Bio: Seren de la Vega is a lyrical poet.

In Address To The Poet My Country Killed (by Seren de la Vega)

‍Elves are ‘seldom seen’ but
‍Elves are ‘seldom seen’ but
I have learned, a few
approach those without fire in hand
no shackle for their throat – –Any
where proposed, they go, unless you
wear the head –of Guillotined dilemmas walked – and walked – and bled
Just if you clutch a ‘bloodline’
the elves say ‘Let’s forget him’ – – 
‍
‍SHE – WASN’T – – THERE
‍SHE – WASN’T – – THERE
NOT – ANY – – DEATH
HE – KISSED – HIS REIGN
QUENCH – HIS APPETITE – WAS KILLED

Bio: Cithara Patra currently lives in NC. They've written for a few literary journals including Poetries in English, Instant Noodles, and 50 Word Stories. In their spare time, they travel, solve logic puzzles, and check out local restaurants. Their BlueSky account is the following:  https://bsky.app/profile/cspatra.bsky.social 

under the snow (by Cithara Patra)

you used to dig through the snow
plucked out the dead grass and brown leaves
‍
fingers growing red and numb since you forgot your gloves
snowflakes landing on your hair and lashes
‍
ice melting thanks to your warm body
you dig away for hours until I come up and ask why
‍
and all you can say, with your red nose and wavering voice,
your eyes watering, your lips pale and chapped, your body trembling
you whisper frosty air into my ear, words I can never forget
‍
“under the snow, you’ll find spring and it won’t be long
till the cold and ice goes away.
I’m only helping nature with the process.”

Bio: Sarah Voight is a writer and ritualist who channels nature and transformation into her work. When she isn't writing or roaming the woods, she works for her local library. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Witches Magazine, Belladonna’s Garden Literary Magazine, Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, The Branches Journal, The Faoileánach Journal, and more. You can find her blog at thismagicallife.org

Visiting The Bones (by Sarah Voight)

There’s a small pile of bones,
Just off the walkway, along the water by my apartment.
They’ve been there awhile.
At least a year, probably longer. 

I visit them occasionally on walks with my dog.
Usually late afternoon, sometimes midday,
Rarely in the morning.
‍
I get a feeling and know it's time to stop by.
We walk over, I crouch down and stare.
‍
They are small.
Maybe belonging to a bird or small rodent.
I can see vertebrae, a femur, and a pelvis.
‍
So tiny and tucked away, they’re barely visible.
I don’t remember how or when I first came across them.
It’s been many months since then. 

Thank you bones.
Thank you small creature you belong to.
You’ve been a great companion.

Bio: Sarah Voight is a writer and ritualist who channels nature and transformation into her work. When she isn't writing or roaming the woods, she works for her local library. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Witches Magazine, Belladonna’s Garden Literary Magazine, Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, The Branches Journal, The Faoileánach Journal, and more. You can find her blog at thismagicallife.org

Plight of the Snowdrops (by Sarah Voight)

They deceive the Cailleach Disguised as piles of snow.
While she roams the fields,
They droop their heads in fear.
She rides on the frost, 
Scraping the hills in search of their bulbs.
They wouldn't survive if not for the kind oak.
Taking pity on new life, he gently tucks them in his shadow.
They stay covered until the second month.
Then, on February the first,
The Cailleach becomes Brigid The Bright One
Who decorates the hills with the white bells
That ring in spring.

Bio: Hailey Hymenoptera is an American poet hailing from the Rocky Mountains. Her creative practice includes writing as a meditation. With a deep appreciation for all things connected to human art and nature Hailey continually cultivates a life that balances curiosity, ritual, and exploration. You can find her recent publications featured in Stain'd Arts Magazine, Tap into Poetry Magazine, HNDL Magazine, Bloodlust Magazine, and Screaming At America.

Inhuman Theory (by Hailey Hymenoptera)

The wall is white
This wall is white
Nothing white
‍
Intention where are you on this blank page?
A mirror I was handed
I flush n’ fade, I don’t know myself
‍
We lost something...
Stripped togetherness, in continuation of all and yet no thing
I fray through this naked transcendence
‍
My throat a cave
Our will the wind, howling
Who am I, if not an echo?
‍
Running water
Running through me,
We forgot that to drink from animal hands is to keep still
‍
I no longer see the future
No death in sleep
No dragon, no pagan, no pilgrim wanderer
‍
What are you?
‍
Outside the external experience
How do we remember it?

Bio: Anika Tenneti is an avid poet based in California. Recently, she has started to deeply explore themes of family and cultural identity in her works, which have appeared in Barzakh Magazine and The Louisville Review. Some of her previous works—which speak more broadly about the human experience—are forthcoming in anthologies such as Crow & Cross Keys, have appeared in magazines such as Sheepshead Review, and have received recognition from The Poetry Society of Virginia. When she is not writing, she enjoys learning about various scientific concepts, volunteering in her community, and doing origami.

Event Horizon (By Anika Tenneti)
‍
You sprawl like a crater in the cold embrace of a leather sofa,
so rugged and unfortunate.
‍
You collect debris. Soils untether themselves
from the roof
of a houseon a patch of earth
once bursting with forget-me-nots,
forever crumbling with permafrost:
just to cheek-kiss their desecrated old lover.

I know nothing of the universe, the frigid void
beyond our frigid void.
But you—who lives in the penumbra of emotion
as if it makes you feel something, the penumbra of being as if
that’s what makes you someone to me—I know you.

The moment our eyes lock is an eclipse,
stealing us away from static, dim lights, stale air, held breaths.
Within you
I see moons, waned,
stars, slain.

You’re a vessel for cosmic rustlings,
a nebula’s colors coalescing into one vapid
whole.

And so, the parlor room’s walls,
so chipped that you could trace
our tangled veins,
fade into the warm pocket we share:
of oblivion, of unknowing—knowing without making it known.
Of winter blackouts.

If even light can’t escape,
I guess I'm sinking into
your darkness.

Bio: Callie Patrick is a second-year student at Sarah Lawrence College in New York, where shestudies writing and literature. Her work explores memory, grief, and the tension between pastand present. This is her first publication.

The Colors at the Edge of Goodbye (By Callie Patrick)

The house stays quiet long after the music fades. Moonlight slips through the windows, touching the boxes stacked neatly in the living room. Dust settles in the pale outlines where picture frames once stood. The air holds the faint trace of lavender shampoo and the warm sweetness of a child’s laughter.
‍
In the small bedroom, the lamp still glows softly beside the bed. On
the nightstand, themusic box sits closed, its golden trim catching the last glimmer of light. The house holds their absence gently— the way one holds a memory that hurts and comforts them in the same breath.
‍
Outside, the wind brushes against the side of the house, whispering through the crackslike a lullaby. The house listens, as it always does, and waits for footsteps that never return.

Hours later, a strange glow gathers at the edge of the sky. It begins as a faint blush, thendeepens, spreading across the horizon in soft sherbet colors. Pink melts into orange, and orangemelts into gold. The house stands still beneath it. It does not understand the light. But it feelssomehow like a final message explaining why they left.

A sky bright enough for a child to run beneath.
A sky warm enough for a mother to follow.
A sky that does not belong to this world anymore.
And as the colors slowly fade back into the ordinary dark, the house remains silent,
emptied, and full of a love that has finally let go.

Bio: Sarah Frost is a poet whose work wanders through time and place. She has been published in Gather, Beyond Words, Last Leaves, Corporeal, and Palindrome Journal literary magazines. You can find her on Instagram at @fromthenotesapp. 

Does love dissipate? (by Sarah Frost)

Granny used to shoot squirrels off the power line above my head.
I can still see her arms raised in aim as I wander through the backyard,
two side-by-side sheds a perimeter suspended in time, love spilling
out the edges like the kitchen counter overflowing with tomatoes.

Now, the house where I spent three-year-old mornings tucked
into a table nook sipping sweet cream from a coffee cup smells
of stale cigars. It’s hard to see someone you love ailing, and I’m a coward.
‍
Holidays in Texas feel like the heat incinerates any festive energy. By 5 p.m., charred cheer is all that remains. I amble past the screen porchand a cellar door cornered with cobweb strings numbering nearly
the years since jam was stored on its shelves. I’ve wandered
the entirety of the yard since my momwent inside. As I walk in the door, he asks where I’ve been.
‍Procrastinating, I think. I’d turned back into a teenager
when my dad designated me as driver for my grandpa’s
attendance. Why didn’t you ask me? My plane had just landed,
and I only wanted my time

considered. As quickly as I realized my transgression,
the opportunity evaporated. Instead, my aunt spent the daytucking offerings into slot machines and he sat at the table,
withering like the peach trees in the north garden.
‍
I was back inside this moment driving by their house the other day;my trespass hanging in the air, a haze covering everything I loved. His last
Christmas spent alone. An exhaust I’ll never be able to suckback into my lungs.

Bio: Ifeoluwa Oluwaniran (GTC) is Nigerian and studying Theatre Arts at the University of Ibadan. He is a playwright, poet, essayist,  theatre director, and critic. His works have appeared/are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, Oakland Review, Poetry Magazine, Long River Review and many others. He is the founder of the Coffee Arts Review, an artistic platform for celebrated and skilful artists. You can find him on all socials @ifeoluwathepoet-gtc OR @ifeoluwaoluwaniranGTC.

If a Man Must Die (by Ifeoluwa Oluwaniran)

Take him to the place,
where the soil would recognise
him, ask him to forget
the promises wailing at
the remembrance of his
name. Tell him he is not
his father and his ancestors
do not flog failures. Show him
to the empty woods,
tell him to feed himself,
take him away from the whirlwinds,
that’s why his father died.
Take him to a stream filled
with cattle-egrets, tell him
to watch the sleeping sun
and the travelling clouds,
make him play in the rain
without tongues, slashing him
like swords. Tell him to cry
whenever he wanted, tell him to
scream to the top of his voice when
he’s happy. Tell him to, for a while
live for himself. These are the arts
of living. The acts do kill a man indeed.