Shelving
︎︎︎ Andrés Salas
︎ Apr 18, 2026
Building my nest out of white, prophylactic
trash bags, crud still pressed
underneath the heavier books, beer stains
congealing with curdled energy drinks,
puddled in the cold, sagging wood—
torn scraps of plasticky paper, stuck down,
who marked one page once—
a cat's, a crow's library
trash bags, crud still pressed
underneath the heavier books, beer stains
congealing with curdled energy drinks,
puddled in the cold, sagging wood—
torn scraps of plasticky paper, stuck down,
who marked one page once—
a cat's, a crow's library
Momfriends
︎︎︎ Bauhausfrau
︎ Apr 16, 2026
If not for my cellmates I might be committed.
Fine binds hug us from animate flesh.
To recount the arrows, or those we've permitted,
I sheathe while I grieve all the rest.
Well peered are our children, found intimates weave.
Squeeze bonding between dye-free frosting.
We bear filtered cross-loads with slacked joie de vivre
And the grace to not dwell what it's costing.
Fat fists clink small china, wide-eyed to gild chains,
Distributing counter declines.
Tethered and tightened to what good remains
So the loads bear us hardier lines.
Fine binds hug us from animate flesh.
To recount the arrows, or those we've permitted,
I sheathe while I grieve all the rest.
Well peered are our children, found intimates weave.
Squeeze bonding between dye-free frosting.
We bear filtered cross-loads with slacked joie de vivre
And the grace to not dwell what it's costing.
Fat fists clink small china, wide-eyed to gild chains,
Distributing counter declines.
Tethered and tightened to what good remains
So the loads bear us hardier lines.
Bauhausfrau is a writer living in the South with her husband and several young children.
Also by Bauhausfrau: Ted K at the feed and seed
Rock Bottom Riser
︎︎︎ Philip Traylen
︎ Apr 15, 2026
They say the city never sleeps but actually
it’s the people in the city who don’t sleep. The city conversely
is wallowing in some utopian coma and our footsteps
only soften its cause. It knows
it’s right, this is clearly evidenced by the bushy
grasses which surround it, like a crown
nature just can’t help putting there.
I mean seriously, think about the sky,
is it really necessary to have so much encouragement?
And yet still we lie to our mothers on the phone.
Great art imitates nature which is to say
it’s nice, it’s appealing, like a mountain hotel
with a convenient lake. Sometimes you can swim,
sometimes it feels good just to look at it. It’s easy
enough to say Jesus wasn’t real, or was just some
lazy historical figure but try
saying that when you’re underwater
and he’s there too, swimming around like a dolphin
and you know the sun is going to set
on top of it and leak down like
so many gold rings that fit perfectly now
that there’s no air left in your body
it’s the people in the city who don’t sleep. The city conversely
is wallowing in some utopian coma and our footsteps
only soften its cause. It knows
it’s right, this is clearly evidenced by the bushy
grasses which surround it, like a crown
nature just can’t help putting there.
I mean seriously, think about the sky,
is it really necessary to have so much encouragement?
And yet still we lie to our mothers on the phone.
Great art imitates nature which is to say
it’s nice, it’s appealing, like a mountain hotel
with a convenient lake. Sometimes you can swim,
sometimes it feels good just to look at it. It’s easy
enough to say Jesus wasn’t real, or was just some
lazy historical figure but try
saying that when you’re underwater
and he’s there too, swimming around like a dolphin
and you know the sun is going to set
on top of it and leak down like
so many gold rings that fit perfectly now
that there’s no air left in your body
Untitled
︎︎︎ C. Sandbatch
︎ Apr 14, 2026
Not only for bread. For a particular light
prisming through a stranger's window at night
makes their life seem livable and warm.
For the conversation that didn't happen.
For the word in another language that holds
a thing my own tongue has no room to keep—
the untranslatable, the almost-said, or
famished pause before a sentence finds its end.
I have eaten and been grateful and still
sat at the table with an open want
for my beloved, that food would not diminish,
that sleep delays & refuses to resolve.
Is the hunger the point of it all? Rumbling,
the engine under every act of reaching—
what keeps the hand extended in the dark,
expecting something learning not to close?
prisming through a stranger's window at night
makes their life seem livable and warm.
For the conversation that didn't happen.
For the word in another language that holds
a thing my own tongue has no room to keep—
the untranslatable, the almost-said, or
famished pause before a sentence finds its end.
I have eaten and been grateful and still
sat at the table with an open want
for my beloved, that food would not diminish,
that sleep delays & refuses to resolve.
Is the hunger the point of it all? Rumbling,
the engine under every act of reaching—
what keeps the hand extended in the dark,
expecting something learning not to close?
Spring Pasture
︎︎︎ Carson Russ
︎ Apr 12, 2026
In a pasture still wet with winter’s deluge,
The birds of the swamp revel in their triumph;
Plump with praise for thickened verdure
And the mild grandfather entrusted with all–
Not omitting the sunken black
Bursting ripe with white within,
Carrying reality on whiffs of inertia.
Hers was a suffering denied
The dignity of a noble covert.
How horrifying to lie senseless
Seeing all in which we found relief
Witnessing the moment we are devoured,
Curious without the means to care.
We can only lose what cannot be replaced.
I have given up the prospect of a happy spring.
The birds of the swamp revel in their triumph;
Plump with praise for thickened verdure
And the mild grandfather entrusted with all–
Not omitting the sunken black
Bursting ripe with white within,
Carrying reality on whiffs of inertia.
Hers was a suffering denied
The dignity of a noble covert.
How horrifying to lie senseless
Seeing all in which we found relief
Witnessing the moment we are devoured,
Curious without the means to care.
We can only lose what cannot be replaced.
I have given up the prospect of a happy spring.
Carson Russ is a writer from the Appalachian region of rural Ohio.