Kai River Blevins

i think he means
i make him uncomfortable
make him question everything,

i make his masculinity feel
like a façade. i think he means
i live too freely, my determination to survive

too public, too unapologetic,
too much like happiness. or perhaps
not enough like tragedy. i think he means

he doesn’t understand
how i can grow into something other
than Man, how i can rid myself of the expectations of

masculinity while his bleeding hands
clutch its shackles like a stillborn child.
i think he means straight people are meant to

do the bashing, i am out
of line, speaking when i know
i never have permission. i think he means

i remind him of the fear of
discovering yourself, of learning
you are the monster, the shameful

desire stuck in everyone’s throats.

Andrés Cerpa

Flame in my clothes

like a hangover that courses the folds

for years. Every trace of horizon

now gone. In a foreign car, painted in snow salt,

I watch myself drift out.

Then low tide where I walk ankle deep,

careful not to cut up my feet.

A bit of flame in the wind. Blood

in the flash. There is no god,

so I move my own heaven.

Mary Ardery

Grove Park Inn

The smoke stealing in from the Nantahala wildfire
does not deter the golfers. Across the course
old-money houses steep in sunlight, far enough away
to seem miniature, like they live in a snow globe
with swirling red and yellow leaves where flakes
should float and glisten. The gallery windows
hold space for those both long and recently gone
to appear—a haze of smoke tends to welcome
the ones we’ve come to be without. All day
a garbled memory, waiting for my body to find
this rocking chair and settle into the next best thing
to stillness: back and forth, the smoke trembles
like a compass needle then lifts. It’s upon us again,
the season to offer greetings to all who have lost
direction, to be gracious hosts of darkness,
and this year in particular, to pray for the heavy
rains to return, and not run for cover when they do.

Sonia Greenfield

When the wind changes direction,
smoke shifts from the fires, so sometimes
it’s burning tires in my face, other times
it’s meat. Reader, I have done what I can
for you. Gave you my extra Sig
& taught you how to shoot; showed you
which mushrooms are safe to eat; even
trained you to avoid congregations
of carrion flies & the decay they make
love to. If food was plentiful, I shared it.
If the moon only shone on empty woods
or handfuls of bright sequins drummed up
by breeze across the lake, we laughed at
nothing in particular. Now, there’s a menace,
a madman pulling off each fence board
at the rear of the yard & I’m crouching
with you, a few bullets left between us.
Reader, I have this child clinging to my leg,
his eyes crazed with fear, his sweaty face
flecked with dirt. The sounds of splintering
wood & hound-like baying make our hackles
rise. You look to me for help, but my field
of vision narrows, only able to take in
the one I would kill to save. I love you,
but you know how it must be. Grab your
gun, Reader. Run, Reader. Lakshmi Singh
says the hordes are on the move &
from this point on you’re dead to me.