Jean L. Kreiling: In the Cereal Aisle

He never let go of his cart—he’d learned

to think about his balance—as he turned

his trembling head toward well-stocked shelves. He bent

to read the boxes, squinting and intent

on choosing well, convinced that his selection

could mean strong bones, efficient gut, protection

from aging’s worst offenses. Or at least

that’s how I understood his stance, his creased

and bushy brow, his unfazed concentration

as others scurried past. His dedication

to this task meant that I, behind him, paused

as well, and thought about what might have caused

his left shoe to have worn down at the heel—

a chronic limp?—and I began to feel

protective toward this man whose pants were baggy,

his cardigan threadbare, his white hair shaggy.

And as he studied low-fat shredded wheat,

granola (maybe drawn to something sweet),

the oatmeal with more beta carotene,

and Special K (the one marked “high protein”),

he maintained an unhurried dignity.

And so I waited—not impatiently,

but with a vague affection for this man

I’d never know. As I too turned to scan

the rows of cereals, I kept one eye

on him. He chose the oatmeal, with a sigh

that seemed to unclench his entire frame—

relieved that he’d achieved one crucial aim,

made one good choice. Or else his sigh revealed

a weariness to which he would not yield.

If I were lucky, I would be that old

someday, my shoes would need to be resoled,

and I’d be strong enough to shop here, too.

Today, I probably don’t have a clue

about this man, or what his sighing meant.

He slowly shuffled off, still slightly bent.

Jean L. Kreiling is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently Home and Away (2025). Her work has been awarded the Able Muse Book Award, the Frost Farm Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, and the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, among other honors.

Kristin Roedell: Bethlehem in Minneapolis

The deer cast long shadows

on the pasture fence;

with three crowned heads,

they are wise creatures walking to the city

for the birth of a necessary miracle.

There is a murmuration of starlings

pointing fingers east.

The wind blows the alder’s branches

towards a war in crowded places.

Boots and guns are moving

through distant streets.

Far away a father hides a small girl

in a toy box; she lies next

to a raveled bear.

Her door is kicked in by masked men;

her mother turns up beseeching palms.

In the window a needful star

lifts too late.

Was this the child?

I pick up the phone in the night.

There is a vast web of connecting whispers

far away. It links building to building

and home to home.

I hear voices say

She is gone.

They were here.

Hide. This

is where they are now.

Kristin Roedell graduated from Whitman College (B.A. English 1984) and the University of Washington Law School (J.D. 1987). Her poetry has been published in The Journal of the American Medical Association, Switched on Gutenberg, and Ginosko. She authored Downriver (Aldrich Press, 2015) and Lessons in Buoyancy (Poetry Box Press, 2026).

Maurice Devitt: Snowdrops at Altamont

Tales of Brigid crackle from the car radio

as we drive the roads, slick with dew,

through towns and villages – Baltinglass,

Blessington, Rathvilly, Tullow –   

streets empty, as residents prepare

behind closed doors, for whatever

the new year will bring.

We arrive, expecting a carpark filled

with the emptiness of winter,

the slow sweep of grey coats

across gravel, only to be greeted

by the giddy joy of friends meeting up,

snowdrops waiting politely in the wings,

their shy beauty blinking through the mist.

Maurice Devitt is the curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site. His Pushcart-nominated poem, ‘The Lion Tamer Dreams of Office Work’, was the title poem of an anthology published by Hibernian Writers in 2015. His second collection ‘Some of These Stories are True’ was published by Doire Press in 2023.  

Nancy Byrne Iannucci: Unanswered Questions

When I can’t get into you,

I get into a white magnolia tree,

where the Northern Flicker pecks & pecks above me

without severing a branch. I listen to its knocks

like the knocks in my head, thinking of the days ahead

and unanswered questions. I examine its leaves like tasseomancy,

following its veins, running with it, like the veins that run through us.

I see bits of gold, a trail of corn silk that the deer have left behind,

leading to a secret thicket. All I know is that it feels safe there,

safe with you, despite unanswered questions.

Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a New York-based writer and author of four chapbooks. A two-time Best of the Net nominee, she was short-listed for the 2025 Poetry Lighthouse prize. Her work appears in Thrush, Maudlin House, and 34 Orchard. She lives in upstate NY with her three cats. Web: www.nancybyrneiannucci.com IG: @nancybyrneiannucci

Bart Edelman: Louis

Louis has had quite enough.

This business is for the birds.

Only an idiot beats his head

Against a wall so thick,

It leaves a permanent mark.

Not very attractive, indeed.

Louis needs to reinvent himself.

Find a new craft worth sailing

Around the Cape of Good Hope—

Or any headland that will have him.

If not now, when, he reasons.

How long must he wait

Until it’s too late for steerage,

And he’s grounded once again.

Surely, the moment has arrived.

Any more talk remains foolish.

Words cannot be trusted.

Louis rights himself for the rain

He knows is fast approaching

From fear’s big island.

Reads his rusty compass.

Leans into the prevailing wind.

Adjusts his direction, accordingly.

Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023.  He lives in Pasadena, California.

J.I. Kleinberg: Ars incepta

First I have to switch off

the flashing light that says

no poems about poetry, then

I have to set aside

my Billy Collins voice,

which is hard because

I’d really love to write

a poem to make you laugh.

The keyboard isn’t poetry,

though the keys are so smooth

and really quite quiet, the little

bumps on F and J to guide

my fingers into position. But

that’s not poetry. Nor is

the slight ringing in my ears,

which I try to ignore

and don’t wish to discuss

with you or anyone. I could

mention the feeling of emptiness

and failure that sits on my head

when I write nothing, how

each word could be the one

that saves me. I’ll let you know

if that happens.

An artist, poet, and freelance writer, J.I. Kleinberg lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and on Instagram @jikleinberg. Her chapbooks include The Word for Standing Alone in a Field (Bottlecap Press, 2023) and Sleeping Lessons (Milk & Cake Press, 2025) as well as three collections of her visual poems.

Karen Bramblett: Comfort

I picture him lying on his side against the brown and white pitbull,

feet flush against car door. A stained sheet, attached to windows 

and front seat backs, blocks nosy passersby and the idea of cold.

Snuggled between fleece sheets and a fake fur pillow, I’m glad

my cats glom onto my husband and don’t wake me up. I wonder

how luck, how fate work. I want to know if the man in the car

would be comforted knowing the woman who scurries by mornings

and looks up at sparrows, coos to them, now lies awake worrying

about his safety, his happiness. A person he’s seen but whose eyes

have not met his. This morning, the parking lot is empty. I ask if words

on a page reverberate, raise wings.

Karen Bramblett’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust & Moth, January House Literary Journal, Willows Wept Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and lives in Northern California with her spouse and two spoiled felines. Follow her on Bluesky @poetryeverywhere.bsky.social.

Michael Conaghan: Salt Words

Salt words dissolve into the sound of rain

When I was younger I remember

Looking through the window blinds while outside

A snowman mouthed silent phrases in return

One day walking home from school

Past a long dry bone and a human tongue

I remember putting a lighted match

To my thumbnail and watching it catch and flame

Dreams turn into memories

Salt words dissolve into the sound of rain.

The droplets plummet from the new born leaves

Parachute the garden on the wing

Till sunshine bears the burden of the spring

The forgetting of wisdom

Thoughts spill faster than ink from my pen

Leading to irregularities in

My fonted letters and imagination

Death is coming for the blank generation

Plug in the telecaster and play loud while you can

Salt words dissolve into the sound of rain.

Michael Conaghan is a Belfast based poet who has performed and been widely published in magazines as varied as Fortnight Magazine and the London Magazine. He is a writer and director with the Fourth Wall Theatre company and also works as a Bookseller where he has organised many poetry events.

Diane Webster: Cliff Ledge Talk

You say, “Trust me.” I say, “Why?” You say,

“I have something to show you.” The whisper

of a waterfall echoes between your gaping edges.

“You’ll be amazed by how pretty it looks,” you say.

I step closer, still not far enough to catch a glimpse

of water tumbling down an eroded chute; a waterfall

plunging for decades through a path of least resistance

to carve the cliff apart from its other side.  You say,

“Come on. You’ll be safe. I won’t let you down.”

I study each footstep and so far, you’re right. Two feet

away from the edge I lean forward and catch the moment

of fall as water slides over. Two swallows jet from below

and whoosh over my head like pilots wanting to wow

the air-show crowd. And like the crowd I turn my head

to watch their departure and almost applaud their speed.

A spray of water sprinkles my face like a butterfly landing

briefly to see if I am a tasty flower. I remember Dad

holding me over the dam so I could look into the reservoir.

My stomach clenches. Vertigo wobbles my vision. I step

backward. My boot slides on loose cliff rock, and someone

grabs my foot. Like if I descended stairs to a blackened

basement and halfway down a hand under the stairs darts

out and pulls my momentum forward, down, a thumping fall.

But my hand clenches a stunted tree gnarling growth from a crack

on the cliff. My feet bicycle in open air. Dirt kicks up around

me, envelops me like a piss poor attempt at a smoke signal

imploring help, rescue, a save-the-day hand. Another and another

sheet of ledge slips from my hand and cascades down. Crash!

Smash! Thump! Then silence like the bottom is nowhere near.

The gash in the rock smiles. “You’ll be safe with me,” you say.

You relax, and the tree’s roots wiggle free from their search for dirt.

I fall, holding the tree like Lady Liberty holding her torch, but no

one sees. Should I die before I bone-crunch on the rubble below

and blow like a leaf into the water turmoil? Snatched into

a whirlpool and snagged on jagged cliff pieces. Forever staring

at the cliff ledge jutting out farther. “All the better to see you

with, my dear.” “You bastard!” as I fall until I fall no longer.

Diane Webster's work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One and other literary magazines. Five micro-chaps have been published by Origami Poetry Press. She was a featured writer in Macrame Literary Journal and WestWard Quarterly. Her website is: www.dianewebster.com

Russell Dupont: A Diagnosis

At this point, I can’t say

how long ago it was

when the doctor hinted

that, slowly, I was dying.

Hell, aren’t we all?

I thought. The body fails.

The heart stops

The soul drifts away.

His words,

“meandering 

towards

treatment . . .

stage II, 

stage III, 

stage IV,”

were a blur,

followed 

by months

of intrusions

that left

my right arm,

at the elbow’s bend,

dark and bruised,

like a Blues song

where deep purple

fades to a sad grey.

A lot

of years

have passed

and here I am,

still on the road,

heading for the

inevitable —

whatever colour

that may be.

Russell Dupont is the author of three novels; a short story collection; two collections of poetry and four chapbooks. His work has been published in numerous journals. He is also an artist whose works are in both public and private collections.