January 2024 | poetry
Untitled (Coke was taller than most women)
Coke was taller than most women and moved in a way that somehow provoked anticipation   watching
her cross a room you wondered if this splendid thing would actually happen to you   same with her voice
with everything she’d say and I remember that her eyes were grey
and Jimmy   once Jimmy kissed me   I couldn’t have been more than fourteen when Jimmy kissed me
his mouth seemed to take me over and afterwards I ran away   but stayed kissed all afternoon
I saw Coke on the bus wearing a mink jacket one morning and big diamonds looking a handsome late
thirties on her second marriage twelve year old child and she says Jimmy’s got his masters degree and his
wife’s a nurse and Coke says that Mileage whose black moon face and joke on you laughter used to
frighten me   has passed away
Â
Untitled (when things get bad enough)
when things get bad enough
I start wishing I would die.
actually, I had intended to say,
when things get bad enough
I start wishing other people would die
so I would be left
the pleasures of abandonment.
you mentioned the word suicide today
I caught it in my teeth and
carried it home to put in a poem.
I am not respectful enough its true
of me of you
but thank you for the word.
Untitled (I have a small book)
I have a small book with yellow covers and half translucent pages.   I thought of using it as a drawing
book but never did because I imagined the drawings would bleed through to each other in disturbing
ways. but now I have the idea of making my first drawing on the last page of the book, so I can see it as I
draw on the page that comes before.   that way I can design that second drawing to relate to the first.
and so on.
Ditta Baron Hoeber
An artist and a poet, Ditta Baron Hoeber’s poems have been published in a number of magazines including Noon: journal of the short poem, Gargoyle, the American Journal of Poetry, Juxtaprose, Pank, Burningword Literary Journal, the American Poetry Review, and Contemporary American Voices. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her first book, Without You, is forthcoming in March of 2024. Her photographs, drawings, and book works have been exhibited nationally and acquired by several collections in the US and the UK.
January 2024 | poetry
In another dimension, it is me & not Dostoevsky
who claims 2-plus-2 can equal 5.
I have pressed TV rewind enough times
to see how toothpaste can slide right back into the tube
after dissolving across teeth & draining into the sink.
The vomit gurgitates itself back into a glass of kegged beer.
I have seen blood pour itself back into the vein, from wine.
& who is to say that after her father laid himself to rest
under the commuter train that he didn’t lift his body
back into another world
where we are still twelve years old
at Fenway Park. At the seventh inning stretch,
he holds both a beer, & a camera
to capture our sweet Caroline smiles.
O, ode to the Jeremy Bearimy!
To be a dot in the I
& repeat that one life
forever and without time.
A place where nothing never happens.
I mean, if Leo himself can climb through a dream
inside a dream, then why not me?
There could be a galaxy in which I’m seen.
In which my body was never taken away from me.
A world in which I can spot love
3 trillion miles away.
I can hold it in my palms:
a crystal ball of intimacy.
A life in which your death is only a death in flesh.
& when your bones crumble to ash, they will
sprout with the grass,
germinate with the morning dew.
Yes, you will be reborn in a different world –
you will arrive again, as you.
Lis Beasley
Lis Beasley (she/her) is a licensed mental health counselor. She was previously published in the Worcester Review. A lifelong writer, her poetry often explores the intersection of family, mental health, substance abuse, and incarceration. She can be found on Instagram @lisbeaspoetry.
January 2024 | Best of Net nominee, poetry
His hair has grown the shock of sunflowers after rain.
The smell of those threshed stalks, nosegay against variant ills—
he also loves the man-fox after musty plum tomatoes
which, having brazened wooden stakes, now devolve seed-ward.
How his mother swells uneasily with every moon,
how she trails stale chocolate wrappers, coffee dregs
luring whatever’s hungry and curiously about.
Mornings she sweeps red golds from the stoop as he crouches in desire
his fox will reappear. These nocturnal dreams are an open door,
white ruff soaking up detritus cast by meteorites and stars.
Too young to stay awake all night, he’s been promised she will fetch him
at a pale quarter to five, bring him a basket of boiled eggs
light sepia in craquelure. Then the recognition scene:
sharp teeth will seize his wrist leaving a faint mark
that can never truly fade. He, the fiercest boy
on the bleak suburban road, child unrehearsed in loss,
can watch the animal devour yolk and shell. It is already and done.
A pewter sky rings harshly before the fall deluge
while the fox that threads its way beyond the fences
does what wild creatures do. Leaves a hint, a question
small puffs of incandescent fur, narrow footprints in the mud.
Carol Alexander
Carol Alexander is the author of Fever and Bone (Dos Madres Press), Environments (Dos Madres), and Habitat Lost (CMP). Her work appears in About Place Journal, Another Chicago Magazine, The Common, Denver Quarterly, Mudlark, RHINO, Southern Humanities Review, The Summerset Review, Third Wednesday, Verdad, and elsewhere. With Stephen Massimilla, Alexander co-edited the award-winning anthology Stronger Than Fear: Poems of Empowerment, Compassion, and Social Justice (Cave Moon Press, 2022). A new collection of Alexander’s poetry is forthcoming in 2024 from Glass Lyre Press.
January 2024 | poetry
That evening you drove us out on the bruised southern beach
we lost the hope we’d find the words to match
the gold slant of sunlight’s sail across Gulf Coast swells and sand.
We stood in the empty lobby, luggage in tow full of secrets,
two people, houseless together, and the wind—don’t you remember? —
shoved us off the courtyard and boardwalk and shore
onto broken bits of orange shell and seaglass the foam white sand
absolved of its every edge. When we look back
through photos on the shiny screen of a phone,
we’ve slipped away from those patient guides, the pelicans
on updrafts off breakers where the sun never goes down,
and stepped into a groaning wind and chill light, two people
on earth, itself a straggler in a flight of planets touring the sun.
Apalachicola, February 2023
Michael Daley
Michael Daley, born and raised in Massachusetts, has published sixteen books, three of which came out in 2022: Reinhabited: New & Selected Poems (Dos Madres, Loveland, OH), Telemachus, a novel (Pleasure Boat Studio, Seattle, WA), and True Heresies, poems (Cervena Barva, Somerville, MA). He is managing editor of The Madrona Project anthology series. A retired teacher, he lives in Anacortes, Washington
October 2023 | poetry
There’s only so much you can change about yourself.
Like this morning, I dreamt I dropped a baby down the stairs and trumpets started playing
As it stared through me with my own eyes like I’d just suicided.
Flavors of trauma come with malleable parts.
Today, I ate an entire bag of chips and painted a watercolor octopus. I thought I had cancer.
I took my blood pressure three times. I told everyone of my fear… to practice saying cancer.
In public places, my neck strains like a dried sunflower curling down, looking for the stairs.
Hell is a dream full of music.
Brandyce Ingram is a writer, tutor, and jazz-head in Seattle, WA. Her work has appeared in High Shelf Press, Willowdown Books, Sand Hills Lit Mag, Wildroof Journal, An Evening with Emily Dickinson (via Wingless Dreamer), and elsewhere. Her latest search history includes “20th-century lunatic asylums women” and “how to use a crap ton of fresh mint pesto chimichurri sauces or soju cocktails.”
October 2023 | Best of Net nominee, poetry
It’s always the rot stench of the wound
that draws me in—the beetle to the Corpse Flower.
You were eager to unfurl your bruised blooms:
you told me about the poverty, the prison, your abusive,
alcoholic father. You winced to mention him. A palpable
stab. I ached to smell more of your festering, to share how it feels
to be birthed of betrayal. I wanted to open myself up
to you like a trench coat, show you the ax to my gut—
my mother. My vanished leg—my father. Now,
I wonder if the stalking, the drugging, the rape
was your wound reveal: This is the ghostÂ
of my dead inner child. I’m here to show you
what can happen to children and how bad it can get.
The blood and feces in my sheets said, This bad.Â
Anne Champion
Anne Champion is the author of She Saints & Holy Profanities (Quarterly West, 2019), The Good Girl is Always a Ghost (Black Lawrence Press, 2018), Book of Levitations (Trembling Pillow Press, 2019), Reluctant Mistress (Gold Wake Press, 2013), and The Dark Length Home (Noctuary Press, 2017). Her work appears in Verse Daily, diode, Tupelo Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, Crab Orchard Review, Salamander, New South, Redivider, PANK Magazine, and elsewhere. She was a 2009 Academy of American Poets Prize recipient, a 2016 Best of the Net winner, and a Barbara Deming Memorial Grant recipient.
