Alice

October 2024 | poetry

Alice Chu lives in Chongqing

and she attends classes online

loves hotpots and her friends

never submits work on time

can’t follow essay instructions

but she speaks perfect English

and writes crystalline sentences

a potential poet or a novelist

but her father has other plans

One day Alice logs into class

splotchy bruises on her arms

a heavy cast around her ankle

every part of her looks broken

but Alice Chu is still smiling

her dad shoved down the stairs

for a C plus grade on her essay

Who do you call when the

abused live on other continents?

and what’s there to be done

about never-returned messages?

and how do you tell parents

your child’s not doctor material?

and how do you lift someone

when you can only reach so far?

Alice—this dreamy teenager

not quite ready for university

a poetic giant, ready to awaken

with more guidance and patience

her father demands perfection

but Alice Chu’s already perfect

Brendan Praniewicz

Brendan Praniewicz earned his MFA in creative writing from San Diego State in 2007 and has subsequently taught creative writing at San Diego colleges. He has had poetry published in From Whispers to Roars, Tiny Seed Journal, That Literary Review, and The Dallas Review. In addition, he received second place in a first-chapters competition in the Seven Hills Review Chapter Competition in 2019. He won first place in The Rilla Askew Short Fiction Contest in 2020. He was a Pushcart Nominee for poetry in 2023.

Ann Weil

October 2024 | poetry

Post Break-up Souvenir Shopping, Naples

No to the limoncello, liquid sunshine in hand-painted glass bottles.

No to the porcelain-handled pizza cutters poised to slice a pie.

Nope to the floral-print tablecloth/napkin sets, nope to Deruta pottery blue-rimmed with lemons.

No to the prayer candles, neither Madonna and Child nor Madonna Ciccone.

No to the mother-of-pearl music boxes tinkling That’s Amore.

No to a Sexy Priests 12-month calendar— but Father August is devilishly hot!

Nope to Quentin Tarantino prayer candles— enough already.

No to Mount Vesuvius snow globes, though the ashes are quite fitting.

But to the wicker baskets brimming with little clay heads— I say Yes!

and pay three euros for the one that looks like yours.

Dreaming of the Jersey Shore

The Muffin Man woke at 4 a.m., turned on

the lights at Drury Lane. He gathered ingredients: lemons,

flour, eggs, sugar, poppy seeds, baking powder, milk, butter, salt.

It was Tuesday, a lemon-poppy seed bake.

Everyone knew The Muffin Man. Or thought they did.

In the solitude of pre-dawn, he was not above smoking a cigarette

while he stirred, flicking an ash or two into the batter.

And it wasn’t even Ash Wednesday. People didn’t know him,

only that Thursday was cherry chocolate, Friday was blueberry crumble.

Muffins weren’t the only thing crumbling.

For years now, The Muffin Man dreamed of a different life—

one where he braised osso buco at a seaside café.

Where he worked side by side with a soulmate wife

while the kids played underfoot, and his friends—  those guys

he should have stayed tight with since high school—

came around on Saturday nights for a plate of oysters

and a bottle of pinot gris. Things hadn’t turned out the way he’d hoped.

He took another drag on the cigarette, greased the muffin tins.

“After the morning rush,” he said aloud to no one but himself,

“I’m going to post my profile on one of those dating sites— Binge,

or Yes, Chef, or maybe FreshCatch.com.” But The Muffin Man knew

he was all flour dust, no yeast.

He’d spend another afternoon in the safe embrace

of Zillow: commercial zone, large oven, ocean view.

Ann Weil

Ann Weil is the author of Lifecycle of a Beautiful Woman (Yellow Arrow Publishing, 2023) and Blue Dog Road Trip (Gnashing Teeth Publishing, October 2024). Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Pedestal Magazine, RHINO, Chestnut Review, DMQ Review, Maudlin House, 3Elements Review, and elsewhere. Her poem, “Moon Child,” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Burningword Literary Journal and selected for inclusion in the 2024 Edition of Best New Poets. She earned her doctorate at the University of Michigan and lives with her husband and soul-dog in Ann Arbor, MI, and Key West, FL.

untethered

October 2024 | poetry

my mother dreams of taking off

in a hot air balloon, not exactly flying

but rising, a slow-motion escape

fueled by the hiss of flame

parachute silk and her breath-

held longing to be lifted

from ground

she collects postcards and prints

of antique airships and dirigibles

turn-of-the-century flying machines

captained by men in waistcoats

and bowler hats – she has a flight

plan of her own, a Magritte fantasy

to disappear

from suburbia to surreal

in a swirl of sun and fringed scarf

glinting spyglass held to her eye

she will launch in a basket

packed up like a picnic

rainbow canopy overhead

she will ascend            with a whoosh

and a wave      from bumpy field

tedium to aerial parade – high-stepping

above trees and cow leas into clouds

as the earth below grows as small

as she knows it to be

grasslands and cul-de-sac

homes, cars ferrying families

to church, bridge games

and laundry days, blackberry

bushes to pluck, gardens to weed –

and we three

watching her float in the gondola

of a full-moon balloon, circled by birds

bon voyage cries and those on the ground

clapping leaping reaching –

‘til all that remains is shadow

big and round as a basilica crown

Lucinda Trew

Lucinda Trew lives and writes in North Carolina with her jazz musician husband, two dogs, one cat, and far too many (or never enough?) books to count. Her work has been featured in Bloodroot Literary Magazine, Cathexis Northwest, Mockingheart Review, storySouth, Eastern Iowa Review, and other journals and anthologies. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Best of the Net nominee, and Boulevard’s 2023 Emerging Poet Award recipient.