Friday, December 22, 2017

NATASHA KESSLER-RAINS, "FEARSCAPE" (Issue 16)



FEARSCAPE

If you were my sister, you would be dead.
Your beautiful arms outstretched,
can’t say shit with a hole in your head.

If you were my sister, would you cover up already?
Plum in one hand, vetches at your gender,
a wolf at your neck. Twenty minutes of action:
they said you were asking for it, my sister.

If you were my sister, you would sit in the corner.
Your beautiful face levitating over water—
no longer a body, just a hole in the ocean,
a hole in our human backs spilling out over the floor.



ABOUT THE POET


Natasha Kessler-Rains is the author of Dismantling the Rabbit Altar. Living in Omaha, she teaches writing at area universities and works as a writing consultant for Metro Community College. Natasha also helps facilitate a community workshop called the Seven Doctors Project, a Nebraska Writers Collective program. Natasha spends her free time tying knots and reading books to her daughter.

ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW


We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

AUBREE ELSE WOELBER, "TABLES" (Issue 16)



TABLES

I take the first boat out of the globe;
translate what you never said
into a pink mechanical tongue.
Use it as a paperweight.

I short-sheet your bed, practice
traps. Shoot down your apologies
with a twenty-one-gun salute.

You think my ribs are your own—
give them back before they blow
like ash & your eyes become wine:
I would drink them like I am thirsty.

I overturn the tables so they can’t be turned.
This is a clue a riddle a game.
This is how I leave you.




ABOUT THE POET

Aubree Else Woelber is an Iowa native. She is a poetry editor for the Blue River Review. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Chattahoochee Review, Bear Review, Upwrite Magazine, Ruminate, and The Flat Water Stirs: An Anthology for Emerging Nebraska Poets. She lives with her husband in Omaha.

ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

JESS WILLIARD, "THE SCIENTISTS" (Issue 16)



THE SCIENTISTS

                     Bay City, Michigan

Know this: the boats you made
actually go places; hollowed clanking

of watery chambers, piping and rust
on blue for a reason. My grandfather,

painting hulls, glancing at his reflection
in portholes on Destroyer escorts,

adjusting bow thruster and trawl crane,
leaning against well walls at lunch—

I’m told I look like him, that I carry
a similar silence though sometimes he hit

my mother and gardened instead of wrote.
His hands roughed the bowed shells

of frigates before lacquering them,
perhaps even the RV Knorr, the ship

that discovered the wreck of the Titanic.
Housed the scientists who discovered

the wreck, the vessel a tinny jumble
that could have been made anywhere

but was assembled here by car mechanics
and line workers to meander through Thunder

Bay and gasp at the Atlantic. Bay City:
you are now a scrapyard, Defoe Shipbuilding

company sold and resold, soldering tools
cast into the dusking Huron Basin.

Before he died I captained the clacking
vessel of my skateboard around his block,

discovered new ways to be bored,
to owe myself to the scientists alive

at twilight before curfew that could
call me by both hull name and number,

and had enough of a particular kind
of grace to let some things stay unfound.




ABOUT THE POET

Jess Williard’s poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Third Coast, North American Review, Colorado Review, Southern Humanities Review, Sycamore Review, Lake Effect, Borderlands, Oxford Poetry, and other journals. He is from Wisconsin.

ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

MATT MASON, "LINES WRITTEN FOR MY DAUGHTER . . . " (Issue 16)



LINES WRITTEN FOR MY DAUGHTER AFTER IT’S THE GREAT PUMPKIN, CHARLIE BROWN ENDS AND THE NETWORK MAKES A TOO-QUICK LEAP TO THE OPENING SCENE OF THIS WEEK’S EPISODE OF SCANDAL, A SCENE WHICH SHOWS THINGS I DID NOT ANTICIPATE BEING ASKED ABOUT BY MY SIX YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER AFTER, AS I BELIEVE I MENTIONED, WATCHING IT’S THE GREAT PUMPKIN, CHARLIE BROWN

I must admit
it was something I cannot imagine Linus,
when he inevitably grows to maturity, would be engaged in
but would always hold in secret
in his thoughts, burning
at the box he shoved and locked and buried and barricaded them inside;

which Schroeder would someday excel at;
Peppermint Patty would dream about it
until she, at a disappointing office party, finally asks herself:

“Charlie Brown? Really?”

which Lucy would, in college, find a man who plays
guitar and demand and demand and demand

and be disappointed and disappointed and disappointed;
which Pig Pen would make most of his short film career garnering accolades for;
which Charlie Brown would fumble, that
light bulb nose of his bonking comically,
that head of his never proportioning to his body, Hindenberging into her knees; oh,

which Sally,
Sally would enter the convent
not thinking about

and find it all dashed the night before her vows
when visions of Linus wash over her,
leave her aching most of all on her long, dark night of the soul
thinking her emptinesses
were still his
to fill.


They would reconnect
by chance
(sort of)
in a Target,
end up sitting
next to one another
in a pumpkin patch no mystic squash would ever rise from,
wind crackling the stiff grass,
leaves shushing and shaking down the streets,
they bump hands by accident (sort of),
too scared to say
what they really wish for,
unable to voice
what is plainest
on their lips.



ABOUT THE POET

Matt Mason has won a Pushcart Prize and two Nebraska Book Awards. He lives in Omaha with his wife, the poet Sarah McKinstry-Brown, and daughters Sophia and Lucia.


ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

ANDREA JURJEVIĆ, "FISH TREATMENT" (Issue 16)



FISH TREATMENT

Nona, who lived through three of them,
rarely talked about wars. In the kitchen

the macramé lampshade filtered
a chain-link shadow across her face,

a grid of borders dividing her neckline,
the dark apron that fell across her breasts

like night over a pair of capsized boats.
The tap water rushed and tumbled

over the mackerel piled in the basin,
her hands holding the dead fish

the way she held her sons, one by one
each year of the Second War,

before pulling a bed sheet over them,
and shutting their thin eyelids for good.

She’d pick up every fish with care, cradle
it in one hand, while her other, free hand

would sink the narrow fillet knife
into its white belly—a narrow passage

one makes when sliding into bed at night.
And like a waking flower, a stream

of blood would bloom within that basin,
her hands brush against its thin petals.


ABOUT THE POET

Andrea Jurjević, a native of Croatia, is the author of Small Crimes, winner of the 2015 Philip Levine Prize. Her poems, as well as her translations of contemporary Croatian poetry, have appeared in journals such as Epoch, TriQuarterly, Best New Poets, The Missouri Review, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere. She is a recipient of a Robinson Jeffers/Tor House Foundation Award for Poetry, a Tennessee Williams Scholarship from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, and a Hambidge Fellowship. Her translation of Mamasafari (and other things) from Croatian will be published by Diálogos in 2018.

ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

ELAINE JOHANSON, "I'M THINKING ABOUT YOUR MOTHER" (Issue 16)



I'M THINKING ABOUT YOUR MOTHER

again.
Which is to say:
often,

sinking into the couch
like a half-flooded ship,

the water cradling
then smothering
as the hull tilts.

Okay, and you now:

relief as a delay of pain
instead of its end.

Or:
relief as a form of loss,

collecting in your hollows
like lead dust.

Now me:

as witness, the weight I bear
is all my own.

Now all of us:

seeped together.
A unanimous
rejection.

Why are we always outside
when inside they are singing?

Your head kinks back, throat white as a wrist.

I get it. I know. I showed it to you.
That sheet of stars.


ABOUT THE POET

Elaine Johanson is a writer, teacher, and videographer in Philadelphia. She holds an MFA in poetry from Columbia University.

ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

JEFF EWING, "LAZY EYE" (Issue 16)



LAZY EYE

It sees what it wants and what it doesn’t
it doesn’t—ignores, for instance, the
host face striated as bristlecone bark,
a lentigo tracing the Caspian shore.

General outlines are noted, an overall
impression glazes the retina—a shoebox
diorama holding me fast, leaden feet
glued in the shade of q-tip trees. Doing

the work of two with half-assed effort,
it leaves most depths unplumbed:
What do you see that I don’t, squinting
into the poorly delimited sun?

At night, beads well and fall—I find
them in the morning distilled to crystals.
In trade, the Jewelry and Loan grants
me three wishes I expend for: a glyptic

of seasons turned with loving obsession,
a quart jar preserving the last outcast
breath of the last arctos californicus,
and in rubicund Cambrian amber a photo

of us on the South Rim framed by an
uncertainty no perfect eye can fathom—
rock and pinyon, and the river far below
fogged by unspeakable distance.


ABOUT THE POET

Jeff Ewing is a writer from northern California. His poems and stories have recently been published or are forthcoming in ZYZZYVA, Willow Springs, Catamaran Literary Reader, Atlanta Review, Saint Ann’s Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, Dunes Review, ELJ, and Bridge Eight. He lives in Sacramento, CA with his wife and daughter.

ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

CHANEL BRENNER, "SIX YEARS AFTER MY FIRST SON'S DEATH" (Issue 16)



SIX YEARS AFTER MY FIRST SON'S DEATH

At my younger son’s baseball practice,
a dad talks about his two boys—
all that energy and wrestling at bedtime.

I know I should use the old bread
when I make my son a sandwich,
but I open the new.

It’s wasteful.

Like the hours I spent
pumping milk for my dead son.

Memories of my two boys
flash like reflections
off windshields.

The two of them jumping on the bed,
shrieking with joy,

until they broke the lamp—
shards of glass.

Light
wasted all over the floor.


ABOUT THE POET

Chanel Brenner is the author of Vanilla Milk: a memoir told in poems, (Silver Birch Press, 2014), a finalist for the 2016 Independent Book Awards and honorable mention in the 2014 Eric Hoffer awards. Her poems have appeared in New Ohio Review, Poet Lore, Rattle, Cultural Weekly, Muzzle Magazine, and others. Her poem “July 28th, 2012” won first prize in The Write Place At the Write Time’s contest, judged by Ellen Bass.


ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

GAYLORD BREWER, "LATE IN THE NARRATIVE" (Issue 15)



LATE IN THE NARRATIVE

The houses risen
from rubble a generation
gone, solid stone
and good roofs. The road

widened and paved.
The war ended a lifetime ago,
villain vanquished
in body, if not memory.

Ages since, lovers met
and parted, or met
and remained.
The old man’s dead,

slumped over his plow,
and the cattle auctioned.
The children gone,
too, grown now

and happily escaped
to the city and its sequels.
The view’s still nice,
but you’re thirty years

too late, or maybe a thousand,
depending on the edit.
Anyway, face history—
you’re a bit part,

on the end of the couch,
in the shade of the chapel,
a clever, irrelevant
remark here or there,

a minor scene or two
unlikely to survive revision.

ABOUT THE POET

Gaylord Brewer is a professor at Middle Tennessee State University, where he founded and for more than 20 years edited the journal Poems & Plays. His most recent book is the cookbook-memoir The Poet’s Guide to Food, Drink, & Desire (Stephen F. Austin, 2015). His tenth collection of poetry, The Feral Condition, will be published by Negative Capability Press in 2018.

ABOUT THE SOUND OF SUGAR

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

Thursday, June 1, 2017

ALICIA MOUNTAIN, "HEROIC CROWN: QUEER SONNETS" (Issue 15)




HEROIC CROWN: QUEER SONNETS
                       
                                  after Beyoncé's Lemonade

1.

In a winter dream, months ago
she came. The queen, braided and
furred, promising a betrayal song when
the time was most right, promising
your betrothal would only bend a season
for me. This train town has a howling
in the night. It is a beehive alive with
honeysuckle whispers, sweet stinging.
Your maps don’t stray like I do,
but we were both drawn to scale,
traced by your fingers for a path,
we both fold small for safekeeping.
Her prophesy said, run from your want—
whatever most right was, it waited.


2.

Whatever most right was, it waited
until I skipped town south to sink in,
to get me sprung on spring-heavy air
like breath against neck, like my long
white girl hair sticking to your sweat.
Daytime bathroom belt buckle betrayal.
Bodies inside bodies love, your hands.
Now all I have here is Virginia, weeks
and weeks of alone, in breathy Virginia.
When we were in love, men would ask
if we were sisters. What a wicked way
to deny what was already buried and plain.
How I set a snare for the life they saw
between us, held tight like too much hope.



3.

Between us, held tight like too much hope,
and thunder sounds spanking the hills,
all year was a racket. House party borrowed
bass beats and cheap tequila with no chaser,
jumping in aqueducts, down on my knees
in the locker room shower, shoved up against
locked office doors with you. Landlock
that wouldn’t hold. Drive me to the stolen
land, lake big enough to be an ocean. He can
come—he who’s in here too, to whom you
are promised, the smoke dozing in your
rafters. He can sleep in the backseat if you
give me directions. Some rough-faced boy
I would never try to steal you from.



4.

I would never try to steal you from
the hills so steep I lose my breath,
where I breathe you to keep going.
The queen tells me not to drink the
tidal push and pull from some mug
left on your bedside. Who mouthed it
last? What solemnity and grace did
they avow? To what am I entitled?
Did you name your book volcano?
The queen promises an overripe
rupture, full-court press. The most
I can say is no one’s too old for
high tops, the high-water mark,
the shore I couldn’t start to see.



5.

The shore I couldn’t start to see.
The storm I couldn’t feel until it had
soaked me through, wrung me out.
Let my pink water-wrinkled hands lift you
onto the countertop. I write to you  
from the counter at the Waffle House
closest to the Jefferson Plantation.
I watch myself on a security monitor
swiveling, my hat turned backwards.
I think I will always look like a child
when I am alone. The nearest train,
whose tracks I can’t find, stops sinister at
Lynchburg—named after a man. Hard to
believe the less terrible, even when it’s true.



6.

Believe the less terrible. Even when it’s true
that I have been sweating everyday,
shrinking a little, drinking a little less.
Even then, I wonder if my body is more
possessive of you than of itself. At the
gym I drink watered-down lemonade.
To start the stair master’s churning,
I choose a setting called Life Quest and
level 5 because what am I trying to win?
The queen in my ear doesn’t need me to bow
my head to her. The stairs collapse and
collapse beneath me. Does he build rough
hills to climb for you? Do you recognize
this book is a monument to touch?



7.

This book is a monument to touch
even with its hands in its pockets.
Even with your hair in your eyes as
disguise, there is no making public
how we push and pull in dark corners.
The beehive whispers when it sees our
hands touch, the train town howls and
howls. The rough face smiles beside yours.
Lick my teeth in the daylight. Still no
chaser. Still no closer to extinguishing
the bolt of my lightning you hold captive.
I have held the bright storm of you
hot in my hands. I would do it again,
however quick, however long it lasts.



8.

However quick, however long it lasts,
this hot breath season is for growing.
Have you cut your hair at all? Have you
turned his rough jeans into cutoffs you wear
on weekends? Is any day not a weekend
for you when the high desert burns off
its chill by lunchtime? I offer to trade you
a poem for the story of the place we pressed
our bodies together. We’ll write twin books
to outlast this. We’ll press them cover to cover.
I will tell my book that it was once in love,
even if it doesn’t remember fitting against
you as it slept. I don’t think many people
remember my body, the folded map of it.



9.

Remember my body. The folded map of it
spread out on the floor at your mother’s
house. Remember the winding road to
the rose garden and just going slow together,
stopping to smell sunscreen on my neck.
The queen says in these breathy weeks away
my panting for you has been forgotten.
But you started wearing my deodorant and,
at some rough point, he probably started
wearing it, too. In Virginia I have run out.
I am grocery store, I am shampoo as soap,
I am very little toothpaste. If I ever return
to our train town, I’ll smell like him—
whoever you love. He belongs beside you.



10.

Whoever you love, he belongs beside you.
The rupture is a slow roiling, the moan
let go by a falling tree. My volcano seeps
fire blood love up to the surface so it can
cool and dissipate, so it can run downhill.
The queen in my ear breathes heavy that I am
alone at a desk, taking what doesn’t belong
to me. I come from a long line of betrayers
who have worn many rings and read prophesy
into desire. I pretend I am good. I would
get you lost in the hot forest, I would bring
lemonade, speak thief songs to you, panting.
The queen says enough, puts me to bed
lying in your honest kind of shade.



11.

Lying in your honest kind of shade
under moaning trees older than I’ll live
to be, I roll onto my belly in a final try
to say, come with me to the high desert
where our breath will be our breath and not
the springtime breathing for us. Pack a car
with most of what you need, rough-faced
trust, hands in pockets, body inside body,
toothpaste, tequila, map worn along its
creases, smoke in rafters. Come with me.
I try to say all this by getting to my feet,
by saying very little, saying I am not lost,
I swear. The queen says lost is a sort of
somewhere. Inside me there is a swarm.



12.

Somewhere inside me there is a swarm
that wants out. If this storm is electric,
if the power goes out, wait. What has
flashed across every spring-static sky
will come again. I have paid my leap year
debts and with what’s left, cook breakfast
hot in a kitchen, kneading something
and letting it rise. If I’m being honest
I don’t know that I ever saw your eyes.  
I don’t know if you put your mouth
to my neck without looking over my
shoulder. Who is more dispossessed
than the thief? How long have I been
keeping quiet when I want to howl?



13.

Keeping quiet when I want to howl
is old work, the day labor that never
breaks me even. In some accounting,
this was worth every minute of leisure,
of lemonade, of cool, sugared wanting.
The horizon puts her feet up, stretched
out across hills that bloom, even while
they burn. There is no other queen above
her. This is no return ticket between us.
I took my body with me, took my book.
I am not trying to be good. Double knot
your high tops, turn backwards your hat.
Walk the highest hill until you see that
what you buried can’t be driven out of me.


14.

What you buried can’t be driven out of me.
The train town grasses have grown tall and
mowing sounds put me back in the secret
in your mother’s house, where I would tell you
over again how I have broken many things
in my thirst. I would lie on the floor and
give you my hands, give you my mouth,
try to hear you through your hair. Because
I am going to the desert, because you are not,
I am trying to remember your breath. I am told
we still look alike. I am told that every train town
has the same smoke in its rafters, the same
monuments, the same stairs collapsing and
collapsing, the same tide pulling at my belt.  



15.

In a winter dream, months ago,
whatever most right was, it waited
between us, held tight like too much hope.
I would never try to steal you from
the shore I couldn’t start to see.
Believe the less terrible, even when it’s true:
this book is a monument to touch,
however quick, however long it lasts.
Remember my body, the folded map of it.
Whoever you love, he belongs beside you,
lying in your honest kind of shade.
Somewhere inside me, there is a swarm
keeping quiet when I want to howl.
What you buried can’t be driven out of me.


ABOUT THE POET


Alicia Mountain is a queer poet and PhD candidate at the University of Denver. Her poems can be found in Guernica, jubilat, Prairie Schooner, Pleiades, Witness, and elsewhere. Alicia's work was nominated for a 2017 Pushcart Prize. Her unpublished full-length manuscript was a semi-finalist for the St. Lawrence Book Award and a notable manuscript for the BOAAT Book Prize. She has received received an Academy of American Poets Prize, an Idyllwild Arts Fellowship and a residency at the Virginia Center for Creative Arts. Mountain earned her MFA at the University of Montana in Missoula. 


ABOUT SOUND OF SUGAR


We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it. 

Saturday, March 25, 2017

MAG GABBERT, "OXYCODONE" (ISSUE 14)



OXYCODONE

Mother of Pearl.

Porcelain rimmed
toilet seat
at the back of the 7-11.

Your spine dissolves
to Pixie Dust.

Your brain bursts
and shines
like yolk
swishing at the base.

You want to drink
from the bowl.

Your teeth
roll, jaw-
guttered marbles.

White
and thinness
of your skin.

The light
blue of your veins.

Florescent beams,
the chill
of piss-riddled tile.

Then
the layers break
to flakes.

ABOUT THE POET

Mag Gabbert is currently a PhD student in creative writing at Texas Tech University, and previously received my MFA from The University of California at Riverside. Her essays and poems have been published or are forthcoming in journals including 32 Poems, The Rattling Wall, The Rumpus, The Nervous Breakdown, LIT Magazine, Sonora Review, The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review, among other venues. Mag is also an associate editor for Iron Horse Literary Review

ABOUT SOUND OF SUGAR

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it. 

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

JOHN A. NIEVES, "SPEEDING" (ISSUE 14)



SPEEDING

The music in the car muted the rain
on the road save the wiper blades’

                        repetitive thuds. No headlights, no
                        taillights, no deer or traffic signals.

Alone, out here, is part of the landscape.
The wind buffets me across

                        the asphalt’s long shine. The stereo
                        swears the world is as soft as lace, but

I don’t love anyone. Outside, the world
the world is as soft as lace. The ghosts

                        of train tracks clack under my tires. The milemarkers
                        streak green skyward into night.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


John A. Nieves has poems forthcoming or recently published in journals such as: Cincinnati Review, Pleiades, Crazyhorse, The Literary Review, Verse Daily and Passages North. His first book, Curio, won the Elixir Press Annual Poetry Award Judge’s Prize and came out in early 2014. He’s an assistant professor of English at Salisbury University. John received his MA from USF and his PhD from the University of Missouri.


ABOUT THE SOUND OF SUGAR:

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.