Saw us wither beneath the brazen
haze. Listen: I tried
to keep him
from starving. He carried
pocketsfull
of water just for himself, never-
mind the thirst I acquired. When
the pool dried up he took dips
into my bed, beneath
the doting willow, which
too shriveled as summer
turned up her notch
on cruelty. I kept
the mirrors covered. Perhaps
he misplaced
his beauty in me—

I bristled beneath
the gazes of strangers but
turned languid
when gifted his glances.
Enchantment can
be shared. He held
my shoulders as though
they could wilt
beneath his hands. My window
let in enough moonspill
for him to find reflection in
the pale hollow of
my neck, the water
of my irises. I had only
a sliver of clouds to
drink from. Finally, they
grew swollen and broke
into rainfall. I followed
him back to water, he waded
waist deep
and I couldn’t harvest
the voice to beg him back.

“Tardigrades may have survived spacecraft crashing on moon”
— The Guardian, headline, August 6, 2019

Good luck up there
little moss piglets, little water bears.
I first spied you in water
under a microscope decades ago.

I read how in one test you survived
exposure to space—the shattering
cold, cosmic rays, and an emptiness
that blows lungs and boils blood.

Tiny yet chubby, with eight legs and a valve
for a face, you are strange—but tough:
when there is nothing, you shrivel up
into an incredibly resistant crumb

while everything else is dead
set against you. Now you’re wrecked
on the moon—itty-bitty life notes
to a future countless lives

beyond mine. I hope you make it home
someday, that somebody—with some kind
of legs, eyes and hopes—scoops you up
brings you back, and soaks you to life.

That would deserve a parade, you as a giant
balloon. I’m picturing you floating five stories up
and guided down some wide avenue
like a huge Snoopy or a giant, yellow Pikachu.

Matthew Murrey’s poems have appeared in many journals such as Prairie Schooner, Split Rock Review, and Under a Warm Green Linden. He’s the recipient of an NEA Fellowship, and his debut collection, Bulletproof – selected by Marilyn Nelson – was published in February 2019 by Jacar Press. He’s a public school librarian in Urbana, Illinois where he lives with his partner; they have two grown sons. He tweets at @mytwords and his website is at www.matthewmurrey.net.

She sees a ladybug
crawling across her
bedroom windowsill.
An urge to crush it comes over her.
To make a mini mortar and pestle matter
of red and yellow guts.
The exact moment she decides to spare the insect,
she realizes it is already dead—
and only reanimated by the periodic gusts
of her oscillating fan.

Paul Rousseau is a disabled writer from Minnesota. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Wigleaf, Catapult,  Roxane Gay’s The Audacity, X-R-A-Y, and JMWW.

when you stepped out of the bath, the mirror laughed
at the wrinkles cartwheeling down your belly
and the slack-jawed skin just hanging around.
Your once round-shouldered breasts flapped about
not quite sure what was still expected of them.
You surveyed the age spots, scars and crooked bits—marks
of the times you trolleyed your body through life like a cocky suitcase.
And then you towelled it, this loyal, beautiful friend.

Stories and poems by Atma Frans have been published in The New Quarterly and Arc Poetry Magazine, as well as long-listed for The ELQ/Exile’s Carter V. Cooper Short Fiction Competition and the Writers Union’s Short Prose Competition. In her writing, Atma searches for the voice beneath her personas: woman, immigrant, mother, Sikh, trauma survivor, expressive arts therapist, queer, and poet. She lives in Gibsons, B.C.

As Mothra, I spin around
the family room, seeking
anywhere but flames.

Mom is Rodan, screeching
at anything that makes her
angry. My father, though,

crashes through the scene
as Godzilla, the big destroyer
who burns all resistance,

leaving smoke in his wake.
He occupies the living room,
while we cry in the kitchen,

I daub Rodan’s tears with wings,
while she massages my back
with her beak. If only we could find

a way to live in peace together.
But it’s too late for that.
We’ve been exposed to radiation

our whole lives, the toxic waste
of guilt and recriminations.
We might dwell under the same sky,

soldiers might try to fire on us all,
but we must depart to separate lairs,
pledging one day to return.

In the future we will not be creatures.
We’ll turn back into human beings,
wearing a suit, a dress, a concert t-shirt,

whatever forms the fates allow,
to once again go outside in the light,
breathing nothing but clean air.

Donald Illich has published poetry in journals such as The Iowa Review, Fourteen Hills, Map Literary, Passages North, and Cold Mountain Review. He won Honorable Mention in the Washington Prize book contest. He recently published a book, Chance Bodies (The Word Works, 2018).