"What Dark, Foreign Wind?" by Jason Ryberg

What Dark, Foreign Wind?

A small, incandescent butterfly, at the center

of a crossroads in a dream that

we can’t quite tell whether it’s going to be good or

bad, yet. What dark, foreign wind brought

you to us and where

will it be

taking

you

next?

Jason Ryberg is the author of twenty-two books of

poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full

of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could

one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and countless

love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in-

residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted

P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an

editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is “Bullet Holes

in the Mailbox (Cigarette Burns in the Sheets) Back of the

Class Press, 2024)).”

"Less Than I’d Hoped For / More Than I Cared For", "Passing Through the Eye of a Snowflake", and "Rain and Then" by Jason Ryberg"

Less Than I’d Hoped For / More Than I Cared For

So

far,

things have

turned out a

little differently

than I thought they would: no real, huge

complaints (I’ve been weirdly lucky, I guess), probably

the usual – less than you’d hoped for / more than

you cared for – maybe a little bit more

of what some guys get and a lot less of what gets left

behind when they’re done picking through

the choicest cuts, but

hey, we’re not

here to

get

down

in

the

mud of

covetous-

ness and resentment

or stir up any trouble that

doesn’t need stirring, so let’s just take stock in what we

have, count our blessings, be thankful and all that

crap and get back to work, people.

Passing Through the Eye

of a Snowflake

They say to reach the

calm at the center of the

hurricane, first you

must pass through the eye of a

snowflake (or something like that).

Rain and Then

Rain

on a tin roof

(down by

the river),

and then

it turns to hail,

which in-turn

makes sleeping hell.

Like headbones knockin,’

knucklebones poppin,’

footbones hoppin.’

And what was it

Brother Leghorn

used to tell the kids—

I say, I say,

more noise

than a couple o’ skeletons

pitchin’ a fit

on a tin roof

that is

the rain

the hail

on a tin roof

(that is).

"Village Life of the Formerly Damned" and "dowsing for promotion" by Zoë Davis

Village Life of the Formerly Damned

Dracula went for fish ‘n’ chips when the sun set, rising from uneasy slumber to mist his way

through rain-steamed village where he now existed.

It was only small. A seagull framed stretch of coast boasting a barnacled pier and sand, in one square foot, but mostly pebbles.

Some nights he could be seen skimming stones across the bay, taking chunks out of boats

cursing, then scurrying away.

All the locals knew him. He always asked for scraps with extra chips, soaking them in vinegar, a squirt of ketchup. Salt, he kept well away from.

He’d cradle supper against his chest, soaking up its warmth, oil-stains greasing his cape.

No one asked.

It was his thing, a reflective thing, as he studied the horizon, star-swept and vast, far from home yet willing to absorb the traditions of others.

Often, he’d leave his meal in the hands of strangers, pulling their crooked backs from waste bins,telling them to feed, consume.

Dead inside, he lived through them. Safe in harbour, he was tame but out there a piece of

himself, adrift, he hoped they’d never see.

Sated, he returned to his castle, one bed apartment on King's Street. Before sinking into hiscoffin he paused, wiped beef dripping, good deeds, from pale hands and prayed the moon

goodnight.

dowsing for promotion

soiled hands offer a divination of prayer

here between mouse &amp keyboard see me

waiting for Hermes

windows/ceilings

there to break with cunning palmistry

let me claim territory between your fingerprints

within cracks of this century’s improprieties

able tongue sniping

hawthorn stilettos scarring mahogany

bloody as I lay still

magic in these secretarial fingers

I thank you

you don’t thank me

for reading between lines of tea

so may it be

another broom

broom dust dancing

cha-cha-cha

so may it be

with these hands

I reap/cast/sow

my own reward

Bio: Zoë Davis is an emerging writer from Sheffield, England. She's a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can't do by playing wheelchair rugby league. In her free time she writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant, Dust and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she's always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.