The Critical Act

All weekend he sorted his stack of newspapers: first by
date, and then by disasters, which he subdivided into fact
and fiction. There were more involving mineshafts than he
remembered, though surprisingly few that involved feisty
collies with a near-human capacity for communication.
Tragedy on the high seas was particularly well-represented,
with a remarkable proportion declared unaccountable, and
given the number of airborne calamities reported on a daily
basis – from melting wings of wax and feathers, to space
capsules ambushed by gravity or alien raiders – it was a
minor miracle that none had crashed through his ceiling.
Each pile grew like an ungrounded rumour until two towers
leaned over him, blocking out the light. By Monday
morning, his eyes ached with grief and his arms ached with
the unexpected weight of words, but he felt that, for the first
time in his life, he could separate truth from lies.

Oz Hardwick is a poet, photographer, occasional musician, and accidental academic, whose most recent chapbook is Retrofuturism for the Dispossessed (Hedgehog, 2024). When not writing, Oz is a long-time dabbler on the fringes of the UK space rock scene, and Professor of Creative Writing at Leeds Trinity University.

Alphabetical

The saponaceous trail washes away another year.
I have no aptitude for auditing, so I let it continue.
Computation is a coarse way to live, though it has
many votaries. Filigree of family bypasses my
prostoon. I await a switch-over till prehension
dawns: In my craps, the dice capitulates. When
celestial beings collogue, why employ chiffers?

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry. His poetry has been published in over thirty-five
countries and has appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He
edited Dreich Planet #1 India, an anthology for Hybriddreich, Scotland. He is the joint winner of
the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. He lives in
Mumbai, India.

Smiles

Sometimes it is hard to tell
If it is really a smile or if
Just a toothy splash of smug
Taping the mouth open. Or,
Perhaps, a grimace, clenched
To bear, to kill, or even to endear.
Or, it may be, simply simple
Resignation to, or from, what.
Be it a smirk, or merely a quirk
Of mirth or a tense, ironic sneer.
We cannot know, only suspect.
There is decay behind the enamel
Veneer. But we smile to ourself.
We know it. Tight lips, and all that.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.