Before We Give Back the Keys

Aug 16, 2026

“Open Doors,” oil on canvas, by Vilhelm Hammershøi, 1905.

Dragging the hose through the kitchen,
I stand behind the window screen
and aim at the mud-dauber nest
sealed to the sill—a small clay room.

Forgive me, I say,

as water opens it.

You ask if it was empty.
I tell you no one was home.

Later, pruning the roses,
I hear a buzz catch
in the leaves.

Under the cherry tree,
split fruit sweetens in the grass.
The parsley burns
at the pot’s dry rim.

I keep looking

until you call twice
from the front porch.

At the doorway, lifting the last box,
I see where the couch struck the wall
the day we carried it in.

Kimmy Chang is a McKinney-based writer and computer-vision engineer. A 2026 Writers’ League of Texas Fellow and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Apple Valley Review, wildscape. literary journal, Qu Literary Magazine, and Third Wednesday, among others. Read more at www.kchang.xyz.

What I Most Love About God is His Love of Basketball

Jul 7, 2026

“The Blind Leading the Blind,” tempera on canvas, by Pieter Brueghel the Elder, 1568.

How could I not believe in God
when He loves basketball

this much? Post-win, the coach
first praises Him: We serve

an unbelievable God. I consider faith.
The divinely anointed. But belief

is hard when a forced famine takes
shape, rising parabola like the arc

of a logo three, while the word genocide
triggers a blacklist only the laid bare

truth could earn. When the options
are the Final Four or what

The New York Times insists
we call war—and all of humanity’s

fate rests in your hands—who
wouldn’t be tempted by courtside?

Uncommon favor, we never doubted
for a moment, walk by faith. I want

a God who shows up where
He is most needed. Or

at all. Boiled weeds. Small
fingers pick through animal

feed. I once thought God
was all-powerful, a bearded

White man. Now I’m convinced:
He’s too much like me. Jumbled

priorities, distracted, unwashed
bowls piling up in the sink.

Carlos Andrés Gómez is a Colombian American poet and the author of “Fractures,” winner of the Felix Pollak Prize in Poetry. Winner of the International Book Award, Gómez has been published in The Nation, New England Review, Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day series, The Sunday Times, The Yale Review, and elsewhere. Carlos is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College.

Gravity

Jul 3, 2026

“The Abbey in the Oakwood,” oil on canvas, by Caspar David Friedrich, 1810.

I no longer find it romantic,
how before the sun dazzles the waking
with dancing oranges, reds, and pinks,
the nighttime cedes its blackness to
a soft shade of blue—
Congratulations, you’ve awoken before the world.

I no longer find it romantic,
how fireflies really do look like flickering stars
(trite, but truthful),
or how on summer nights my heart is struck by the inevitability
that I will leave this world,
not the other way around.

I no longer find it romantic,
the dreaming after the drinking
—before the nausea comes—
when we turn into the kind of people
people write stories about:
gorgeous, wild, and young.

I no longer find it romantic,
the city skyline from my rooftop.
We thought we were so alive then,
dangling our legs off the balcony.
We blew smoke into neighboring windows
and I never felt more alone.

Alexei Varah is a student at Hunter College High School in NYC.

Deep Winter, Deep Cold

Jun 19, 2026

“The Magpie,” oil on canvas, by Claude Monet, 1869.

I don’t know if the blue jay
froze to death or first stunned herself
against the woodshed, then fell
onto the ice-hard snow

but there she lay,
bright blue brushstrokes
edged with black
against gleaming, solid white.

I picked up the body, slid it
out into the snowfield that none of us,
not deer, coyote, woman, fox,
could cross until melt came.

By morning, it was gone.
No tracks. Nothing broke the snow.
So I know she was taken up
by something with wings.

Hayden Saunier’s work has been published in journals such as 32 Poems, Shenandoah, Thrush, Southern Poetry Review, The Sun, and Virginia Quarterly Review, as well as featured on Poetry Daily, The Writer’s Almanac, and Verse Daily. Awards include a Pushcart Prize, the Pablo Neruda Prize, the Rattle Poetry Prize, and Gell Poetry Award. Her newest book is Wheel.

Ode to My Breasts

Jun 14, 2026

“Woman at a Window (detail),” oil on canvas, by Caspar David Friedrich, 1822.

(night before the prophylactic mastectomy)

I

light a candle, open the window
play your flute

let’s be honest
I don’t know how to do this

II

all night long
I sing your names

milk animal
memory of mothering
baby playground

caged spit fire
blue satin boy catcher
lemon meringue whiz bang

lullaby murmuration
tender lamb
mourning pillow

cat tails in moonlight
heart nest
empty canoe

III

please forgive me

for seeing you
as traitors

IV

standing at the train station
locomotive hiss and stink
you in your best suit, jacket
tight against the wind
touch of lace at your neck
ticket in hand

no words left
it’s me, loving you
trying not to cry

Erika D. Walker is the author of a poetry chapbook, Caught in the Light, a children’s picture book, Go Outside, and is co-author of Denver Mountain Parks: 100 Years of the Magnificent Dream, which won a Colorado Book Award. Her work has been published in Literary Mama, Pulse: Voices from the Heart of Medicine, Bird’s Thumb, The Human Touch Journal and Medical Literary Messenger, among others. She is a graduate of the Poetry Book Project and a longtime member of the Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop in Denver, Colorado.

Notes to My Father

Jun 3, 2026

“The Wounded Man,” oil on canvas, by Gustave Courbet, 1854.

—after Linda Pastan

1.
I never wrote just you, always you and Mother.
From camp, 1964, when one girl’s wails
started a cry-fest in our cabin. Please, please come get me,
my wide-ruled loose-leaf stained with a tear, on purpose.
From a Paris hostel, 1973. Wine is 1 franc (25 cents!)
After that, just phone calls to Mother,
quick visits home where you and I talked Perlman’s violin
or Al Kaline’s RBIs.
As Parkinson’s muted you,
why didn’t I try harder to wait for you to speak?
Impatience, yes, but also worry you’d labor
to repeat things four times. So I’d nod, not always understanding.
Did you try to tell me how hard it had become to brush your teeth?
Would you have told me more about the bus ride
from your village to Bitola for concerts?

2.
The roles of dad and provider matched you when we were kids:
A rope from your bumper pulling the sled,
our squeals sliding along icy streets,
or you coming home, your restaurant clinging to you,
a mix of cumin and paprika, your hands of bills and coins.
But, later, your retreat to the recliner and TV made it hard
for me to forgive your giving up, giving in.
Would I have done any better had disease vibrated my body
the way woodpeckers used to drill our antenna?
My hands becoming nervous leaves on the sugar maples?
I’m sorry. It’s like you half died before you died,
and it took admitting my own dents and stains before
I could accept your first death.

3.
Don’t all daughters hope to be good daughters?
Despite my backing away, you knew my love, didn’t you?
Like you knew how to read War and Peace in two languages.
Mother always said you taught us how to love.
My smile is hers, but your watermark more than claims me.

4.
It’s spring—wasps build their adobes in my eaves again,
and if we all still lived on Packard Avenue, I’d avoid the woodpile,
their sinister flight, spiked legs trailing.
I see you and my brother burning leaves in the yard
after a day of family raking, jumping in the piles.

5.
You’d be 109 now: Do these 23 years feel like 23
or 5 or nothing? It doesn’t seem to matter,
even in my timed world where snow and roses take turns.
I miss you.
The father—who’d been gymnast in the Old Country—
twirling himself over the monkey bars.
The father summing up my prom date but saying nothing.
The gentle father who left a body of blessings behind,
who gave my lips a peck every time I flew away.

6.
I’m writing because I’m to be remarried.
He wants to know you. You’d speak Russian together.
You would’ve seen La Traviata with us last night.
You’d see how kind he is to me.
And even though I’m 66,
I want it to be you walking me down the aisle.

Karen Paul Holmes won the 2023 Lascaux Poetry Prize and received a Special Mention in The 2024 Pushcart Prize Anthology. Her books are: No Such Thing as Distance (Terrapin, 2018) and Untying the Knot (Aldrich, 2014). Poetry credits include The Writer’s Almanac, The Slowdown, Verse Daily, Diode, Glass, and Plume. She teaches creative writing at venues and conferences here and there.

Poem-in-the-Box

Apr 1, 2026

“A Surprise Party,” oil on canvas, by John George Brown, 1888.

PB: Welcome to Poem-in-the-Box.  How may I help you?

Dad: Yes, I’d like a poem, please. Iambic pentameter, but easy on the stress.

PB: Would you like anything on that?

Dad: What are my choices?

PB: Rhyme, metaphor, alliteration … the usual condiments.

Dad (to daughter): Honey, do want a rhyme?

Daughter: No, I find rhyming poems much too low-brow. Poets who write them are retrogressions of human achievement, mere hominids who, if sufficiently trained and prodded, might conceivably manage to wipe themselves after they defecate.

Dad (back to P-in-B): Um, right. How much are alliterations?

PB: Fifty cents for a group of three, but we have a special this week: two groups for only seventy-five cents.

Dad: Okay, add two groups, and space them apart a little.

PB: No problem! Speaking of specials, we have a few works of, shall we say, questionable copyright.

Dad: No thanks. I don’t want any contraband in the car, in case I get pulled over.

PB: Fair enough. Can I interest you in a side of Haiku?

Dad: How many syllables?

PB: The standard: 7, 5, 7.

Dad: I don’t know…

PB: Capital letters are free today.

Dad: Okay, throw one in.

PB: Anything for dessert? We just received a shipment of new Roses-Are-Red poems, great for kids.

Dad: My daughter’s a little too advanced for that.

PB: How about limericks? Nothing about Kentucky in any of them. Just lemonade and shade and stuff.

Dad: Shh! No, God forbid.

PB: Fine. That will be twenty-two dollars and thirty-five cents. Please drive around to the pick-up window. And thank you for shopping at Poem-in-a-Box.

*

This skit was brought to you by The Lascaux Review, where all genres and styles are welcome. Except limericks.

Daughter: Wait a sec, Dad. Why not limericks?

Dad: Come on, Honey. You’re not serious.

Daughter: Yes I am. Limericks constitute an under-appreciated art form. They’re cultural bellwethers, especially regarding taboo and off-color aspects of human behavior.

Dad: Okay … limericks too.

Ahem. This skit was brought to you by The Lascaux Review, where all genres and styles are welcome. Even limericks. God help us.

Stephen Parrish is the editor of The Lascaux Review.

Love Poem for Those Thinking of Leaving This World

Oct 6, 2025

“A Seated Young Woman,” oil on canvas, by Bertha Wegmann, c. 1882.

Your parents lied when they said you could be
anything you wanted when you grow up.
You cannot be a dragon or a peregrine falcon.
More disappointment: It’s unlikely you will find
a job you love, or a lover who understands you,
or an understanding of life that makes any sense.
It’s likely your parents lied about other things too.

So have your friends, your teachers, your exes,
your coworkers—nearly everyone you’ve ever met.
This makes you sad and something new
breaks inside you every time you think
of what you wanted to be, or do, or have, or feel.
Now you want to leave, and I don’t blame you.
The job, the marriage, the town, the country,
the planet. But even if I’m the only one asking,
Stay. Please stay.

Here’s how: Tie a rope around your waist
when you enter the dark cave, lightly
and tightly, the way you’d tie a string
around a child’s wrist to keep her balloon
from floating away in the wind. Then tie
a set of bells around your ankles.
If the tinkling grows faint, I will call
your name. I will say it over and over,
like a prayer. I will hold the rope and not let go.
If the music stops, I will pull you out.

Marissa Glover lives in Florida, where she’s busy swatting bugs and dodging storms. Her work has been featured in journals and anthologies around the world. Marissa’s poetry collections are published by Mercer University Press: Let Go of the Hands You Hold (2021) and Box Office Gospel (2023). Her third book of poetry, Some Intangible Mercy, will be released by MUP in early 2027. Follow Marissa on social at _MarissaGlover_.

Equinox

Jul 15, 2025

“Festival of Spring,” oil on canvas, by Karel Vítězslav Mašek, 1889.

The Torah says the pomegranate
is holy because it has 613 seeds,
same as the number of commandments,
and the Greeks knew it was precious
when it married tender Persephone
to darkness. All I know is that once,
long ago, I watched you bite into one,
right there on the city street, so hungry
were you for it, that the juice dripped
down your breasts, your hips, the
street, the soil, the dark silent river that
runs under all of it from then to now.

*

Translated from the original Italian:

Equinozio
di B.A. Van Sise

La Torà dice che la melagrana
è sacra perché ha 613 semi,
tanti quanti i comandamenti,
ed i Greci sapevano che era preziosa
quando sposò la tenera Persefone
con l’oscurità. Tutto quello che so è che una volta,
molto tempo fa, ti guardai addentarne una,
proprio lì per strada, eri così affamata,
che il succo ti colava sui seni,
sui fianchi, sulla strada,
sulla terra, nell’oscuro fiume silenzioso che
scorre sotto tutto da allora ad oggi.

B.A. Van Sise is an author and photographic artist with three monographs: the visual poetry anthology Children of Grass with Mary-Louise Parker, Invited to Life with Mayim Bialik, and On the National Language with DeLanna Studi. He is a two-time winner of the Independent Book Publishers Awards gold medal, a two-time Prix de la Photographie Paris winner, an Anthem Award winner, a finalist for the Rattle and Kenyon Poetry Prizes, and a winner of the INDIES Book of the Year and the Lascaux Prize for Nonfiction.

A Quarter North

Jul 10, 2025

“The Veteran in a New Field,” oil on canvas, by Winslow Homer, 1865.

In a soiled envelope, a fistful of grain
I’d shoveled that summer, the envelope
sealed with my harvest-dust spit,
labeled in my nineteen-year-old hand:

Last Wheat Truck I Emptied, 1969.

And I wonder where that young man
is now, where the body-force,
the long-eyed mind that knew to seize
that moment, knew he would leave
that place yet grasped he would always,
always mourn the old life, its seasons,
sweat and open sky—mourn it, I tell you,
from the deepest wrinkles of his years.

Tomorrow, at daybreak, I’ll slit
the envelope with my father’s penknife.
I’ll pour the hard red wheat
into my palm and sniff, draw a nose-line
to the field from which it came—
one mile east of my conception,
a quarter north of my parents’ graves.

Justin Hunt grew up in rural Kansas. Fluent in German and Spanish, he has won several awards, including 1st place in the Live Canon International Poetry (U.K.) and Porter Fleming Literary competitions, 2nd place in the River Styx and Strokestown (Ireland) contests, and commendations from such journals and organizations as New Ohio Review, New Letters, and Robinson Jeffers Tor House. Hunt’s work appears in Barrow Street, Harpur Palate, Southern Poetry Review, North American Review, and The Bridport Prize Anthology, among others. For more information, visit justinhunt.online.