Volume 1, Issue 2
September 2025
Witness

watching too much news by Angela Arnold

now I know what an audience is for
by Angela Arnold

The show by Ian Brownlie

ΚΡΑΤΑ ΤΟ ΕΣΥ (you hold this) by Tess Ezzy

Homeless Woman by Esther Fishman

Goodbye, Virginia #3 by Esther Fishman

we are every age that came before this one
by Juleanna Green

Forgotten Childhood by Joanne Macias

In Search of Species by Janet McMillan Rives

Unsilenced Ghosts by Isabelle Ruby

Your Momma is a Shoelace by F.T. Rose

The Tent by Rowan Tate

From the line to enter a refugee camp
by Rowan Tate

I become a migrant by Rowan Tate

BEWARE by Colette Tennant

Bullseye by Barnaby Blue

Eyes by Barnaby Blue

Remaking 1 by Denise Bossarte

Page of Cups by L.A. Duncan

Hierophant by L.A. Duncan

Flash of Green by Kim McNealy Sosin

The Window by Carolyn Schlam

Witness by Carolyn Schlam

I Hear Laughter in the Rain
by Dr. Ernest Williamson III

To Be A Creature by Wallgrin

From the Editors

Dear Contributors and Readers,

Thank you for your patience as we pulled together our second issue. We’d hoped to publish earlier, but a few walls (both metaphorical and all too real) slowed us down. Now, as we all find ourselves up against adversities of growing scope, our first theme issue, Witness, feels more urgent than ever.

We live in a moment when truth is contested, cruelty is rising, and authoritarian shadows stretch long. Poetry cannot dismantle systems on its own, but it can bear witness, keep record, and spark the fire of resistance.

Wherever you are, we send love, solidarity, and determination. Thank you for joining us in the work of witnessing.

Sincerely,

Maudie and Brandon

The Tent

by Rowan Tate

In it, my mother brushes our hair each morning
the way she did when we had a home. Three years ago
when we left Damascus my father told us we would
only be gone for a month.

The sky has turned yellow. There are seven of us
sleeping here. Whatever is left of my country,
I brought it with me in my skin and keep it wrapped
in my abaya. Dear God, my sister is growing up

standing in lines: six times a day we must go for water.
In this life we only make mansaf on Fridays and
sand sticks to everything, gets inside
your fingernails and your ears.

Two hours into the hot rash of waiting
among the cross-stitch of wormwood and saltbush
for beans, rice, ghee, I miss the fruit sellers
who were always up earlier than anybody.

When I ask my father why we stay in Zaatari, he says
it is because he can leave us without being afraid
there will be bombs or having to imagine my mother
with a pistol in her mouth.

Remaking 1

by Denise Bossarte

Homeless Woman

by Esther Fishman

She sits in the neighborhood
laundromat. I see her maybe once a
month. She does not pretend to be
occupied with anything--no bags to
rummage through, no bureaucratic nonsense
to stand in line for. She just sits.

We move
around her. No one can use the machines
she is in front of. I bustle
about, engaged in the ridiculous
task of cleaning what will only get
dirty again.

I try to
imagine the blast that left such a
ruin, or the semblance of life that must
go on day after day, without the
usual distraction of meaningless
decisions. The sight of my matched
socks lined up in their scented drawer; that
woman’s vacant eyes.
Which is worse?

Witness

by Carolyn Schlam

From the line to enter a refugee camp

by Rowan Tate

I don’t remember which flag as much as I remember
the faces sun-browned with visions of walnut shells and
hot water for tea, or even just enough water so that
urinating didn’t hurt. To want a comb or muskmelon
or coffee felt scandalous when it would be enough to be given
a night that stayed still long enough to hear the insects
buzzing in the beeches or the call to prayer, dreams returning
to our boys’ skulls and new mouths that hadn’t felt the curdle
of something dead. We took up space in suspended sensation
of a ground that belonged to those of us who learned to sleep on a tarp
and whose pores were still clogged with soot and sweat
that wasn’t ours, to those of us who walked through war zones for water
past hand grenades that didn’t go off and were still
liable to explode, to those of us who missed the birds
when they left, who remembered where the grass used to
come out in march, whose children played among wreckage
and made toys of debris, to those of us who fasted so our
mothers could eat, who gave our bed to a stranger
with a bullet in their thigh, to those of us who washed our hair
in blue buckets and read surahs in plastic garden chairs,
to those of us who are still caring for someone else’s child
with hope in the lining of our stomachs like a parasite.

Goodbye, Virginia #3

by Esther Fishman

She must have been considering
stones for months, picking up
one, then another, rejecting
any that wouldn’t fit just so in
the cardigan she knew she would be
wearing on her final day. They had to
possess sufficient heft to weigh her down
once she entered the water, but not be so bulky
as to provoke suspicion
should she be observed along the lane. Just Virginia
enjoying the fine weather, taking a
walk in the sun. Look
is that an apple in her pocket?

Unsilenced Ghosts

by Isabelle Ruby

I was born beneath closed eyes,
raised in rooms where silence
screamed louder than fists.
The walls knew,
but the world turned its face
to softer things.

They said, “she makes things up.”
But my bruises were not fiction.

My body a detailed journal,
every scar an unwritten story.
No one read me.
No one asked.

I was a ghost in my own life—
present, unseen.
A girl made of glass,
shattered quietly
in corners no one swept.

They watched.
They all watched.
They acted unseeing.
Called it not knowing.
But I saw their averted eyes
and felt the weight of their blindness
like the weight of the world.

Now—
my daughter sleeps in a light
I never knew.
And I, once voiceless,
am a storm at her cradle,
a sentinel made of fire.
I will not be silent.
I will not be unseen.

I name every shadow that passes through me.
I name every silence complicit in my pain.
These are my ghosts—
but they are mine no more.

I am the witness,
the testament,
the mother who rises
and teaches her child:
You are seen.
You are sacred.
And so am I.

Page of Cups

by L.A. Duncan

watching too much news

by Angela Arnold

Bullseye

by Barnaby Blue

I become a migrant

by Rowan Tate

and I remember
peppercorn trees, fanned feathery over dogs
asleep in the spicy dust of the road, their berries
dangling overhead like strings of
pink beads. I knew better than to
leave the place that remembered
the wet imprint of my body, how
I came out of earth red and she
held me at her breast, splayed
hot on her belly so our
pulses fused. For all of time
mortals and the divine have traded promises
like foreplay, one of us taking territory
the way ants eat a body, in
soft invasion.

I Hear Laughter in the Rain

by Dr. Ernest Williamson III

now I know what an audience is for

by Angela Arnold

Your Momma is a Shoelace

by F.T. Rose

The stall door slams behind me.
Jeans scrunched to mid-thigh,
I’m faced with a kaleidoscope of pen ink.
Scriptures and hieroglyphs,
autographs and paragraphs.
A quantity of for a good time call.
Handwriting and
proximity to the hanging bulb in the ceiling
decide legibility.
Witness to a thousand moments scrawled,
notations in the margins of the chapters of the lives
of all who urinated here.
Is latrinalia a variant of the primal instinct to mark?
Had I stronger canine ancestry my piss alone
would have sufficed.
Bare ass to porcelain, I wrest a sharpie from my boot.
I will participate in the ritual.

The marker smells like chemicals.
I hold it poised in the gap between
question everything → why
and
four out of five stars, would pee here again.
I wait for angels.
For an epiphany from God like the Ten Commandments.
For the Beast itself to claw a prophecy into consciousness.
Buddha sat under a Bodhi Tree for forty-nine days and found enlightenment.
We have everything in common.
Three pilgrims gather now, begging entry to the shrine.
The lineup becomes serpentine, ascending the stairs.
Impatient feet shuffle, urgent murmurs become a din.
Pray with me brethren, for divinity has yet to guide my hand,
And I will not settle for
Your momma is a shoelace.

To Be A Creature

by Wallgrin

Feels like we've met before
Don't I know you from the underworld?
Steely eyes straight down the barrel
That's a clarity I've never known
And I, molten underneath an iron grip
When the sunlight through the window hits
It'll crack me open
I'm over the edge
Green turning red now
Gutted and grinning
Scaling the fence, then
I'm just another animal
Just another animal on the screen
Clawing at the edge of frame
Crawling up the glass in front of me
I'm just another animal
Just another animal on the screen
Clawing at the edge of frame
Crawling up the glass in front of me
Closer than skin and skin
I want skeleton to skeleton
Simple, I thought
But I'm still so far
I'm over the edge
Green turning red now
Gutted and grinning
Scaling the fence, then
I'm just another animal
Just another animal on the screen
Clawing at the edge of frame
Crawling up the glass in front of me
I'm just another animal
Just another animal on the screen
Clawing at the edge of frame
Crawling up the glass in front of me
I'm just another animal
Just another animal on the screen
I'm just another animal
Just another animal on the screen
I'm just another animal
Just another animal on the screen
I'm just another animal
Just another animal on the screen

Eyes

by Barnaby Blue

Labradorite

by Whitney Tates

Chaos

by Francis H. Powell

I like your kind of anarchy
no leader to set a course
a disorderly line
waiting for trains
that never come
no need for clockwork
bedlam has a place

Morceau

by Maggie McCombs

I promised myself I wouldn’t write songs of an empire’s end,
yet here we are, cleaning before the schism for our sanity,
finding the places too low for them to see,
too aloft for them to touch.

Madrid 2

by Nuala McEvoy

The Pope Graces Buc-ee's
with his Divine Presence

by Dutch Simmons

I ran into the Pope
at a Buc-ee’s in Fayetteville, South Carolina.
He elbowed me aside
as he turned water into Cheerwine,
careful not to stain his flowing satin robes,
drenched in amethyst trim.

His impatience grew
as he waited for the brisket
to be chopped and served.
The Pope had places to go,
babies to bless,
heathens to convert.

He didn’t strike me
as a beef-jerky-kind-of-guy,
but he grabbed two pieces
and made the sign of the cross as he left,
hopping into his Popemobile,
taking up the handicapped spot.

It was still running.

There Are No Wars Here

by Mauricio Moreno

only discounted rifles, two-for-one
ammo specials, sales on silencers,
jacket rackets, body armor in
children’s sizes, bulletproof vests
made to protect fetuses—nothing more.

There are no wars here.

only shadows of bodies
melted into brick walls,
a desert of bullet casings,
yellow-shelled roads
paved in crimson and rust.

There are no wars here.

only landmines where landmarks
stood vigil, warzones in classrooms,
gun powder puffs instead of chalk-filled
erasers, piece treaties, cadavers in rivers,
castles constructed on the sun-dried bones
of all-generation immigrants.

There are no wars here.

only shallow graves under boarding
schools, suits firing hollow-point
rhetoric, bones fused with barbed wire,
a balance sheet as long as the Trail
of Tears, gods of charcoal and nitrate,
engulfing all its worshippers.

There are no wars here.

People Keep Dying so I Keep Writing About It

by Sofiya Ivanova

CW: suicide

I know the topic’s done to death.
No, really, I hate to kill the mood.

I’d try to write a love poem but
my Cupid would shoot bullets,
not arrows.

I’d try to write about my arms
around a lover’s neck
and end up with a noose.

I’d try to write about flowers
and end up with the email from Teleflora
letting me know my order was delivered
in time for your funeral.

(Blood spatters are red.  
Your lips are blue.)

I’d try to write about nature but
even Colorado’s skies
are clouded with tears lately.

And I don’t need anyone to tell me how
“It’s made the community so much closer” and
“At least they're not suffering anymore”—

To look at gunmetal
or a glinting shovel
and point out its
goddamn silver lining—

But maybe the best I can do
are these lines:

I’m living in spite of it,
as in living spitefully.

Calling an army of all I’m grateful for.
Lifting the corners of my mouth like war flags.
Letting my laughter be a battle cry.

Fighting the darkness that took you from us
until wrinkles decorate my face, 

and doing it in your name, Evan.

Life Goes Like This

by Lucy Whalen

Hold my hand by a missed sunrise;
watch late summers bleed into
early morning breeze and shrug
at a sky that we haven’t yet seen
fall down.

Life goes on, of course.
But here, it’s too early, so
dance with me over
on the swings by the park,
you know,
the one sharing
a fence with
the graveyard,
worship friendships at the altar
of the climbing frame,
fingers clinging to rust
as you tell me all about
how one day

you’ll become
a teacher,
or a nurse,
or anyone
who might know

how to heal the bruises
on your arms.

SWEET DEMISE

by Devon Webb

In the infinity of space // I’ll be loving you forever
on the stairway to heaven // our two stars will rise
I can’t be anything // but overflowing light
god grace this innocence // god bless this sweet demise

Waterlogged in Pink

by Whitney Tates

THESE COLOURS

by Devon Webb

These colours // yours & mine too
pink & blue // on & through
I am so sunrise // against your dusky hue
can you feel it too // how it hurts to love you
how it holds time in its fist // around in circles & nowhere new

Contributor Biographies

a.d. is drawn to the sacred, the profane, the mysterious and the mythological, which provides inspiration for her work. She is an emerging bisexual poet and visual artist, and her poetry is published or forthcoming in Querencia Press, THINK, Ode to Dionysus, The Groke, Sublimation, Anti-Heroin Chic, DOG TEETH and elsewhere. Meanwhile, her visual art, mainly photography and self-portraiture, is or will be featured in Small World City, SCAB, RESURRECTION Mag, Welter, Hominum Journal, Antler Velvet and Bleating Thing. Follow her on Tumblr & Twitter/X: @godstained.

Meghan Albizo is a writer of non-fiction memoir, fiction and poetry. She was born in California, studied English and Biology at Missouri State University, explored the Pacific Northwest and currently lives in the United Kingdom with her partner and child.

Angela Arnold is a writer, poet, artist, creative gardener, and environmental campaigner. Her poems have appeared in print magazines, anthologies, and online, both in the UK and internationally. Her first collection, In|Between, examines the wide variety of our ‘inner landscapes’ and complex relationships (Stairwell Books, 2023). She has lived in several European countries and now resides in Wales. Follow her on Twitter/X: @AngelaArnold777.

LA Felleman’s (she/her) poems have appeared in The Post Grad Journal, Big Windows Review, and Braided Way Magazine. She is a financial analyst at the University of Iowa and is improving her poetry-writing skills thanks to the Free Generative Writing workshops, Iowa City Poetry, and the Midwest Writing Center.
http://lafelleman.blogspot.com/ 

Flor de Lux is Gabi and John. Influenced by the coarse beauty of their hometown of Philadelphia, they fuse Gabi’s bittersweet lyrics with John’s penchant for grimy, club-oriented beats, to write songs inspired by romanticism and the art of letting go. Reminding audiences of Eurythmics and FKA Twigs, they draw from art pop, dark wave, house, and R&B to create their unique brand of electronic pop. https://www.flordelux.band/ 

Sofiya Ivanova has known she wanted to be a “rhyme-writer” since she was three years old. Her poetry was first published at 14, and her debut collection, Hindsight, followed two years later. After immigrating from Russia as a child and beating Lyme disease as a teenager, she is now a Syracuse University Coronat scholar, studying creative writing and psychology. Although poetry is, undoubtedly, the love of her life, she also flirts with mountain biking, music-making, and meditation. Sofiya wants her writing to reach through paper and screen, into the souls of her readers—to strip away all that separates us and leave only our collective humanity. Follow her on Instagram: @strophe_sofie.
https://www.sofiyaivanova.com/ 

Jennifer Ruth Jackson is an award-winning poet whose work has appeared in Red Rock Review, Snarl, and more. Domestic Bodies, her debut collection, is now available from Querencia Press. When she isn’t writing, you can find Jennifer playing video games with her husband. Follow her on Bluesky: @jenruthjackson.bsky.social.

Miranda Jensen is a creative activist with roots in the San Francisco Bay Area. Through her writing and critical theory, she seeks not merely to interpret the world, but to change it. Follow her on Twitter/X: @MirandaLJensen.
 https://www.mirandajensen.com/ 

Julie Allyn Johnson is a sawyer's daughter from the American Midwest whose current obsession is tackling the rough and tumble sport of quilting and the accumulation of fabric. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her poetry can be found in Star*Line, The Briar Cliff Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Lyrical Iowa, Moss Piglet, Lowestoft Chronicle, Cream Scene Carnival, Coffin Bell, Haikuniverse, Chestnut Review and other journals. Julie enjoys photography and writing the occasional haiku, some of which can be found on her blog, A Sawyer’s Daughter.
https://asawyersdaughter.com/ 

Virginia Lawrence, from Bristol, England perhaps never had the confidence to pursue a career in the arts and so has settled for writing poetry in the lunch breaks of her civil engineering job. She does love bridges. Her work focuses on making sense of memories from childhood and adolescence. Follow her on Bluesky: @ginyal.bsky.social.

Maggie McCombs is a managing editor, emerging poet and neurodivergent neurodiversity advocate hailing from Lexington, Kentucky. She has worked in several literary magazines and received a nomination for the 2025 Pushcart Prize. She lives with her husband, Anthony, and their four pets. Follow her on Twitter/X: @maggieamccombs.

Nuala McEvoy is a self-taught artist and writer of English/Irish origin. A late starter, she now paints daily. She started submitting her work in 2024, and her art has been accepted for publication in Red Ogre Review, Acropolis Journal Quibble Lit, Heimat Review, Londemere Lit, Suburban Witchcraft, Underbelly Press, Ink in Thirds, Through Lines, Free Flash Fiction, The Chestnut Review, Kitchen Table Quarterly, Radar Poetry, Remington Review, Peatsmoke Journal, Drawn to the Light Press, Pithead Chapel, The Engine Idling, Door is a Jar and Plum Club Literary Journal, Underscore Magazine and others. She was recently interviewed by The Madrid Review and was the featured artist in Does it Have Pockets. She has two exhibitions in Münster, Germany. Follow her on Twitter/X: @mcevoy_nuala.
https://linktr.ee/nualamcevoy

McKenna Morgan, predominantly a dreamer, attends Western Washington University where she imagines herself as an explorer collecting tales from afar—between the keys of your grandmother’s upright piano or the core of a neutron star. While not writing, she enjoys spending time with her husband and two cats. 

Mauricio Moreno is an award-winning, first generation Colombian-American artist and writer, originally from New Jersey. His first full-length poetry book, Anatomy of a Flame, was published with Los Angeles Poet Society Press in 2023 and received an Honorable Mention for Best Poetry Book by the International Latino Book Award in 2024. His works have been published in Conchas Y Café, Intercultural Press, Resurrection Press, No Tender Fences, Rigorous, The Amphibian, and has featured at several open mics throughout Los Angeles. Follow him on Instagram at @soul_onf_ire.
https://www.mauriciomorenopoet.com/

Francis H. Powell, born in 1961 in Reading, currently lives in Moret-sur-Loing, France, where he writes both prose and poetry. He has published four books, along with poems featured in anthologies for both adults and children. His most recent is a horror work titled Unforgivable and has a forthcoming book of poetry titled Windows to the World. He has performed poetry readings for Paris Lit Up and other events. Follow him on Twitter/X: @Dreamheadz.

Marina Ramil is a writer and student from Miami, Florida with the alligators and strangler figs. They have had work published in Stoneboat, South Florida Poetry Journal, OxMag, Astrolabe, and elsewhere. They believe in liberation for Palestine, DRC, Sudan, and oppressed and occupied peoples everywhere. Follow them on all social media: @thesuncomingout.
https://www.marinaramil.com/ 

Patricia Russo’s work has appeared in One Art, Acropolis Journal, The Twin Bird Review, Revolution John, and Metachrosis Literary.

Sarah Rosenblatt is a poet and therapist specializing in intergenerational trauma. She holds an MFA from Brooklyn College and an MSW from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Sarah’s poetry has been published in myriad journals including Ploughshares, Poetry East, Heartland, The Portland Review, The Brooklyn Review, and others. She is the author of three books of poetry published by Carnegie Mellon University Press. Born in NYC and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Sarah has a husband, Craig, who is an artist and therapist. They have two sons, currently in college, and a dog named Mitzvah who was bred to be her family’s very best friend. 

Dutch Simmons is a fantastic father, former felon, and Phoenix rising. Recipient of multiple writing awards but still can't win his father's approval. Follow him on Twitter/X: @thedutchsimmons
https://thedutchsimmons.com/

Whitney Tates lives in their hometown of Shreveport, Louisiana as a full-time artist. A lover of both art and music, Whitney has been fascinated by the juxtaposition of the two for as long as they can remember. Their goal as an artist has always been to help individuals understand and navigate life while stimulating discussions on mental health matters. A graduate of Centenary College of Louisiana with a bachelor’s degree in Art, their work has been showcased in Shreveport-Bossier City, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and Dallas, Texas. Whitney has created and worked on several murals, most notably 240,000 Miles at Brake & Clutch in Dallas’s Deep Ellum district and Galilee's Stewart Belle Stadium in Shreveport, LA. In 2020, they also collaborated on the creation of the Black Lives Matter and Vanessa Guillén Memorial Walls. Follow them on instagram: @wetpaintarts.
https://wetpaintarts.com/

Devon Webb (she/her) is a Gen Z writer & editor based in Aotearoa New Zealand. Her award-winning work, concerning themes of femininity, anticapitalism & neurodivergence, has been published extensively worldwide & accumulated six Best of the Net/Pushcart nominations. She is a founding member of The Circus (@circuslit), a literary collective prioritising radical inclusivity in the indie lit scene. She is currently working on her debut novel & full-length poetry collection. Follow her on social media at @devonwebbnz. 
https://linktr.ee/devonwebbnz

Lucy Whalen (she/her) is a poet based in Lancaster, England. She writes with a focus on mental health, nostalgia, and fantasy. In her free time, she enjoys singing, running, and reading Jane Austen. Follow her on Instagram (@lucy_whalen) and Twitter/X (@lucywhalen01).