Poetry


Shadows and warriors

by JEMMA BORG

the work of swimming            with the sea full of nothing
but blue — the same blue Elytis raged at —
the blue mind that erases borders   


Swamphouse, and Sitting It

by ALYSSA TOWNS

Let us show you our garden.


Measure My Song

by REBECCA STARKS

It’s one of those clear mornings
the Falcons seem to flock to,
as if preparing for desert skies


Surface Tension

by CAITLIN GILDRIEN

This is the part of the poem
where we take refuge
in a small, still image from nature


On-Farm Research

by JESSICA GIGOT

The entomologist comes to the farm
To capture and record the diversity of bees
In our fields.


Apples

by DAVID R. FORMAN

It’s an unbelievable year
for apples.


Vis Inertiae

by MAXIMILIANE DONICHT

Hardened, here, after all that. Somewhere
you are ready to cannon
into the dilating valley                        or hunker down


Face, Circle, Abundant

by LAUREN CAMP

It wasn’t that I wanted to be alone,

just that time had been given amid plank
and dunes.


My Mom Takes My Nine-Month-Old Son to Put Down Her Dog

by BEN MICHELMAN

He's starting to understand
the laws of this universe:


Gather

by GEORGE PERREAULT

blueblack, too soon for sparkled spiders
when a boy I can barely recall walks out
through memory where nightwet fields slope


Portrait of My Father as Icarus

by LUCIEN MEADOWS

My father climbs high branches above me
While on the grass, I hold sycamore leaves


Rachel Carson at Woods Hole, Massachusetts
Marine Biological Laboratory, 1929

by DONELLE DREESE

It was an ornate church
an altar for moody pools


Midwestern Drive

by HEIDI McKINLEY

Wildflowers bloom in the unmowed ditch.
Roadside billboards claim to know what God’s plan isn’t.


Another Night, Just

by JACK B. BEDELL

Our day starts with news
          of another mass shooting out West.


These Horses Will Not Be Harnessed

by AMY MILLER

                     Yes, you may be threatened. Yes,
you may wake up suddenly surrounded by horses.


Not This

by ALEXIS LATHEM

Not this gathering of stars and shells
or cosmologies of water snails


Excellent Sphagnum

by DAVID HAWKINS

This is the place just before nowhere.


This Year

by JESS WILLIARD

Utmost, utmost the geese insist.


Hiking Across Grand Canyon Alone At Night Barefoot

by THEA GAVIN

all of us in the Canyon
smaller or larger than
something, all of us hungry.


As If It Were a Child

by KATHLEEN HELLEN

she wears the thinness of the aged tree,
the plans that have miscarried.

She’d lost eight last season.


My Eighth Birthday

by ERIC FISHER STONE

life has no meaning except life itself
and the sky needs no reason
for birds to fly there, the sun
rich enough for spiders


Recovering

by ELLIE ROGERS

That night, I searched the tree line
for her hide, tan among branches.
That night, I dreamed a birch grove,
paper strips hiding her white tail:


To Skin Bare

by MICHELLE MENTING

but no one is there to watch you

weather your notions as you strip lichen off bark, as you peel
bark from tree, as you reveal the bare trunk and the ooze of sap,

does anyone sense your thought-quake?


A Summer Linden

by TED KOOSER

This tree has a thousand little windows
that it throws open in the fall


Raised Bed

by BETH MCDERMOTT

I think of the species
of mole with unformed


Newport

by JEREMY NATHAN MARKS

Salted shingles, wooden gables and
streets of stone: this city is a mandala
of whalebone and oil.

 


Sir David Attenborough, I Think I Love You

by RITA ORRELL

After lying in the cool dark sand,    you rise, khaki pants soaking
wet,    to show me the belly of a horseshoe crab,

 


The Day of Saint Richard of Wyche

by RODNEY NELSON

we want to go rowing on it
but more than cold is holding up
the river


Outlier

by AG SYNCLAIR

in the orchard
among half naked trees


Bérgère

by ALEXIS LATHEM

At this hour I watch the light gather up the wheat in her blue nets.
The ground thickens with mist and the throat of evening
gurgles and purrs. The goats are in their beds.


ISSUE I (2016)


First Chanterelle by an Old Hunting Road

by STEPHEN SIPERSTEIN
Art by SAM MASLER

I’ve said a prayer
sharpened a knife
prepared myself to feel
like a fungus.


Pishing

by ERIN ELKINS RADCLIFFE
Art by JENNY KENDLER

Rain is the gentlest trigger to drink:

you believed in hillocks
and not hills


 

Dusk

by MAGGIE BLAKE BAILEY

The rabbits here are swimmers,
spend their days submerged

Reservoir

by MAGGIE BLAKE BAILEY

We lower our July bodies
to immersion


Pastoral

by ALEXIS LATHEM
Art by SAM MASLER

The ewes begin to stir when they see us coming.
From far across the field, leopard-spotted
with half-melted snow and tufts
of tea-colored grass, we hear the slush
of a dying winter


 

The Starfish

by J.D. SMITH

As long as they both lived,
my parents told of the starfish
they beachcombed in California
and triple-bagged
for the two-day train ride home.

Questions on Toads

by J.D. SMITH

Where do they begin
and the mud around them end?


Polistes carolina

by GRANT MCCLURE
Art by SAM MASLER

wood pulp caked with saliva
forms the nest, hexagon cells
translating a kind of language,


contrails

by JIM LEWIS
Art by CAROLINE MILLER

tickle my brain with explanations
of contrail climate change


Ghazal: Quilt

by FARZANA MARIE
Art by SAM MASLER

Here hangs the horizon-long line with which you tied the first song
to a tree like a tire swing for me to find and fly on—


 

Fruit trees next door

by DON THOMPSON

These persimmons have no more to say
about green. From a distance,
you can catch a barely audible yellow,
though not as tight-lipped as lemon.

Palm Dairy

by DON THOMPSON

The light is almost liquid
this early, infused
with that indigenous herb
we call Stillness.


ISSUE II (2017)


Monarch

by HANNAH MAE BISSELL

Shelling peas at the picnic
table, my daughter sank
stained fingernails into a
lepidopteran pod,


 

Sound of Waves

by STEPHEN SIPERSTEIN

Four shushes spaced to a 4/4 beat
two quarter notes, two eighth notes
and a rest at each measure’s end
my wife repeats again and again

Telling My Students About Hope

by STEPHEN SIPERSTEIN

A bell struck hard
in cold, clear air

where the water ripples
and runs fast, I offer words


The Songs of Animals

by ERIC FISHER STONE
Art by KERRY R. THOMPSON

1.
It’s not sound but a whole language that coos,
whale-horns blaring through deeps, epic birdsong
honking Odysseys from the homebound goose,


 

Solitary Bees

by DON THOMPSON

Some bees must do endless paperwork,
assigned to cubicles.
You can hear the bitterness in their hum,
loathing for anything sweet.

Night Walk, December

by DON THOMPSON

Two frogs take their leap in the dark,
plunking into the fetid slough.
They ought to be holed up by now,
alive without a heartbeat.


Short Discourse on Species

by MATTHEW JAMES BABCOCK
Art by KERRY R. THOMPSON

I am surprised, digging in the garden while somewhere
off Anger Island in the Great Bear Rainforest


Heron on Blood and Water

by NOAH DAVIS

The way trout lie at the bottom of the river
makes me question blood and water.
How are riffles formed in flesh?


A Bias Toward the Beneficial

by MARY NEWELL

Out on the porch a rotund-bellied spider
catches bugs that nibble holes in my flowers.
The sun ignites spectral beadwork on
the glistening labyrinth of its slaughterhouse.


The Meal

by DONNA O’CONNELL-GILMORE

A family of crows assembles in the deep snow.
The wind ripped through their roost last night,
the choice crabapples of summer freeze at their feet.


Upon Finding a Skull

by TODD DAVIS
Art by ALYSSA IRIZARRY

A jawbone bleached by winter fails to say what its owner thought as death crowded
the space behind the ear. Instinct’s benevolence continues to bless: blood flows


Summer Evenings in the Grande Ronde

by DAVID AXELROD

Cold air came tumbling down the foothills
at dusk when screech owls began
to whinny and trill in the elders.


Build

by SUSAN RICHARDSON
Art by BRIAN D. COHEN

There won’t be a manual.
Don’t expect instructions to be etched,
as scrimshaw, on a tooth.