mer fidei

you go bats

in bone dry

dry flood

of night light


night night


there’s no need

now now

to be so shy

come and feed


the banquet

in the tower


the table set

w/ black flowers

(the pollen

is rust)


& great eggs

cracked open

a silver plate

and bowls of blood


raise the ghosts

from holes

i cut in the floor


holes i cut

with a sword


more more



Steven Turrill

Steven Turrill is the author of five books of poetry and the editor of Pine Peak Press. He lives in Los Angeles, CA. You can find him on Instagram and Twitter @turrillsteven.

Haiku Dream

Noriko sits on her knees in a gold and black kimono, wide sleeves holding fragile arms, palms on her lap, thumbs hidden. With white hair pulled back, cheekbones rise under eyes deep in memory of Manzanar. In Block 25, she lived with her mother and father next to an ancient apple orchard he pruned and tended, picking yellow fruit and storing baskets in a cellar the other men built for the skin to turn red and sweet. Being the oldest Issei man, younger than his daughter is today, he was given no work, left to himself while his wife made rounds as a dietician, using rations to plan menus for those suffering illness, and Noriko learned how to diagram English sentences, sticking words on limbs. The Sierras ten thousand feet above, her father hiked the creeks, no one believing an old man could escape the wire. He brought home branches of myrtle. Noriko would watch him sit for hours, carving boughs into lamps and table legs. Once a night heron emerged from his hands, short neck and short legs. Her father placed him at the edge of the steps. Alone to wait for the rising moon.

Chella Courington

Chella Courington (she/they) is a writer and teacher whose poetry and fiction appear in numerous anthologies and journals including SmokeLong Quarterly, X-R-A-Y Magazine, and New World Writing. With three chapbooks of flash fiction and six of poetry, she recently published a novella-in-flash, Adele and Tom: The Portrait of a Marriage (Breaking Rules Publishing), featured at Vancouver Flash Fiction. A Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net Nominee, Courington now lives in California.


In the interest of time mothers move


stepwise and as for her a lingering in Mexico City

we lost touch some time ago, my mother reflects moodily. it is a


Monday afternoon and my world’s gone positively Popsicular


the grass was this euphoric entanglement of judgment

as I a king sat in the soft grass


And someone brought me watermelon sliced into precise little cubes


and everything felt round.

well that’s one version of it she says evenly


In some panhandle cabin the moon but a rakish visitor


stopping by for cookies. Her mother commanded her at the sink,

stop howling but she hunting for interpretive freedom


Splintered the task. Brought old light to new deeds in calling


attention to the weariness of form, a realization

which frankly undid me. And her taking a ticket to


The reeds of some unknown city where love was.


Caroline Fernelius

Caroline Fernelius is a writer from Texas. Her work has appeared in Storyscape Journal, The Decadent Review, Faultline Journal of Arts and Letters, and elsewhere. She is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets College Poetry Prize. She currently lives in Ann Arbor, where she is a doctoral candidate in English.

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