Eunoia Review

I find a PBR in my basement’s drop ceiling, warm and unopened. I remove more tiles, uncovering a lock of hair taped to a “first haircut” certificate, and an endangered species poster with hand-drawn birds, one with a bright blue body, another with a rainbow back. After a second cup of tea, I put it all back in the ceiling for someone else to find. Michael Degnan lives on an island in Maine. His…

Here, take my hand. I am offering you a kindness – a warm mug of tea and a vanilla scone. Do you even like vanilla? No matter, here we are. Try to be kinder to yourself. Your father’s fists no longer exist. At least, I can make it so. Here, in a small apartment, cozy and comforting, I will try to fix your life. We need no fuel for that. Only the heart and all that it can give. Louisa Schnaithmann…

My eyes are slowly getting worse as well. You should know that. But here, the moss grows correctly, lush and verdant. How can I correct your death? I step so carefully over beds and beds of flowers. I try not to crush the bluebells and daffodils in my grandmother’s front yard. They won’t spoil, instead blooming and then fading for the tulips and eventually, roses. I see your life so fuzzily, as…

The leaves are being consumed – a wretched worm, munching along each vein, each stem. I’m wondering how much you knew of your own end – were you expecting it? Did the tree silhouetted against the clear blue sky tell you anything special? What about the moss? Was it whispering to you all along? What about a good day in spring? Was that ever an option? Louisa Schnaithmann is the author of Plague…

My father has always been my father. I could say his name, but it would echo back to me, reverberate in the night. The fire grows in the woods. It will consume. I will not keep silent in the deep bluedark. Instead, I eye the stars, hold memory close, hold my dying mother closer. Louisa Schnaithmann is the author of Plague Love (Moonstone Arts Center, 2021) and Apocalypse Rainbow (Rockwood Press,…

I suture you back together, unfail the begonias, unmake your shame, reverse your fall, get you off that roof, undo your heartbreak that repeated your whole life. I alive you. Resurrection, at a cost. Louisa Schnaithmann is the author of Plague Love (Moonstone Arts Center, 2021) and Apocalypse Rainbow (Rockwood Press, 2026). She is the consulting editor for ONE ART: a journal of poetry and lives…

My wife makes me some roasted corns and bush pears since they are now prayer requests. In the kitchen, the kettle on the stove rattles like the train track’s throat. My wife glues her eyes to her phone, looking up bone straight hair. Relaxed. On the phone, my father asks me about America. I squeeze my reply into the phone. Not long after, a fly hovers over my corn. I swat it, slaying the…

will you hold my face in the cup of your hand one last time by the river where we met. i need nothing more or less. Greg Wood is a southern cosmopolitan poet with roots in Virginia and connections to Alabama and Amman, Jordan. He has recently been featured in Dodging the Rain, Amethyst Review, and The Lake, among others. Next July, his poem about an Amish woman in the Shenandoah will be printed…

clumped with birch leaves and bark                on the surface of our pond, neck unfurled                                                    over the edge of a lily pad. My bare feet                            slip-slick on water             droplets in the grass, the wet clover                                                             clings. Clinging to my knees, I imagine…

the nurse led me down a corridor still smelling of disinfectant and lilies. somewhere, a drawer shut on a name. i said yours under my breath, but the syllables slid like marbles. there was a window. i remember it. outside, marigolds curled black in the sun, their stems bent, refusing resurrection. i thought of your shoes by the door, hollow vessels, waiting for a pulse. in my chest, the hymnbook…

My father, resilient like ice, aware when he is turned upside down. Not bothered by disorientation, always recovers and flips himself up right. Seeing him, you’d never know what he’s lost. The heaviness he carries— took his mother twenty-one years to say, I love you. His love dissolved by the sun. He holds these tight, shuts me out to stay comfortable, only hugs for show. He comes from…

            jumping the banks of the river, the sky flutters overhead like it knows something I don’t. Like             loveliness is something you can pick up and swallow, like we only ever open up from outside -in. Woke up this morning and realized I was in love             with you. Sorry, sorry for waiting to hear your voice over the phone when I should’ve just called. Sorry             for…

morning came gently through the window broke the silence awake and stirred us into existence we are repeating / regressing your bangle in my bedroom found thrown upon the floor an unspoken reminder i don’t wish you to leave i just want you to stay burn inside it will hurt at first but there must be reparations if we are to continue because we’ve been here before we’ve done the stations of the…

In the gap between fluid air and still water spirit lamps light the way down disused paths Alan Catlin has some new books out including Work Anxiety Poems (Roadhouse Press) and Still Life with Apocalypse (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions).

Bodies without features hand and arms turned to water legs thin as ice a river flows beneath Alan Catlin has some new books out including Work Anxiety Poems (Roadhouse Press) and Still Life with Apocalypse (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions).

There is a substitute for everything. Seven dead zinnias in a windowbox. Condensation on a dirty pane. I crave the last drop, unadorned, opening directly into the sacred. Hallways we travel night-blind until, somehow, we know the sky outside is dotted with grackles. Jim Zola is a poet and photo artist living in North Carolina. Several of his books are available on Amazon.

I have a jacket with pockets like dark envelopes I fill with letters. This one tells about my kids, who ride broken bicycles forever through the night. Another explains why I walk with eyes downcast, in search of shiny things, how alike we are. I’ve had enough of me. Someday I’ll empty each deep pocket. Jim Zola is a poet and photo artist living in North Carolina. Several of his books are…