produce,

looking for something

good

to eat,

while the husbands

are out hunting.

They don't

see I'm watching

when they sneak a bite

of plum. Sugar

against teeth, juice

slipping down their chins

of flesh blooming

at the corner

of their mouths,

testing for ripeness.

Then putting it back.

We see each other—

their faces turn red.

I wink

Grin.

They hold my gaze,

knowing we've been caught

red-handed

the day before Sunday.

*From Hunting the Grisly and Other Sketches: An Account of the Big Game of the United States and Its Chase with Horse, Hound, and Rifle. New York, London, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1909. PDF. Library of Congress.

CONTRIBUTORS

MISCHELLE ANTHONY's work has appeared lately in Autofocus, Naugatuck River Review, The North (UK), Cimarron Review, and Little Patuxent Review, and in her chapbook, [Line]
(Foothills Press). Her two collections, Vehicle on Fire and The Weakness Meditations, are currently under submission. She grew up in Oklahoma and lives in Pennsylvania.

MACKENZIE BERRY is a poet from Louisville, Kentucky and the author of Slack Tongue City (Sundress Publications, April 2022). Her poetry has been published in Poetry Ireland Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Hobart, and Blood Orange Review, among others. She received an MFA in Creative Writing - Poetry from Cornell University. She has taught writing at Cornell and Tufts University, community centers, high schools, summer programs, museums, and sitting in a circle in her living room.

CLINT BOWMAN is a writer from Black Mountain, North Carolina. His debut full-length collection of poetry, “If Lost,” was published in 2024 by Loblolly Press. In his free time, Clint facilitates the Dark City Poets Society of the Black Mountain Library. More of Clint’s work can be found in Poetry South, Louisiana Literature, Roanoke Review, Mud Season Review, One Art, and elsewhere.

ALYSSA CANEPA is a writer–creatively, professionally, sporadically and compulsively–and is currently enamored of decay. Alyssa teaches first-year writing at Georgia Southern University, holds an MA in English Literature from the University of Wyoming and an MFA in Poetics from the Jack Kerouac School at Naropa University. Her creative work is featured in local zines across Wyoming and Georgia as well as Anti-Heroin Chic and Bombay Gin. Her multimedia piece, “A Genealogy of Mud and Trees,” recently won 2nd prize in a juried exhibit at the Nicolaysen Museum in Casper, Wyoming.

BASKIN COOPER is a poet, visual artist, and multidisciplinary creator based in Chatham County, North Carolina. His work has appeared in Rattle, The Avocet, and Ink & Oak, with poems forthcoming in ONE ART. His debut collection, The Space Between Branches, is currently seeking publication. He holds a PhD in psychology, and his years living in Cork, Ireland also shape his explorations of lyricism, folklore, and personal history.

CEIRRA EVANS is a Kentucky (US) based painter depicting Appalachia and rural narratives.
Ceirra’s work has been reviewed by Hyperallergic, The New Yorker and other publications. Past show highlights include a solo show “Come Home With Me” at Virginia Tech’s Perspective Gallery (Blacksburg, VA) and a solo show “A Wild Weed” at Gallerie Geraldine Banier (Paris, France). Ceirra has a degree in Interdisciplinary Liberal Studies from Spalding University
(Louisville, KY). She currently lives and works in Frankfort, KY.

ISABEL FLICK is a Mexican-American artist and poet based in Saint Louis, Missouri. Her work has been showcased in many local galleries and publications. She received an Associates of Education from Saint Louis Community College and a Bachelor’s in Studio Art from the University of Missouri - Saint Louis. She has received and been nominated for numerous awards for both her art and poetry, such as a recent nomination for a Pushcart Prize.

EMMA HARRINGTON is a poet from the midwest. Their work appears in Rust & Moth, december mag, The Oakland Arts Review, and Emrys Journal.

COLLEEN S. HARRIS earned her MFA in Writing at Spalding university and serves as library
dean at Texas A&M International University. Author of four books of poetry and three chapbooks, her most recent collections include The Light Becomes Us (Main Street Rag, 2025),
These Terrible Sacraments (Doubleback 2019; Bellowing Ark 2011), and chapbook Toothache in
the Bone (boats against the current, 2025). Her individual poems can be found in Berkeley Poetry
Review, The Louisville Review, Cider Press Review, The MacGuffin, and more than 80 others.
Find her as warmaiden on Bluesky/Instagram/Twitter and at www.colleensharris.com

KALE HENSLEY is a poet and collage artist from West Virginia. Her work has appeared in BOOTH, Evergreen Review, Image Journal, and other literary venues. She lives in Texas with her wife and a menagerie of clingy pets. Find more of her work at kalehens.com and more of her life @julianofwhorwich on Instagram.

ANDREW MACK is the Founder and Managing Editor of Loblolly Press. His commitment to fostering emerging writers particularly those from marginalized or underrepresented communities drives Loblolly Press's mission to showcase contemporary poetry, short fiction, and novels with a distinctly Southern voice. Andrew has published two collections of his own poetry, Weekend Revival and What the River Was. He lives in Asheville, NC with his partner.

ADAM JON MILLER's poems have been included in The Louisville Review, Yalobusha Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, The William & Mary Review, OxMag, and elsewhere. He is a happy poetry reader at Thimble Literary Magazine. A selection of Adam's work has been translated into Chinese. Visit him anytime at www.adamjonmiller.com and follow him @im.adam.miller. He resides in the Florida panhandle.

KENNETH POBO (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers), and most recently, At The Window, Silence (Fernwood Press). His work has appeared in Asheville Poetry Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Amsterdam Quarterly, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.

RIKKI SANTER's poems have appeared in various publications including Ms. Magazine, Poetry East, Heavy Feather Review, Slab, Slipstream, [PANK], Crab Orchard Review, RHINO, Grimm, Hotel Amerika and The Main Street Rag. Her work has received many honors including 2023 Ohio Poet of the Year, Pushcart, Ohioana and Ohio Poet book award nominations as well as a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Her collection, Resurrection Letter was grand prize short-listed for the Eric Hoffer Book Award and her most recent collection, Shepherd’s Hour, won the Paul Nemser Book Prize from Lily Poetry Review Books.

DAN SICOLI lives between two Great Lakes in New York State where he is an editor with Slipstream. He will have a new poetry collection out from Ethel Press in 2026. A three-time Pushcart nominee, he's had poems placed in Abandoned Mine, Big Windows Review, BlazeVOX, dadakuku, Evening Street Review, Hellbender, Hobo Camp Review, Home Planet News, Loch Raven Review, Misfits, Steam Ticket, and San Pedro River Review, among numerous others. On weekends he beats on an old Gibson in a local garage rock band.

<www.pw.org/directory/writers/dan_sicoli>

LINDSAY STEWART is a poet and writer, with a master’s degree in American Literature from San Diego State University. Her work has been featured most recently in Southern Humanities Review, Salt Hill Journal, and Poetry International.

SARA VALENTINE's poems have been published both print and online publication, including Stirring Literary Journal, EmMag, and The Emerson Review.

VALERIE WARDH is a queer, neurodivergent writer in Seguin, Texas. Her poetry has appeared in Book of Matches, Skink Beat Review, The Awakenings Review, and the Querencia Press 2022 Autumn Anthology. She cultivates native plants and builds little worlds for her gecko friends.

EMILY WITHENBURY is a multi-disciplinary artist who hoards unpublished poetry. She recently received her MFA in creative writing from Hollins University and writes about the physical body as a map for our emotional landscapes. Previously, she danced professionally in San Francisco and owned a café in Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Raleigh Review and through Workhorse Publishing.