Miscarriage at Capital Library by Donna DeRosa

Confluence by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press

Miscarriage at Capital Library

A small playhouse
was built, in the garden
for firefly nights and long ceremonies
of homesteading and mothering—
for color wheels and vespertine
making long shadows of umbilical
that were unnoticeably thread-bare.

I did not know I am dangerous. I am a
brand new venus flytrap.

Casting spells among volumes, three
behind my spine
I feed my children with my own blood
collected in the hem of my skirt
divining the loss of Goose eggs
this month—
fallen into the cold nests of carnivorous
found like some token within the shelf
of chained books.

I am viperous. I am a dewed Devil
trumpet consuming my seeds.

Rosary peas, dropped from bell
fall into my mouth and hands,
twisted with infant swaddlings and wet
with poison, the fabric is caught on my
barbed wire leg brace,
cutting the pages of folk remedies
that line my hospital room.

I am a flowering hemlock, stamped
onto essays on fertility rituals.

Donna DeRosa

Donna is currently in the process of earning degrees in Literature and Creative Writing at Marshall University, with a concentration on poetry. She will be graduating this December. Though she has had work chosen for readings and has been placed in University Writing Competitions, this is her first time being published outside of University undergraduate publications, such as Et Cetera student magazine. Donna plans to pursue a masters degree in poetry with the hope of teaching and writing. She currently lives in Huntington, West Virginia and has since childhood. Donna is part of a minority culture of Italian-American’s living in Appalachia. She also lives with Multiple Sclerosis and hopes to orient her work towards discussion of disability as well as the silence of miscarriage.

When He Moves to My Neighborhood & His Girlfriend Writes That My Poetry Has No Literary Merit & It’s Just Meant to Make Him Feel Bad by Clair Dunlap

Art by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press

When He Moves to My Neighborhood & His Girlfriend Writes That My Poetry Has No Literary Merit & It’s Just Meant to Make Him Feel Bad

what must it be like to stand in the market
gently squeezing peaches in july and see,
out of the corner of your eye, a stranger walk in

and something about their height and the shape of their glasses
and the cadence of their walk is familiar

and not want to run?

what must the body feel like if not taken over
with shaking, fruit falling from sweaty palms as if
from some failed tree? if not hot panic when you realize
the only way out is how they just came in.

what must the body feel like if not
so small?

how is it, in the moment of could be, to feel nothing at all?
is that difficult for you?
to think you see me and to keep breathing?

Clair Dunlap

Clair Dunlap grew up just outside Seattle, Washington, and started writing at the age of six. Now she resides in the Midwest where she is a preschool teacher and MLIS candidate. She is the author of IN THE PLUM DARK BELLY (Beard Poetry 2016) and her word can be found in Sweet Tree Review, Souvenir, The Harpoon Review, The Fem, and more. She is a social media editor for Vagabond City and on several platforms you can find her @smallgourd.

By the Numbers by Samara Golabuk

“Glued To The Grind” by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press

By the Numbers

The apocalypse will be personal,
and it will take more time than we expect.

It will come in fits and starts—
some drowned children here,
a few demolished homes there.
Tornado alley widens every year, and
we’ve entered the age of the super-storm,
the media pundits agree.

It will be rolling brown-outs and city bus rapists—
warmer winters and dying bees.
It will come upon us slowly
and we will acclimate,
like how the price of bananas
went up one year and never came back down
and we stopped noticing. We always
stop noticing — topped up gas prices
and semi-automatics, half-lives, and zero-hours,
and how toddlers gun down
more people than the terrorists every year.
It will be corporations as people
and GMO crop-fouling Monsanto
weeding out the small farmers, the seed-keepers,
with their mega-conglomerate organic matter
you wouldn’t plant in your toilet.
We will breed the nutrients out of our food,
we will Facebook our post-truth sources.
Heart disease will go up and up, as will
depression, diabetes, the whole she-

The apocalypse will be personal, slow–
has been so for years, starting
before we noticed, until it was
an absurdity of government on
a treadmill of climate change and
a rising tide seducing shore,
licking the toes of sea-grass and brick
and driftwood post and pier
as we step back,
and step back,
and step back
some more.

Samara Golabuk

Samara is a two-time Pushcart nominee whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Inklette, Eyedrum Periodically, Peacock Journal, Memoryhouse and others. She has two children, works in marketing and design, and has returned to university to complete her BA in Poetry. More at www.samarawords.com.

Feasting on Dysphoria and Sparrows by Moira J.

“What The Bird Collects” by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press

Feasting on Dysphoria and Sparrows

It is almost October in the woods,
            where I am held at an encampment,
                         my room full of heavy mountain
            air that hangs syruped on my jaw.

A man is telling me that I am a woman,
            instead of monstering
            flesh, paled like wisteria
            stacked with smoke that mirrors
            the cigarettes held in his glass bowl.

                                                  I dump the ashes to give water,
                                      to the sparrows, luring them to my
                                                  windowsill, catching them in
                                                  my hands and stuffing them
                                      in my cheeks, my words becoming
                         plumed with promises of redemption—or
                         something like absolution.

                         The birds are so particular as they flail,
                         their erratic song penetrating my wisdom
                         teeth, but still I do not become wiser.

                         The man later removes
                         the scraps, sneaking a
plunged hand deeper to remove innards—
my personal now made public.

I hang his desire like damp blankets on
                         the laundry lines, waiting for
            my bones to turn acrid and unpleasable,
passing the time by pulling feathers free from
my bleeding gum line.

Moira J.

Moira J., or Gaagé Dat’éhe (Quiet Crow), is an Indigenous writer who explores being agender, queer, and biracial. They examine these relationships through poetry, origin stories, and creative nonfiction. Moira J. has been published in Girls Get Busy Zine, Naugatuck River Review, ENCLAVE, Bayou Magazine, and more. They have upcoming publications with Sea Foam Magazine, The Account, The 3288 Review, and 1001: A Literary Journal. You can keep updated on Moira J. at their twitter @moira__j.

The Lighthouse by Jade Mitchell

“To Detach and Hold” by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press

The Lighthouse

You see, there was a promise I had to keep.
             I was straying South from the river-side again.
I was walking to the edge of where he once held me like
a promise and I held myself, back.
                                        I wanted to be gone. I wanted to be
collarbone. This child-like lie, once broken, now a ridge of
jagged calamity stuck in apology. Things never happen the
way we say it happened. But that doesn’t mean the pain wasn’t
real. That doesn’t mean that for one moment, everything was
on fire and I was screaming. I was stuck. I was two years’ worth
of wanting, of waiting, of pushing my body out to sea and hoping
it’d come back to me.
                                        And I can’t tell you all the ways that I have
made myself a lighthouse for other people’s storms. But I still carry
their salt. I still carry their thunder. After the clouds have cleared and
the damage is swept away, I just wanted to be remembered for the ways
that I have saved.

Jade Mitchell

Jade Mitchell is a poet residing in Glasgow, Scotland. She is a poetry reader for Up The Staircase Quarterly. Her work has been featured in Persephone’s Daughters, Red Queen Literary Magazine, Murmur Journal, L’Éphémère Review, Rising Phoenix Review, and Hooligan Magazine. Her work can be found on her blog: vagabondly.tumblr.com.

Three Entries from a Fly’s Diary by Cindy Song

“Conclusions on the Wall” by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press

Three Entries from a Fly’s Diary

I touch people like a monsoon lover nestled in the folds of
shiny valleys. I touch them where the water runs dry, where
God settles down at night. Flit around a fruit market, pulp of
a ripe orange spilling out of velvet lips & splitting concrete.
I touch the fruit but they don’t touch me back. The papaya feels
like a slick leather forehead pulsing under my spindly black legs.

My mind can’t help but wander. It’s part of my nature like flight
& hunger. The birds have it good, they’re all up there digging
holes in space while I’m heavy & hunted like a goddamn whale.
Colors drip out my peripheral vision, blend together like mother’s
fingers as she weaves the spindle round & round, round & round.
Everything spins so fast & it feels a little like blindness.

When night comes, the lanterns descend & I’m scared the fire will
escape & swallow the sky. Look at these humans, look at their skin
glisten pale gold under artificial lights like ghosts, like skinned
scallops, bodies stacked on bodies, tide washing in & out, in & out.
My God, they tuck their secrets away so well: in the caves in their nose,
the hollow of their neck, the crevice between their legs. I hide so well
with their secrets but it’s such a shame there’s nowhere for them to hide.
The moon full & my stomach empty, yearning always yearning.

Cindy Song

Cindy Song is a high school junior from Rockville, Maryland. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Hollins University, and National Poetry Quarterly. When not writing, Cindy can usually be found baking cookies or learning the guitar. Twitter: @cindsong_


“Break On Through” by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press



‘well aren’t you a fascinating creature,’ 

he mouths through mists of drink and i don’t think 

he recognizes the perceptivity of that word choice

and no, i don’t mean fascinating- i mean 

the other word, the one reserved 

for the feathered and furred and 

women like me whose bones

sing songs like fires

in the landscape

in my belly there is a house in

flames and i lit it 

those rarities of space in which

we can stand inside our nakedness

human incantation of the wild

woman, incarnation of the


she was the one who

taught him

he never saw 

the body as an altar

how to nourish a universe

with your own blood, selfless-


you need no scripture

to remind you 

what is inherently 


this is dancing in the

temple with feathered


this is the vibration

you came from


this is the deer you

locked eyes with

in the mists

before sunrise

this is the presence

you came from


this is the ocean

you crashed through

on new year’s day

this is the

shock in the



these are your

mother’s hands your

grandmother’s throat

arms that scale the

walls and legs that

make roads

whether blamed or

exonerated, whose

hand lit the match?

i tell them

i did, I DID IT 

to remind myself

how to be brave enough

to re-birth

how to be whole enough

to remain free

when asked-

what would you save from

a house on fire?

i say-

a torch,

the fire.



if i took my clothes off

in front of you

would you press your palms

against the windows

in my flesh

try to suffuse the light

always stretching outwardly

try to bind the slivers that

split between your fingers

the smoke that pours from

my bones, each


inside the gesture, 

he said 

is what’s precious

so what lives inside

this moment?- this breath

this hand over hand

earth under fingernails,

climbing, this-

holy stillness 

in the middle

of the night


skin i lull to

comfort, my blood

transfigured as

eternal mother, these

eyes filled with

emotion that never quite

spills, just-

wells, just- stays-

when i met myself in

the bent mirror at

the cloud gate

for the first time!

Seeing, with a capital S,


like all the light from


like all the restless

fingers like

i know my womanhood

is wilderness and i will

go to the grave defending


because i’ve been inside

the ground

i’ve dug that pit i’ve

laid with the mud

uninhabited, i 

know what it feels like


surrender your eyes

and your heart and

your throat not to

god but to


but i am self-willed.

the word wild is a contraction of

the word willed

and this is self-willed land

this is

bones cleaving so

shoulders can crack and

wings can breathe,

fanned full against the space-

inward, seeking wonder!

i said i saw myself

in the ground

he said, in the gesture is

the treasure, what

do i want my fellow

souls to remember?

see me as the movement

of standing up out of

your own grave

icarus returned as

the messenger

they plucked my

heart from 

inside the ribs

of lazarus

i said


womanhood is


and i will never


for that.

Audrey Dimola

Celebrated for her dynamic presence on stage and on the page, Queens, NYC native Audrey Dimola is a poet, performer, curator, connector, and lifelong artist. She is the author of two poetry & prose collections, “Decisions We Make While We Dream” (2012) and “TRAVERSALS” (2014), and curator of a unique circuit of events and creative opportunities marked by a wondrous spirit of empowerment and exploration. She can usually be found: writing on everything, riding her bike, climbing trees, pushing the edges of reality… And of course, stoking the flames. audreydimola.com

Magic 8 Ball Theory by Brianna Howarth

“One Thing Leads To Another” by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press

Magic 8 Ball Theory

We play house.
I set the baked ziti
on the dining room table.
You pour the champagne.

                         But I don’t want to pretend.

I mean business.
             Buying a queen mattress,
                                      dreaming next to you.

Your hair stuck in the drain,
my clothes impeding your closet space,
compromising on a couch,
splitting stamp prices,
sharing an address
and the welcome mat.

But I stick to safe sentences:

             How was work?

             I like your eyes.

             Here’s my dream

you starred in again.

But the question I want to ask:
Do you love me?
keeps getting caught
in my throat
like a house key.

Brianna Howarth

Brianna Howarth is an Instructional Designer/Writer, poet, lover of language, beach bum, fitness fanatic, and an appreciator of alliteration. Her work has been featured in South Jersey Magazine, the mobile app Hooked, Artemis, and Port City Review. She loves the rain, chai teas, and memoirs. Wander through her website at briannahowarth.com.

Follow the Tracks #65 : Weekly Song Picks

Found Poem:

killer queen
warranted queen

love on the brain
fall in deep

when we’re high

milk & honey
you belong to me

On your mobile device? Click below to open the YouTube app:
Killer Queen” – Fil Bo Riva

On your mobile device? Click below to open the YouTube app:
Warranted Queen” – Arum Rae

On your mobile device? Click below to open the YouTube app:
Love On The Brain” – Cold War Kids ft. Bishop Briggs (cover)

On your mobile device? Click below to open the YouTube app:
Fall in Deep” – BLOW

On your mobile device? Click below to open the YouTube app:
When We’re High” – LP

On your mobile device? Click below to open the YouTube app:
Madness” – Ruelle

On your mobile device? Click below to open the YouTube app:
Milk & Honey” – Billie Marten

On your mobile device? Click below to open the YouTube app:
You Belong To Me” – Cat Pierce

Founding Editor

Amanda Oaks is the founding editor of Words Dance Publishing, an independent press + biweekly online poetry journal. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in THRUSH Poetry Journal, decomP, & Stirring. She is the author of four poetry collections: Hurricane Mouth (NightBallet Press, 2014), her co-authored split book, I Eat Crow (Words Dance, 2014) & her series of free music-inspired eChapbooks which can be found here: amandaoaks.com. Her forthcoming chapbook, The River is Everywhere, will be published by Red Flag Poetry in summer 2017.

not / knot by Jacqueline He

Art by Rita Keri | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Twitter | Pinterest

not / knot

i. topology

When untying a grief knot, one must
take care to twist both working ends

so as to create an architecture of psyche
different from its conflicted form.

After you left, the cradle sheets began to
edge together, pillowed loosely in sweat.

ii. aveum

Suppose a forest between us. Suppose
the elfin crickets crowning the night firs,

a carousel of squirrels carousing under
the drunken wolves. I dream of small

rodent hands, how one pinched my
kneecap and left a heady numbness.

iii. playground

The slide unpeeled its citrus epidermis
as I sift woodchips for bodies as small

as lemons. Wax rinds snap in halves,
sour juice pooling from a fruitless birth.

Inside the red polymer turrets, I find
curlicues of zest shaped to balls of flesh.

iv. jacquard

Of Mary Magdalene, serene in a cool
blue cashmere top, little buttercups sewn

at the collar. I wore it carefully to preserve
her cleanliness, knotted the baby Jesus

in blankets of tissue paper. Until breath
exited his lungs as fog / water / snow.

Jacqueline He

Jacqueline He is a writer from the Harker School and the Editor in Chief of the Icarus Anthology, an international artistic & literary magazine. She was a prose mentee under Oriana Tang in the Glass Kite Anthology Online Writers’ Studio, and a prose mentee under Lisa Zou in the Quartz Online Writers’ Workshop. She currently serves as a poetry reader for the Glass Kite Anthology and the web developer for Parallel Ink. In February 2017, Jacqueline was featured as a Moledro Magazine Teen Poet.