Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree

A poem by Rachel Yalowitz

I was the shadow of the Kookaburra hanging on my windowpane. The glass superimposed my toothless smile onto the blue crescent of his wing. When his eyes overlapped mine, I revealed my teeth in laughter, and he echoed me in a round. I laughed louder; he cackled and called me insane, but I was the shadow of the Kookaburra slain. Kookaburra sits on a rusty nail but where is the hammer, where is the axe that turned the old gum tree into the window frame.. . . Read more
Rachel Yalowitz
Wait What’s the Question?

A poem by Pablo Uribe

I got us a mystery and I need you!   I’ll say when Can you make magic with how about this? The mountain is not preserving    I don’t care about the dirt in my mouth I need to grab on to this rope of yours Is the water broken?    Is that a tree or a grave? Yes   without a wing it’s not a ship    but I found all the animals on that day Who here can keep promises? Nobody    Throw. . . Read more
Pablo Uribe
Lubbert Das

A poem by Elias Bartholomew

The doctor is bent at the waist, working furiously, his instruments plotted around him like counting-houses in the town square. The patients wait while a flower unfolds from his open head. Soon, the doctor will break for a light lunch. Outside, the freeway is under close scrutiny, the birds floating so peacefully they might be drones. They pass through arches inscribed with the compact names of the sane. Even the serifs look muscular. I feel like I have a kitchen funnel on my head! and. . . Read more
Elias Bartholomew

A poem by Jake Orbison.

We cannot tell anyone where we are going, but they all know we are lost. We walk from the mountain to a café to another café talking about what foundations are best to build on. We make guesses. Respect, money. It would have to be something unlike bricks that can evolve with the structure it creates. Love. No, not love. Anything but love. We know we are more or less talking about affection. We stay nights on Duluth and enjoy pushing the sounds through our. . . Read more
Jake Orbison
pickle jar apology

A poem by Charlotte Ferenbach.

pickle jar apology Because gratitude is finite and because apparently, there was never remorse to start with, what I get instead is handed a jar of pickles. I sit on the floor in front of everyone. I accept because I am on a floor and it is in front of everyone. I eat and am silent. The muscle brines. * I would have preferred them the afternoon the birdwatcher showed us how to look, When he tasted the way leaves do if they’re new and. . . Read more
Charlotte Ferenbach

A poem by Hayun Cho.

You, child of something resembling country, resembling woman – You have tripped over your own blessings. You repeat into eternity. Womanhood you’ve never known, history you’ve thrown to the wind. No use thinking of history. You are just another child, drifting away. The subway hurtles into black – you are in the guts of Seoul. Hanyang. Joseon. Daehan Minguk. Soldiers clutch parcels. They are as young as you are. One soldier has a name that makes you want to write a poem. Immediately, you feel. . . Read more
Hayun Cho

The hills of Austria are like a sleeping Clifford, Or like the carcass of a giant babushka from the valley rises the thick fertilizer smell and three young boys in striped wool sweaters, lead by their blonde sister, weave through the still army of stalactic pines

The hills of Austria are like a sleeping Clifford, Or like the carcass of a giant babushka from the valley rises the thick fertilizer smell and three young boys in striped wool sweaters, lead by their blonde sister, weave through the still army of stalactic pines. . . Read more
Gideon Broshy
Out fencing new pasture

A poem by Justine Cefalu.

I am tied by a golden ribbon, umbilical cord of late afternoon, to the ground. The land is a constellation of clapboard houses ringed by purple lupine. Hedgerows are cracks, threads tracing edges where light blooms, the gold-green, green-gold of a field dotted with sheep. I am kneeling, my arms around the warm belly of a deep-brown ewe. I scooped her stillborn lamb, soft-boned, into a box, and now I am milking out her thick cream onto grass, feeding fields.. . . Read more
Justine Cefalu
Old Asphalt Schoolyard

A poem by Ruby Bilger.

Waits near a pile of kids, anyway, “who keeps putting lizards in Polly Pocket clothes?” the problem is considered as they bat at their hair to keep the breeze from affecting them. Outside the bell tolls. Something may be happening, or the feeling of it—hard to remember until it’s happening again. In the mean time the kids must wonder what to call themselves, the niggling prettiness of luck or deadpan charity, what glimpses live inside them and why they won’t develop or why they never. . . Read more
Ruby Bilger

A poem by Malini Gandhi.

The summer of the water rationing, the zinnias in clay pots steam in the sun. The hummingbirds we usually fed with sugar water hover around the empty feeders, still thrusting their bills to drink— confused, they fly into each other, falling dazed into the dust. You sit on the windowsill eating a red fruit with your fingers, legs dangling out the window. Every twenty minutes, a plane takes off from the airfield bordering the yard and flies so low that the house is hit with. . . Read more
Malini Gandhi