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Songs of Sanctums Some chords are forced into paean-ode with rests and clefs from a requiem chant. The choir tries but the tempo is the tell, it's just a stilted beat that mines a staccato promise out of a legato wail. K. V. Balady is a writer and editor from Bergen County, New Jersey.

Earthquake Weather I wake to a swirl of politics. The air is bitter the way chocolate is bitter. I think of my childhood, where it's always October, and my father is telling me to stand in the doorway. Instead, I dive under the bed. I ask my father, Can the earth really swallow a whole city? On…

You Would Have Loved MCR The ghost of my dead boyfriend comes and goes like he owns the place. I'd rather see Dad but Dad won't come yet. I wonder if my dead boyfriend has come as an ambassador. He never visited before Dad left, but he loved Dad and Dad loved him and once drove me to see him. Dad…

The Messages Her affection drafted in shade, read with a flash— scarce words of love and nothing falling deep into his chest. He answers in grey. They wait, each for the other. Louise Pocock is Vice President, Client, at BoardOutlook, where she works at the intersection of board performance,…

Relapse Imagine this: dreams smeared across the wall, we run back home where our hands lie in piles of shit, defeated by the appeal of belonging. How easily we're fooled into thinking what's familiar is safe, aligning the trajectory of a wife's beaten skull back into orbit with her husband's fist,…

Here Comes The Sun The sun knocks on my door, he comes uninvited, and I hide under blankets of sorrow, but the sun breaks in, like he owns the place, like he knows no barriers, no borders, he claims he's been here since forever, and he claims the house and me, as the walls start to yawn like weary…

Winter at East Lake The flowers are buried under the frozen earth along with the residents on cemetery hill. My ancestors are there. They were dead before my birth. Like the flowers in October, this snow destroys my will. As my roof groans, with the wind's lethal blows, I'm snowbound. My fingers…

Pigeon We trespass when we enter and cut when we leave, all of us, we scatter our tiny lives onto other tiny lives sown along pavement and grass, patches that become whole realms to some and little shortcuts to others, and we don't know when we're stepping on dirt or on jewels or on ashes. I used…

Un Día Ordinario Afternoons are for dragonflies. They loop overhead, back and forth above my tiny plastic pond. Four children are found alive after a plane crash. How did they survive? Some combination of love and emergency propelled them, looping back and forth from the small pile of wreckage,…

Talking to the Mirror When sleeping bags are rolled out and parents are in bed, we flock to the bathroom and huddle in the dark. Even with a flashlight, the problem is reversed from the talking board, not Who speaks from the otherside? but Who speaks for us? Some say it's seven times, others are…

Some chords are forced into paean-ode with rests and clefs from a requiem chant. The choir tries but the tempo is the tell, it's just a stilted beat that mines a staccato promise out of a legato wail. K. V. Balady is a writer and editor from Bergen County, New Jersey.

I wake to a swirl of politics. The air is bitter the way chocolate is bitter. I think of my childhood, where it's always October, and my father is telling me to stand in the doorway. Instead, I dive under the bed. I ask my father, Can the earth really swallow a whole city? On the other side of the mountains,

Her affection drafted in shade, read with a flash— scarce words of love and nothing falling deep into his chest. He answers in grey. They wait, each for the other. Louise Pocock is Vice President, Client, at BoardOutlook, where she works at the intersection of board performance, strategy and technology. Her poetry has been published in Australian and international journals, and her children's picture book Earth's Moving Day (Starfish Bay Publishing, 2025) explores environmental themes.

The ghost of my dead boyfriend comes and goes like he owns the place. I'd rather see Dad but Dad won't come yet. I wonder if my dead boyfriend has come as an ambassador. He never visited before Dad left, but he loved Dad and Dad loved him and once drove me to see him. Dad drove all day and all night, he drove a thousand miles so that I could see him for an hour, back when they were both alive, but they're both ghosts now.

Imagine this: dreams smeared across the wall, we run back home where our hands lie in piles of shit, defeated by the appeal of belonging. How easily we're fooled into thinking what's familiar is safe, aligning the trajectory of a wife's beaten skull back into orbit with her husband's fist, or how whenever bad days hit we crawl our 200-pound belly…

When sleeping bags are rolled out and parents are in bed, we flock to the bathroom and huddle in the dark. Even with a flashlight, the problem is reversed from the talking board, not Who speaks from the otherside? but Who speaks for us? Some say it's seven times, others are sweet on three though I've never fingered the Rosary, we held Mario…

The sun knocks on my door, he comes uninvited, and I hide under blankets of sorrow, but the sun breaks in, like he owns the place, like he knows no barriers, no borders, he claims he's been here since forever, and he claims the house and me, as the walls start to yawn like weary accordions stretching their bellows into long ribbons that wrap around my ankles and pull me gently into a river of disjointed bliss, and the sun giggles in a voice made of orange juice hiccups, he asks me to dance with a flock of swans who argue politely about the proper way to fry clouds for breakfast and how grief swallows lakes, and we all tumble together through a meadow where the grass whispers secrets about the moon's love affair with the dark monster of sadness, and the sun winks at me with an eye full of sparkling sunshine, while my shoes run away with a happy alternate me arguing over the correct pronunciation of silence, the sun saves me, because I was extinct and I scratch back into existence like I deserve it but I probably don't, and everything dissolves into a soft pink foam of pure joy where even gravity takes a bow before floating away on a yellow balloon, leaving only the sun and me laughing in a single endless breath of joyful wonder that never ends but has already forgotten where it began.

The flowers are buried under the frozen earth along with the residents on cemetery hill. My ancestors are there. They were dead before my birth. Like the flowers in October, this snow destroys my will. As my roof groans, with the wind's lethal blows, I'm snowbound. My fingers feel too cold to write, but the moon glides like a youthful skater,

Afternoons are for dragonflies. They loop overhead, back and forth above my tiny plastic pond. Four children are found alive after a plane crash. How did they survive? Some combination of love and emergency propelled them, looping back and forth from the small pile of wreckage, their mother's body, grandmother's voice calling and calling. The dragonflies hover, reflected on the surface of the pond.

We trespass when we enter and cut when we leave, all of us, we scatter our tiny lives onto other tiny lives sown along pavement and grass, patches that become whole realms to some and little shortcuts to others, and we don't know when we're stepping on dirt or on jewels or on ashes. I used Charles St. yesterday for a whole block with no plan…