Lucid Lucy Lululy

She had plugged

The holes atop

Her head with hair

To keep the brains

From knowing there

Was more to life

Than dark and matted skull.

But if she’d once

Considered the cold

Bare fish tail strands

A-dangling exposed

To brushes, combs,

Hot water, wind,

Men’s clutch, she’d

Maybe not have shrieked

When all the hairs

Sunk down to sub-

Skull, crowded round

Her thoughts, coiled

Tight – for warmth –

And lit a fire; set in.

The smoke, an alabaster

Hue – burnt bone?

That smoggy ouster –

Shrouded baldened

Skin, and left

An airborne trail

Like bread crumbs

For the damned

Behind her head

Where all she went then on.

Rebecca White


Rebecca White is a journalist based in New York City. She is a frequent contributor to The New York Times. Her poetry is as of yet unpublished. Rebecca’s poems reflect both her personal experiences and the experiences of those who have shared their stories with her. Much of her work focuses on protest, pain, and power.




Another of my father’s dense metal hand tools


That he’d never find or use again

once we took them from the shed.


That caught the exact size of things

by reach, touch, sight —

not needing inches and eighths

or arid calculation.


That turned perfect circles without

even trying.


That had a not-so-well-oiled joint

twisting between two sharp points, important

only in how far one was from the other.


That my brother and I blunted

by spiking it into rocky dirt and tree trunks

while almost always missing the

tiny, half rotten backyard apples

we aimed to impale.


That, after an unmeasured arc,

stuck, for a moment, just above my knee.


Lee W. Potts


Lee W. Potts has an MA in creative writing from Temple University and is a former editor of the Painted Bride Quarterly. His work has appeared in The South Street Star, Gargoyle, The Sun, and The Painted Bride Quarterly. He lives just outside of Philadelphia.

A Rural Life

When the birds and bees die off because of chemical misuse, where will procreation be, who will make love? Only the Doomsday Clock will keep moving and gasping.

Every field is being stripped. Big Dude tractors, and grain hoppers the size of two car garages. Harvest is part of mid-America; it’s what we do; it’s how we feed the world.

A slow and steady rain follows two days of harder rain, chides us for cranking up our diesel tractors and ethanol plants here in corn country, and causes this climate shift which accounts for alien-warm Midwestern winters with too little snow and too much gray. We call these downpours toad-stranglers.

It’s here where thighs turn thick as oaks in an abandoned field, where the waist takes on a tractor’s tire, and where breasts grow a valley between sagging hills. We don’t kill ourselves anymore like Karen Carpenter did because we know we must live with our choices. One too many flavored coffees and we forget how we once loved the pain, would do anything for a compliment.  Now we find little shame in comforting ourselves in a weeping world where the only true love lingers along a crowded sky.

My gentleman farmer ages with the seasons. At fifty, the wear is evident. At sixty, a tractor becomes a ten-story building to scale. He wanted to climb Devil’s Tower once, but that was before his days ran together into a jumble of moments called Time.

See this mishmash of days, see it clear, this is life, this here and there. To forget to fight, to uncurl the fist, to close the lips, is not surrender. Peace comes to the quiet heart. And to pray upon the fertile land for an end to war is virtuous.


Chila Woychik


German-born Chila Woychik has bylines in journals such as Silk Road, Storm Cellar, and Soundings East, and was awarded the 2017 Loren Eiseley Creative Nonfiction Award (Red Savina Review) & the 2016 Linda Julian Creative Nonfiction Award (Emrys Foundation). She craves the beautiful and lyrical, and edits the Eastern Iowa Review.