Mary Mulholland

      This poem is a secret after Elma Mitchell It doesn’t trust paper. It writes itself in my head where no one can reach it, laugh, tear it to shreds, or call it a waste of space, a disgrace. A poem is grace, a prayer, my longing for more than I am....

Afolabi Ezra 

      The Day Nothing Happened It was a quiet day— no bad news, no sudden loss, no reason to hold my breath. I didn’t notice it at first, how rare that is. The sky stayed where it was, the ground didn’t give way, my phone remained silent in the best...

Karina Jutzi

      Lot’s Wife I think today of the boy in choir class who closed his eyes when we sang about Jesus. Who swayed, as if the Lord himself was in the room. I sat in the back row and braided my girlfriend’s hair. Men are allowed to worship each other. To...

Isabelle Thompson

      ‘Attention, after all is prayer’ (Jo Bell) We saw a kingfisher threading the bright needle of his body along the river. We saw a shag, stamping her prehistoric shadow on the sky. We saw a hobby, compact, fierce, not a sinew out of place, alert and...

Amirah Al Wassif

      The Double My double sits before me now. I stare deep into her, as I do every day after midnight. When I raise my hands, she raises hers. When I wink with my right eye, she winks back. My childish braid sticks its tongue out at us both....