January House Literary Journal

Tony Brinkley's poetry, art and translations have appeared recently in COLLATERAL, TRAFIKA EUROPE, ANA, NASHVILLE REVIEW, EXCHANGES, NEOLOGISM, POEMS IN TRANSLATION, BOMBAY REVIEW, PICTURA JOURNAL, BLUE UNICORN, MERION WEST, REVERIE, VIRIDINE LIBRARY, RUMEN, SOUL, LAST LEAVES REVIEW, LOVER'S EYE PRESS, MISERERE REVIEW, CONSEQUENCE FORUM, JERRY JAZZ MUSICIAN and ANTIFA REVIEW. Before retirement,…

by Kevin Snyder A caterpillar fingers its way up my forearm. I’ve shut my eyes so I can only feel the fine hairs and half an inch of tiny stubs. Its head antennas the air. It doesn’t know that the whole world is the rectangle of my arm. Mom plods in. We’re in the Pink Lady tonight. I hide the critter in my fist and my fist beneath the blanket. She sits, breathes, asks what I’m up to. Her neck…

by R. A. Allen Today is much hotter than yesterday.And when I slosh in on the sandbankthe sea foam swirling around my anklesreminds me of cappuccino froth.The bay's water molecules are in a riot of thermal expansion, they jostle away from each other like irritable speed freaks,causing a lift in the sea level, causing me to ride microns higher with each breaststroke's insweep.All of this for a…

by Mervyn Seivwright Sometimes I need a sad song Coltrane serenading the parts of me whored out as each of us have Layers loosened enough in clothes to cut skin from an Uptown Chicago wind whipping corners I hear a hiss my breath these days withers Golden hour morning on Dutch coast coasting waves whistling breeze a gliding seagull sun teasing beyond the dunes I paint inside my eyes trapping…

by David Colodney David Colodney is a poet living in Boynton Beach, Florida. He is the author of Gen X Redux, forthcoming in 2026 from Main Street Rag Publishing, and the chapbook Mimeograph (Finishing Line Press, 2020). A Best of the Net and four-time Pushcart nominee, his work has appeared in multiple journals. David currently serves as an associate editor of South Florida Poetry Journal and…

by M.C. Schmidt She found them on eBay and got them for a steal. Once they arrived, she wrapped them and kept them in her underthings drawer until Russ’s birthday. “What’s this, Norma?” he asked when she presented him with the gift. She raised her eyebrows to say, Open it and see… To her delight, he got it. “Well,” he said, smiling at the stack of postcards. There were fifteen of them, blank,…

Gordon Massman's work is represented by Ro Gallery in NY and has been featured in magazines across the world including Berlin, Barcelona, Toronto, Florence, NY, Lisbon, London, among others. Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window)Bluesky Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)WhatsApp Share on Mastodon (Opens in new window)Mastodon Share on Print (Opens in new window)Print Share on LinkedIn…

by Mark Nuzzi Paul Whittaker had been collecting stamps for forty-seven years, each acquisition a small victory in his methodical pursuit of postal perfection. His Manhattan penthouse reflected a life of disciplined success. Mahogany bookshelves lined with legal texts, framed commendations from three mayors, and walls displaying pristine stamp collections in museum-quality frames. The apartment…

by Christy Hartman My daughter pushes a salt-crusted curl off her face, crouching to examine the pebbles surrounding the tidepool. Show her where it is, Dad.  Ruthie’s delighted squeal signals a discovery. “Mom, look!” My twelve-year-old expertly hops over the rocky shore, a piece of sea glass in her palm.  “Oh cool, another brown one.” I open my father’s leather-bound notebook and tick a box…

by Jeffrey Thompson How can I finish anything when my first instinct is always wrongand my second instinct is to trustmy first instinct? All the wordsstand up straight and blamelesson their shelves but soon I can’t place them anymore.They are the spines of books I don’t remember readingor someone else’s family photos.They are an empty museum wall,or traffic stalled in a blizzard,trees lining a…

by Terry Barr Was there ever a singer more lonely in this world than Tammy Wynette? Steacy Easton, in Why Tammy Wynette Matters, coined the phrase a “Tammy Wynette kind of pain (59).” It’s the kind of pain I keep thinking about when I hear Tammy’s version of “Lonely Street.”  In the early 1960s Wynette lived in the Elyton section of Birmingham, Alabama, with her two kids, more or less estranged…

Kelly DuMar is a poet, playwright, photographer and workshop facilitator. She’s author of four poetry collections. Her poems are published in Bellevue Literary Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Thrush and more. Her images have been featured on the cover of Josephine Quarterly, About Place, Synkroniciti, Feral, Cool Beans Lit, Young Ravens Literary Review, Etymology, Confetti and Atlantic Northeast. Kelly…

Bill Wolak has just published his nineteenth book of poetry entitled What Love Calms Only With Nakedness with Expeditions International Publishing House. His collages and photographs have appeared as cover art for such magazines as Phoebe, The Passionfruit Review, Inside Voice, and Barfly Poetry Magazine. Share on Bluesky (Opens in new window)Bluesky Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new…

by Elizabeth D. Jennings the sun sags lower in my windshield than it did last week. i can’t blame her; the weight of it all, it makes a girl tired. i think i’ll nap when i get home, curl like a cat on top of the covers, curtains open so the pink-strained evening can get in. i won’t miss the cicada-shrieked heat of summer, the sweat stains and bracelets of mosquito bites. it’s just mom’s tomatoes…

by Kelly Murashige I find out a boy’s gone missing from a flyer on a corkboard. Had he disappeared a year or two ago, I would have found out from the news. For a while, I immersed myself in the goings-on of the world, afraid if I let a war, a bill, a cultural event pass me by, everyone would brand me ignorant, perhaps even maliciously so, and leave me in the past, where I arguably…

by Barbara Daniels “Leap, and the net will appear.” John BurroughsYou’re in the grill basket. You’re fried.But rumor has it that certain kinds of tinfoil hats can protect you. Sleep is a wall you slip down to join phantasmas and eclipses. But sleep can order your thoughts, teach you to be calm. Arm yourself with a garden hose and a small brush. When a Cooper’s hawk dives for you, flee. Look up,…

by Marcy Rae Henry we drive softly, before light begins, rain, fog—time everywhere but hard to see. we’re quieter than when you arrived, already redefining our space.after i miss the exit, we make a loopadding ten minutes to the journey.people say i love you for little wisps and twingesbut i don’t tell you about my bowels creaking as if an old house. i apologize for wrecking time and you put…