Easy
︎︎︎ Rhiannon McGavin
︎ May 15, 2026
2 parts water 1 part sugar
Shake it
Let it sit in the sun
Leave the syrup out in
Secondhand glass
For the hummingbirds to come
Say it’s gonna be simple
Say it’s gonna be simple
One look at me and I know
I’ll always remember your birthday
This could hurt but right now it’s summer
Tell me it’ll be okay
It’s all so simple
It’s all so simple
Sunlight through your godmother’s window
Woke us up wound in white sheets
The waves outside were the only thing
Last night talking in your sleep
Some of the sailors
On your grandfather’s boat
Would’ve been arrested
If they ever touched the shore
So they kept to the sea
Looks more and more like me
One day it’s gonna be simple
One day it’s gonna be simple
Shake it
Let it sit in the sun
Leave the syrup out in
Secondhand glass
For the hummingbirds to come
Say it’s gonna be simple
Say it’s gonna be simple
One look at me and I know
I’ll always remember your birthday
This could hurt but right now it’s summer
Tell me it’ll be okay
It’s all so simple
It’s all so simple
Sunlight through your godmother’s window
Woke us up wound in white sheets
The waves outside were the only thing
Last night talking in your sleep
Some of the sailors
On your grandfather’s boat
Would’ve been arrested
If they ever touched the shore
So they kept to the sea
Looks more and more like me
One day it’s gonna be simple
One day it’s gonna be simple
PICKING AT ICE
︎︎︎ Tiresias Tobin-Priest
︎ May 14, 2026
I hope the mountains never
fade to backgrounds. And
I hope your voice still sounds
like rattling from prepubescent
train tracks, horns in the void
and deep drowning a corpse
atlanticism. We little people
clinging, loving—doing what
we can—below an anemic tit,
several layers of parasite thick.
Superman may be a god or beast,
but to us pitiful men it remains to
say, baptized in particular pleasantries:
God, what lot of dependence has fallen
to me; how much for a goodly heritage.
fade to backgrounds. And
I hope your voice still sounds
like rattling from prepubescent
train tracks, horns in the void
and deep drowning a corpse
atlanticism. We little people
clinging, loving—doing what
we can—below an anemic tit,
several layers of parasite thick.
Superman may be a god or beast,
but to us pitiful men it remains to
say, baptized in particular pleasantries:
God, what lot of dependence has fallen
to me; how much for a goodly heritage.
Tiresias Tobin-Priest is a writer from Virginia who will never go to law school.
Eye of the Peacock Expands
︎︎︎ Clare Kelly
︎ May 13, 2026
this is the place i can decay
who suits and suns the whales today
the glancing disappears
i’m opposed to the absence
the shore should top the waves
a furious tearing at the seams
direct desire totals me
throbbing like lacework
filling me with lightning flowers
decry tasteful listening
deranged levies lifted
deluge levels lagoon
felt diamond diadem
purple line toward the future
crystal vein plumbs the deep pearl
eye of the peacock expands
who suits and suns the whales today
the glancing disappears
i’m opposed to the absence
the shore should top the waves
a furious tearing at the seams
direct desire totals me
throbbing like lacework
filling me with lightning flowers
decry tasteful listening
deranged levies lifted
deluge levels lagoon
felt diamond diadem
purple line toward the future
crystal vein plumbs the deep pearl
eye of the peacock expands
Clare Kelly is the editor and founder of Hesse Press. She lives in California.
Also by Clare: Coccyx
Also by Clare: Coccyx
Factory Psalm
︎︎︎ Sarp Sozdinler
︎ May 12, 2026
That winter, I sold blood
and rode freight to Tulsa.
The sky was all teeth, birds
blackening my mother’s
laundry. First we ruin
the living, then we caress
the dead. I took off my
church shoes
and stepped into fire.
and rode freight to Tulsa.
The sky was all teeth, birds
blackening my mother’s
laundry. First we ruin
the living, then we caress
the dead. I took off my
church shoes
and stepped into fire.
Sarp Sozdinler is a writer based in Philadelphia. He edits The Bulb Region.
Breakup jeans
︎︎︎ Dylan Wilco
︎ May 11, 2026
Fifty dollars, breakup jeans
could we selvedge
What we had, that blue thing
like indigo denim, each thread shuttled
Please don’t come around, the polyester dream
put an end to our sewing
could we selvedge
What we had, that blue thing
like indigo denim, each thread shuttled
Please don’t come around, the polyester dream
put an end to our sewing
Dylan Wilco is a writer in New Zealand.