Naked and Fallen
Jenna Citrus

Through Process
Emily Plummer

The Annex
Casey Burke

Tearing at Sores
Regis Louis

The Birth of Our Names
Tesneem Madani

Untitled No. 4
Sarah Kronz

Our Condition
Troy Neptune

On the Fundamentals of Art and the Soul
Ayla Maisey

In the Foreground
Aree Rachel Coltharp

Of a Woman
Jackie Vega

Winafret Casto

The Seventeen Seconds of Odette
Rachel Lietzow

Hidden in Sight
Jenna Citrus

Casandra Robledo

The Passage
Liam Trumble

Resentment as a Kind of Relief
Eric Kubacki

Beauty Standards
Sarah Kronz

Over the Kanawha
Claire Shanholtzer

Anne Livingston

Sponsorships & Acknowledgements


For Empty Spaces
Regis Louis

Liam Trumble

Culled from the Flock
Deborah Rocheleau

Searching for Divinity
Madeleine Richey

From Pillars to Dust
Madeleine Richey

As Best I Could Do
Hoda Fakhari

In Your Absence
Emma Croushore

Sarah Kronz

The Shadow of Paris
Anika Maiberger

The Liffey
Kara Wellman

Memories of Home
Audrey Lee

Jackie Vega

The Beauty in Fracturing
Taylor Woosley

Butcher Paper
Casandra Robledo

Human Scavenger
Devin Prasatek

Babel Was a Second Eden
Luke McCusker

The Painting in Gallery 26
Sydney Crago

Sofia Io Celli

Ayla Maisey


Tearing at Sores

Anger, a rash from the sumac’s poison,
painful and distracting from any peace of mind.
Our fingernails dig epidermic trenches on
an all-too familiar battleground that stings
of mustard gas and iodine.
Citizens sell ticker tape and bonds;
such ferocious love of a dying profession.
Death sweeps down the wedding aisle,
her hair tied back in a borrowed bonnet.
The guests shift uncomfortably
in their wooden pews: they want to object,
but they each hold their respective breaths.
Death never seemed so lovely.

Misery, a sore inside a gum or cheek,
his teeth gnawing to and from.
They wonder if the wound has healed,
knowing that it hasn’t. Like an apologetic
husband bursting to his bleeding wife’s side,
guilt chases rage from his crying voice;
the tongue keeps tearing at cankerous holes,
sores that taste of vinegar and Epsom.
The best remedy: to rinse with time,
but tragic tunes stitch open wounds,
and minor chords know how pain feels.


About The Author

Regis Louis is currently studying English at Kent State University. When he is not laboring over his poems, you can find him working at the Wick Poetry Center. He believes that it is his duty as a poet to use his writing as not only creative relief for himself but also as an opportunity to share his understanding of human life with others. He thanks you for reading his words.