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.