The Residuals By Joe Garvey

The first death was quiet.

A chair. A jacket.

The air continuing

without instruction.

I understood.

The second death was a trade.

I taught my body

to accept impact.

Linebackers learn this early.

Hesitation is the only ghost.

The pads held their shape

without me.

The third death is a slow leak.

Glass still offers a version.

The silver is thin.

I keep walking.

Nothing is stolen.

Only the parts

that mistook endurance

for a pulse.

Joe Garvey played football at Hofstra University and later worked as an actor before pivoting to poetry. His work has appeared in Mad Swirl. He writes at poetking.substack.com

SCENES FROM THE FITZ By John Grey

She’s the last of her kind

in this bar that’s the last of its kind.

She smokes one cigarette after another,

lighting the next while the current one

is still lodged between her lips,

puffing smoke through her nose,

the side of her mouth, 

while ash drops on the counter,

lipsticked butts fill up the tray.

And the grizzled guy is the last of his kind,

a World War II vet, pushing ninety, 

downing shots while, 

shouting at the TV news,

until the liquor takes him out

just like the Germans could not,

and his head bumps the bar,

shakes up the woman’s ashtray.

Everyone else 

from the woman licking

the cherry off her cocktail sword

to the two young guys arguing sports

over beers from the tap,

are just more of many,

not the first 

and certainly not the last.

And then there’s the bartender.

He’s seen it all.

And yet he’s still seeing more of it. 

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Trampoline and Flights. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.

Alleles By Heather Kays

We don’t choose the deck —

it’s a goddamn dice roll,

spinning through the hands of gods too drunk to care.

My mother’s poison—vodka-stained veins—

passed down like a fist in the dark,

a genetic lottery where you’re either lucky

or bleeding out on the floor before breakfast.

I taste the bitterness of broken promises

in every sip of whiskey,

the silent scream of DNA

folded tight like a loaded gun

in the pocket of a man too scared to shoot.

It’s not blood that makes us—

it’s the scars that twist beneath,

the alleles of rage and tenderness

locked in a cage fight,

and me?

I’m the bastard child of luck and collapsed myth.

Some nights I wear my flaws like a second skin—

rough and ragged,

a map of every bad decision

etched deep into my flesh.

Evolution is a happy accident—

random mutations in every direction.

That’s the science of survival.

That’s nature. That’s chaos.

This life?

It’s a goddamn gamble,

and I’ve been dealt a hand full of bruises,

but I’m still here,

still throwing the dice,

still betting on the chaos

to make me whole.

Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.

Traditional By Joe Couture

The dive down the street’s caged road sign reads

TRAD TIONAL NITE. The blue building’s

paint is well into peeling season

yet, it’s turning green, compliments of

north winds and the bog across the byway. 

A sagging deck hangs off the building

umbrellas peek past pesto-hued lattice

the whole scene provokes an internal

inquiry of inspectors’ credentials.

I hear the night in question features

fiddling, discount draught, fried fish dinners—

but someone’s misinformed—I’m sure it means 

shouts after shooting McGillicuddy's, 

sighs over pool shots, ogling the waitress,

getting handsy, getting cut-off,

spitting at the bar man, driving home drunk,

a woman with a headache dabbing

concealer on purple orbitals, then

he’ll claim amnesia, peck her, blame the booze

she’ll fetch him breakfast, Advil, and G2.

Joe Couture is a writer living in rural Nova Scotia. He writes for his health. If you want to connect with him, try here: @rjcouture.bsky.social

Divorce Song By Manny Grimaldi

Today we filed for divorce at court

as if we were preparing to identify a body.

There is no blame.    

I accept you, I accept that

you are not who I say you are. I accept

while Earth turns with the clock

you run counter as the Great Red Spot—

else, I would never have loved you.

And there is no blame

our voices are free—

nudity dries up the fear of death,  

the fear of bird flocks in cages,   

skittering.     

      

My voice is free.

I choose to follow rules.

But does it makes a difference

what I think?

I look forward

to our severance.

   

There is nothing like a day when we reach Everest, 

unable to remember base camp.

Manny Grimaldi served as co-founder and editor of Yearling Poetry Journal from 2021-2026.  

He attends Spalding University as an MFA candidate in Poetry beginning this year.

Pretty much, the goal is to teach and write, and spoil exotic pets.

Manny published with Whiskey City Press in 2025 “Finding a Word to Describe You”

and has some publishing credits to his name otherwise. His book is available at Amazon,

using this link https://a.co/d/2CLIpGd   

BAR down the side By Susan Isla Tepper

Under the blankets all day

Mom nursing her bottle sings

snips of Irish tunes 

When school is out 

I go see Dad at his local

a brick joint the neon 

down the side

B

A

R 

He’s rough with me

hands me a crumpled tenner

for food, turns away, says

Go home, boy.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com

Loss of youth By Alyssa Trivett

If you never made a paper football,

flicked it across a gum covered desk,

as your friend stuffed a Zero skateboard in a locker or 

had magazine tear outs plastered in your 

room of your favorite bands,

it’s loss of youth. Or is it?

Terrible eyeshadow.

Married couples who were friends,

now divorced.

The scar on your head from when you fell in the hall is 

now covered in curves of somewhat wrinkled skin and has faded.

Multivitamins.

Sunset afternoons without a jacket

as the day ran away and

our parents never knew where we were,

only that we existed somewhere in the ether.

Climbing and scaffolding empty houses,

Bill relieved himself in the corner bucket.

Trampoline thoughts. Broken wrist as I went over the 

fence.

Karate chops.

Softball cleats and chips of plastic pieces missing. Still 

have my mitt under my bed, no use but the relic that it 

is.

Put a note in that guy’s locker even though he never called me.

Asked a guy to a dance. He ended up living with a different parent shortly after that and never heard from him again.

Nickelodeon. Romantic comedies. Disney made for TV movies.

Vintage video games.

Gain of religion.

Some sort of pop punk and emo upbringing. One more Fall Out Boy show.

Scars from street hockey.

Still bad eye shadow. Makeup pads.

Wanting to make it big as a videographer someday. 

College degree. Years went 0 to 60 in a millisecond.

21, bottles of wine, beer, coffee. Nothing else. Only hope in my bloodstream and a light for those who need it.

Men don’t change.

Unanswered texts but don’t worry about that.

Loss of religion.

Seeing Bad Religion and The Academy Is 

at Riot Fest.

Hot Mulligan blasting.

Alkaline Trio. Thrice. Paramore. 

Midwest emo. Indie. Whatever.

Listen to music all millennium.

Focus on yourself, friend.

Count your blessings with cherished memories and VHS fast forward through the forgotten bad ones that should be left in a soppy paper cup in a parking lot somewhere.

I’ve been to more funerals than I can tally. Distance between friends and unintentional lines in the sand of only

 lost contact. 

Reconnecting, too.

Lift yourself into the next year.

You as well, friend, you as well.

Look up.

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she chirps down coffee while scrawling lines. Her work has appeared in many places, but most recently at Ex Ex Lit, and Duane's PoeTree