Sheri Gabbert – 3 poems 



Pinpoint of yellow covers a blemish,

eyelash primer boosts 3-D mascara

on blended color eyes. Blazing Lava

highlights smiling lips.


Three outfits later, I stand at the mirror,

reflect on each strand of hair

and reasons to be nervous, afraid

of being fat and old and ugly in your eyes.


Five years ago I dated a married man

with the knowledge and consent of his wife.

An offense no one has forgiven,

better to have cheated than to have been

polyamorous in their minds.


Nine years after the divorce, I still dress

for you, not for praise or sex appeal

but to avoid judgement. Caring what you think

a habit after twenty-three years, something

to remind myself I once loved  you.


Arriving at a party too early to make an entrance,

too late to be first, I speak to one of the two

people who still like me and wait for your arrival

wondering what your new wife is wearing,

aware she loved you without my knowledge

or consent.


I force them to say something, one disapproval

at a time, waiting, waiting, waiting …

did I use too much hairspray, too much makeup,

too much, too much, too much and yet

you never come and I spend most of the evening


sitting alone, trying to look relevant and contrite.




Flotsam in the Kitchen Sink


He works, his sons work, his wife walked out.

The boys sleep on sagging floors with protruding nails,

he sleeps on a sofa with cushions that gave up a lifetime ago.


Dreams gurgle from reeking brown water.

Daybreak brings an afflictive sun, spilling over the sides

of the blackened kitchen sink, another day of not enough.


Plunge, pump, push – he forces through crowds,

part of something larger than eight to five and mortgages

on paper thin walls and crumbled stairs.


He lives within the lines. His boys stay within borders

that protect them from stray bullets and bullying gangs

of other boys who also sleep on floors but hide

in chemical dreams, float above the underbelly in reprieve.




Déjà Vu


I would tell you I love you,

if I were the sort to mutter sentimentalities

or to make yesterday’s lover feel guilty.


Instead, I’m going to tell you your new girlfriend

is a cunt. I’ve never used that word

in precisely that way but I’ve always wanted to.


It fits, even if I don’t really understand

why that’s the worst thing we can think of to call

the women who replace us or why we call

ex-boyfriends cocksuckers. 


When we’re in love, cunt and cock sucking

are terrific words packed with possibilities.


And what the fuck?  What do you mean

you don’t feel the same?  As when? Yesterday?


We never know what happened,

those of us who are left when lovers

love someone new or maybe one we always knew

but never imagined would be the one?


And there’s always “a one.” Relationships

never last. Somebody will leave somebody

one way or another, but it doesn’t make it

any easier to know that, specially this evening

after dinner and a movie, when you said We need to talk

and your eyes finished the sentence.




Sheri Gabbert is a substitute teacher living in the Missouri Ozarks with her miniature schnauzer, Rilke. Her work has been published in Moon City Review (2011/2017), new graffiti, The Quotable, Rat’s Ass Review (Love & Ensuing Madness and Such an Ugly Time, issue and anthology), Communicator’s League, Drunk Monkeys, Serving House Journal, 417Magazine, Street Buzz, and The Lawrence County Record. 


Anna Nightingale – 2 poems 



There is a place in Lisbon where you can see an imitation statue of Christ the Redeemer, Rio de Janeiro, and a bridge similar to The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.


This moment is nostalgia

before nostalgia is:

lurking at the shore

of my premature thoughts. I’m gazing

at myself through gauze & taking

these gills & thrills & you for granted.

My worship ship was sinking and I capsized


sat by a river

that disregarded

the neaps

and springs of


Shoures soote only there –

months are not cruel, but me

I am a drought, drowned

in the unholy waters of Leman.

There was water so I did stop and drink

and by the rock I could not stop or think.

An alcoholic tongue:

a thing we’d never done.

The redeemer glares & my justification?

It’s not so simple

as rosaries and recitation.

The gate is gilded & these years are

something like such imitations.




If My Brain Were Spain


Exoticise my mind

like a language you’re hungry to learn

       its poli tics are a broken tongue –

and you like the validation it feeds you.


Move in there

and publicise it.

It is your neuro- bureau.

Let the confession echo, through that windowless hollow

to which

dragged you,

Without realising

I’m now trapped too. 




Anna Nightingale is from Coventry, UK and studies English at the University of Cambridge.

Thomas Locicero – 3 poems 

The Two Will Become One Flesh

Should we believe that we were meant to live
inside each other, we would then forgive
our sins, old and new, and petty differences
and feed each other words, not inferences.
Let our disagreements help each other learn
love is not a given but a gift we earn.
I will not search for a mate for my soul.
What of my mind, body, spirit, the whole
of me? But I cannot tell you what to seek,
though, as you do, I might hide what is weak
in me, my shortcomings, my scuffles with sin,
those rounds I’ve never been able to win.
But were your flesh and mine to become one,
we will fight as such till our battles are won.





I would be tied up in myself,
a thousand knots threaded as one,
and you would unravel but not
unravel me. You stood thick
about me, drawn aside, arcane,
unable to be decoded. You with
your coal-dust voice. What did
you trade for it? You said you
wanted better for me, yet you
insisted I follow you in. I went
to bed in the dark of night me
and woke in the dark of day you.




Further Evidence That Hell Visits Earth


To spill your secrets to a friend who shares them,

To profess love to one who loves another,

To confess sins to a righteous condemner,

To share your life with a selfish lover,

To argue anything with the ignorant,

To have salvation faith but not healing faith,

To fall in bed exhausted and not find sleep,

To work your whole life and live in poverty,

To not have pondered the color of water,

To never have had a garden or a book,

To know, like Keats, the meaning of blood’s color,

To not have known and then to be blindsided,

To not have made peace before your voice ceases,

These are evidence that hell visits Earth.




Thomas Locicero’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming inRoanoke Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Long Island Quarterly, The Good Men Project, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Jazz Cigarette, Quail Bell Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, Antarctica Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Hobart, Ponder Review, vox poetica, Poetry Pacific, Brushfire Literature & Arts Journal, Indigo Lit, Saw PalmFine Lines, New Thoreau Quarterly, and Birmingham Arts Journal, among other journals. He resides in Broken Arrow, OK.