The Undoing

by Millicent Borges Accardi


There is an impersonalness
to our touch, working backwards
from intimacy into being
mis-associated strangers,
what activities not to do any more:
touching cold feet in bed
or putting a washcloth to my throat.
Are these acceptable gestures
now that we are rewinding into
the opposite of lovers.
We have tried to face the wall
inside the tunnel that is where
we used to travel through on our
way to being together, and we have pressed
in a non-onward direction,
like switching from left to right,
forced to hold the wrong hand,
to relearn how not to. How not to throw
and catch awkwardly. How to face
with the other shoulder, how to bend
the wrong way into a triangle,
into a new limiting direction
that keeps you trapped and strangled
and lost. Everything from scratch
transforming into a scar,
the places when you used to know
things by heart. Time is putting on
your right shoe and steadying
yourself on the left, jumping
around to keep a sort of balance
in an irregular circular way
–as if you are fooling yourself safe,
back on the ground and can protect
the country from falling, becoming
a universal key positioned into
the lock of how new life has become
unremarkable, disappeared and a lot more ugly.



Millicent Borges Accardi, a Portuguese-American writer is the author of two poetry books, most recently Only More So (Salmon Ireland 2016). Her awards include fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), Fulbright, CantoMundo, Foundation for Contemporary Arts NYC (Covid emergency grant), California Arts Council, Yaddo, Fundação Luso-Americana, and Barbara Deming Foundation. She lives in California. Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

Plague Mirror

by Jim Madigan


When the plague stepped off the plane
it held a mirror for all to see.
It showed the broken promise of
liberty and justice for all.

As plague danced across
the country, the mirror
made visible the crusted carbuncles
of a for profit healthcare system,

and illuminated the warehoused
elderly, kept in their rooms,
unable to receive visits from their children
while they grew sick and died.

The plague mirror brought the carceral
state out of the shadows, publicly
laid bare that we lock away people
of color, the uneducated, those mentally disabled.

Plague slipped through walls and cells
to touch Mumia in a Pennsylvania prison,
who lived, and Nickolas Lee in Cook County
Jail awaiting his parole violation hearing, who did not.

Unmistakably, the mirror unmasked
the rich get richer, the poor get
more numerous. Workers in service
and health essentially expendable.

While the duopoly of the oligarchy
debated and divided over what to do,
they were able to agree
on a malignant military budget, so:

No universal healthcare.
No free public education for all.
No homes for the homeless.
No end to the police state.

The plague laughed as the death
count climbed, and the rulers 
proclaimed through the media they own:
“Things are under control,
               the mirror is cracked.”



James Madigan is the father of three daughters, a librarian and is enrolled in the Masters program for Creative Writing – Poetry at University of Illinois Chicago. He has been published in Mantis, Oddball Magazine, Tiger Moth, and others. He lives in Oak Park, Illinois. Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

Covid 19

by Jenny Middleton


Cut a year to cloth
and faces to patchwork –
hemming breath beneath
a stitch-work of masks hanging
like forlorn sheets
queuing on washing lines
blown by muffled speech
between distant poles.

The virus, a ragged spectre,
spiking the air, unseen
and threading its wheezy
spoors at our skin.

And whole days bound by a string
of statistics peddling
us to the margins of empty streets
whittling our interactions
to cards tapped and slithered
between blue gloves
and Perspex, cold as pebbles
battered by a turning tide.

Shot high as December stars,
a vaccine punctuates
the closing year with a firework ellipsis
blazing at our arms,
injected and alive with blood’s
red dot of hope. 




Jenny Middleton has written poetry throughout her life. Some of this is published in printed anthologies or on online poetry sites, including ‘The Blue Nib’. Jenny is a working mum and writes whenever she can  amid the fun and chaos of family life. She lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

Long Haul

by Keri Withington


photos of the oximeter

fill my camera roll

              44 

                         88

                    92

               numbers and dates

scattered like dandelion seeds

               on hot summer streets

      low pulse rate in the morning

      (check when especially tired)

low oxygen rate after exercising or

after staying up too late or waking

up too early or being on my feet too

long or just after…

               the now familiar feeling

         of my lungs being squeezed or flattened

               lying on my belly for air

                       stretching out my shoulders

the exhaustion of needing more exhaustion

of making this feeling normal



Keri Withington is an educator, poet, and aspiring homesteader. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including The Wild Word and Dwelling Literary. She has published two chapbooks: Constellations of Freckles (Dancing Girl Press) and Beckoning from the Waves (Plan B Press). Withington lives with her husband, three children, and four fur babies in the Appalachian foothills. You can find her in Zoom classes for Pellissippi State, planting in her yard, or on FB (@KeriWithingtonWriter). Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

Path Not Taken

by San Lin Tun


Braving enough to tread

on the leaves strewn path?


Just simply for wanting to hear

the crunching and rustling under your feet.


Even the wind that picked

those leaves off from the twigs,


Feels repentant

and makes atonement now.



San Lin Tun is a poet from Myanmar. He is the author of over ten English books including Reading a George Orwell Novel in a Myanmar Teashop and Other Essays, The Enigma of Big Bunny’s Arrival and Other Short Stories, A Shirt and Other Poems, and An English Writer. He is certified in AmPox.3 and Start Writing Fiction. He earned a B.E degree in Metallurgy and an M.A degree in Buddha-Dhamma. Currently, he is a guest fiction editor of Ambrosial Garland Literary Magazine. Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

The Fall of the American Middle Class as Seen from Our Location in the Woods

by Ericka Lutz


the glass on my iphone is a spiderweb of shatter

the burned out bulb in the antique floor lamp
is special order, and back-ordered

the refrigerator cheese drawer cover broke off
and there’s no replacement available online

the jet printer/scanner ink dried up but
the replacement cartridge has dried up too

and the downstairs laser printer only prints if you change
the network then unplug and replug in the printer
after you hit print and before you hit confirm and then
only every third time and
never on documents that matter

upstairs, the toilet  has sediment in the lines so
we keep the tank lid on the floor of the bedroom under
the armchair which wiggles when you sit on it

and fill a pot in the sink
and pour water into the tank to flush

and the downstairs toilet is clogged
no matter how many times Dan works it
with the drain snake, so the snake dangles out of the toilet

and will until the plumber comes in 9 days

the cats killed the upstairs palm by
shitting in the dirt and snapping the fronds so
we moved the heavy pot outside but
there’s still dirt on the wood floor

because the Dyson makes a high whine and has no suction
and the old upright Hoover sucks only through the hose
so I’ll need to get on my knees
and my knees hurt when I kneel
and when I climb the stairs

downstairs the front wall is taped and textured but not yet painted
the floor near the wall is covered with plastic sheeting and
stacked with tools

the cold water in the kitchen sink is slow though
the hot water runs fine

and raccoons ate the goldfish in the plastic pond
outside but the pump still works though the pond fills
with maple leaves and pine needles

the washing machine died again and
the serviceman is MIA so
Dan – double-masked with a jumbo jar of sanitizer –
heads out for socks and BVDs to our small town Walmart
where mask-less crowds hang in the aisles and
twice a week there’s a fist fight

while I post frantically on NextDoor for used washers
ignoring conspiracy theorists and fearful MAGAs

and Dan comes home tired and angry and scrubs his hands
and builds a fire in the woodstove because
the furnace won’t be installed until February as
it, too, is back-ordered

and it’s Happy Hour and we sip Laphroig
and Viognier

and the Smart TV won’t update so we we sit on the couch
scrolling news on my old MacBook
which only works as a browser

broken like everything is but pretending we’re not



Ericka Lutz‘s short fiction, CNF, and poetry has been published in Literary Mama, Verve, The Slate, Green Mountains Review, Scrivener Creative Review, Sideshow, and many others. She was a two-time Fellow at the Virginia Center for Creative Arts, and winner of the Boston Fiction Festival. The SF Chronicle called her novel, The Edge of Maybe, “an unconventional family drama and sexy satire.” She lives in the foothills of Northern California. Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

More & More Vectors

by Yuan Changming


Another broken line of thought about the pandemic sweeping the whole world

Two worlds dueling fiercely against each other within every space

Three spirited dragons throwing fires from the sagging sky

Four dozen celled chips occupying all the brain circuits

Five scores of tsunamis of dark matter invading from beyond the universe

Six hundred inner black holes sucking reason and feeling alike

Seven thousand fishes keeping charging towards the beach 

Eight million mosquitos roaring together more aloud than lions and tigers

Nine billion viruses struggling to come out of Pandora’s box with evils

Ten trillion zombies and vampires marching along each road and street

Jumping from deep waters & among muted echoes of its own calls

A whale sings: Time to wake up, time to wake up, damned Humans!



Yuan Changming hails with Allen Yuan from poetrypacific.blogspot.ca. Credits include Pushcart nominations and publications in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline,  among others. Recently, Yuan served on the jury for Canada’s 44th National Magazine Awards (English poetry category). Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

Iridescent Dusk

by Kim Malinowski


She died dreaming vibrant hues.

On ventilator, released,

dreaming and sleeping in clouds

all crimson and indigo,

no shadows, only shades of violet.

Whisper, hush, hesitant smile,

dreaming lilac dreams, dying, breath-by-breath.

Fading into marmalade skies,

kaleidoscope Autumn leaves,

lush mustards, tapered oranges, crinkling browns.

She faded into color, dreams, my memory.

Her ether is crisp citrine,

her dreams chanteuse, amber.

Her smile dusty rose and cheeks faint blush.

I did not know she was my prism

refracting light, breaking color into my life.

She leaves me pastels.

Hues leaving, leaving, leaving.



Kim Malinowski is a lover of words. Her collection Home was published by Kelsay Books. Her chapbook Death: A Love Story was published by Flutter Press. Her work has appeared in many magazines and literary magazines. She writes because the alternative is unthinkable. Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

breathing

by Dan Brook


conscious of breathing
deeply in and slowly out
each cycle
both a beginning Big Bang
and an eventual Black Hole
each cycle
timelessly repeated
by us and others
breathing in
the sweep of ancient history
breathing out
the tug of future possibilities
exchanging energy and vapor and hope
with whales and willow trees
with dinosaurs and dandelions
with our ancestors and descendants
the rhythmic ebb and flow of worldly waters
the cyclical orbits of each one of us
around all others
through the many miracles
of co-evolutionary development
the terrestrial dance of flora and fauna
breathing each other
into continued existence
our cells
and the many cells of many others
temporarily inhabiting us
each one of those
microscopic bits of us
temporarily housing
the galactic scatter of stars
and the remnants of primordial slime
as the vast oceans
nurture
the dust, debris, and detritus
as well as the raw and basic ingredients
of life’s vaster cosmic journey
on this small, remote, inconsequential, fragile
albeit spectacularly beautiful bluish planet
where only the concept of infinity
is infinite
and where the only meaning of life
is the meaning we create in life
with each conscious breath
deeply in and slowly out



Dan Brook teaches in the Department of Sociology and Interdisciplinary Social Sciences at San Jose State University in California, from where he organizes the Hands on Thailand program. His most recent book of poetry is Sweet Nothings. Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.

The Doldrums

by Kim Klugh


I’ve slipped from my moorings

not knowing whether I’m coming or going.

I’m stuck more or less in neutral, at best.

I’m stranded and numb, not knowing or caring

about what’s to come. My momentum’s

been lost so I turn and I toss.

With no wind in my sail I flail

as if drowning. I’m not coming or going–

I’m caught in the doldrums.

Adrift, at loose ends, I float

through the same day

again and again.



Kim Klugh is an English/writing tutor. Her poetry has been published on Vox Poetica and Verse Virtual. Several of her poems have appeared in two craft books edited by Diane Lockward and published by Terrapin Press: The Practicing Poet and The Crafty Poet II. Her haiku has been published by her local paper in Lancaster, PA. She was also a contributor to NPR’s Morning Edition community poem for Ahmaud Arbery, “Running for Your Life,” in May 2020. Nancy Andrews is an artist living outside of Philadelphia. Self taught in photography, she has been perfecting her images for over 15 years. Her subjects include abstracts, images inspired by nature, and observations of the world around her. Along with photography, she spends her days teaching art to little ones, playing ukulele and romping with her two little pups.