Issue #33.8 Amieka Akili, Carol Ellis, Justin Karcher, Mike Alexander
Two Poems by Amieka Akili
Where We Go in the Mornings
The birds land on the old structure before they start their song. They're everywhere - in all of the familiar places - and it's as if the structure is still standing. We spend our mornings moving around the way we always have, as though the guts of the building never fell out, as though there was still a staircase for us to walk up and down. Someone's beloved child runs by and yells something - their echo through the empty space is disorienting. The sunrise shoots light straight at me, through the middle of the old structure, with nothing to stop it. We can still sing in the exact same way. I still remember all the dance moves ********************I am not a person who enjoys going to the grocery store, even though I feel fortunate to still go there. I hate paying rent. I hate how long it takes for movies to come out, and how TV shows can take 3 years to give you 18 episodes now. I hate that I remember how much better things used to be. I hate awareness. I hate reading about all the options and I usually skim over some of them. I remind him not to hate me if I don't read the things he sends me over the weekend. I hate having to cross that bridge with him over and over. I hate when they leave my DoorDash order in front of the wrong door. I hate what has become of me, and the rest of my block, and all that is holy.
Cathedral
We stayed in the big room. We appreciated how the acoustics were very good. There was a high ceiling; there was no carpet to muffle the sound; we would not be absorbed into nothingness, but would rather be carried on the air. When I spoke, and he was there, he turned his head, as if someone was really speaking. He sat up, moved by some noise, and I heard it too, strangely- I heard an echo in that one big room. I heard more echoes; they came back to me; they wanted me to hear them; they spoke to me, softly; they sang to me, slowly; they approached me. I regarded them, in some new way I hadn't thought to before, and they had been made different by my gazing, and their moving, and they were so familiar still. We discussed what we had found, some wealth of sensory experience, some history told through the glass, brightly, some illusory quality of angelic presence - but none of this is superfluous, it's needed - but illusion is a misnomer for mystery - but we don't know what we don't know, so how could you know? - and that's where the debate starts, and that pretty much takes us all the way home -
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Amieka Akili (she/they) is a queer abolitionist writer living in the Pacific Northwest. She created an interactive poetry piece which debuted at Base Camp Studios in Seattle in 2025. Amieka recently wrote a piece about the impact of ICE on local communities which will appear in the Humanity issue of The Opal Age Tribune. You can find her outside.
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A Poem by Carol Ellis
Imagine Snow
For a minute I thought it had snowed, and that frozen drops fell on my forsythia as it screamed for attention by the back door, but it was the light flashing in early morning when the fog carried tree branches and dreams, but no snow, just reality, it wasn’t even spring, just the start of winter when the cold air was still pleasant and not all the leaves were gone, and the chatter
of pine needles lasting into the frozen days when not even a coat is warm enough, although I pretend and wear gloves over my lost, arthritic fingers and hope to last the winter, I’m that old, that broken, that repaired over and over again, this time I think a B12 injection will keep me around with some energy, enough to get food and drink, maybe a dance alone at night and at the window I reach for the moon that’s there and not there like melting snow, or the voices of those that melted and fed the ground for spring.
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Carol Ellis lives in Portland, Oregon and is a two time nominee of the Pushcart Prize. Her books include the full length Lost and Local (Pacific Coast Poetry Series, 2019), HELLO (Two Plum Press, 2018), and I Want A Job (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her publications include JAMA, Comstock Review, North Dakota Quarterly, ZYZZYVA, and The Cincinnati Review.
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A Poem by Justin Karcher
It Used to Be a Notorious Red-Light District, but Colors Never Wash Away Easily
If I squint, the junkies underneath the Starbucks sign do resemble mermaids. I suppose we all trade our voices at some point to launch ourselves back ashore.
Next to the empty club, with the cowboy hanging from its face like a tumorous teardrop, a drug deal is happening in broad daylight. It's Memorial Day
weekend, and the cop cars scatter like drops of paint on a canvas. It takes a steady hand to make it make sense. I've been known to lose myself on this block, too.
One night, I ate Wegmans sushi in the rain and told a stray cat all my dirty secrets. In return it advised “Feel blessed you can't fly away.” It just took a while
for me to stop lipsticking the sky onto greasy paper plates and making wings out of them. You have to peel back multiple layers of Icarus skin before you finally fall.
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Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher, Bluesky: @justinkarcher.bsky.social) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright from Buffalo. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). Recent playwriting credits include The Birth of Santa (American Repertory Theater of WNY) and “The Buffalo Bills Need Our Help” (Alleyway Theatre). https://www.justinkarcherauthor.com
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A Poem by Mike Alexander
This Poem
This poem is not a pack of cigarettes. I don't expect that anyone will pay two cents for my two cents. No sir, all bets are off. This poem will not sell the way that vapid multi-flavored vape-pens sell. No venture capitalist is like to say "the poetry market is performing well, & this one's likely to outsell the rest!" This poem won't be monetized, but, hell, you wanna tip my Venmo, be my guest. We sell our pipe dreams & our fond regrets, so our possessions won't be repossessed. I have to eat. To cover all my debts. This poem is not a pack of cigarettes.
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Mike Alexander has a new poetry collection coming out, The Necessary Slice (Finishing Line Press, 2026) & one previous, Retrograde (P&J Poetics, 2013). His work has appeared in numerous journals, such as Rattle, Measure, Texas Review, Texas Observer, Borderlands, New Orleans Review, etc.
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