A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

Dear Reader,

I have to keep this brief for the sake of good sense. So few things feel sure as we head into this year: six inches of February snow outside my window, a bowl of unsweetened applesauce beside me, the back and forth of a phone interview in the next room. These are my steady perceptions. I’m happy to have them.

This third issue has been, somehow, shockingly, and to my utter incredulity, a steady perception. Not every moment, of course, and not even most days– it flickers and stalls, doubts me as often as I doubt it. Glimmering thing on its precipice. On behalf of the editorial team at Hood of Bone, thank you for being here.

The work that is featured in this issue is largely the range of a region; it’s beautiful, shrewd, and grateful. It brings your wits about you, reminds you that you’re in a place. Somewhere with reds, forgetful sparrows, moldy benches and Easter dinners, starving dogs and next spring. We will be there to greet it.

Yours,

Grace Ezra

Lindsey Mercene, "Horsing around the house"

RED HEAVEN

by James Ammirato

Today I am laughing, laughing

At the vibrations. There is so little

light left, chest compression

is the way up.

To regret is to stare at oneself

In some water's tension and to continue staring.

To refuse the forward march.

To deny the winnings from the state lottery. Spend it all.

In bed you say I have snakelegs.

I'd rather have snake eyes.

Tuesday means white walls, scarred by liquid rust,

a single solar panel, a water droplet

suspended from the faucet.

Unblinking eye, seeing nothing but wrinkles in the river.

Memory clicks by, one frame, one frame.

Kids pummel each other to the ground, attempting to enter the earth.

I can go down to the river bank and kick the I-beams.

I can. I have lived long enough.

A party cannon of cooing pigeons

punches clean, cuts past patterned crust and cake, leaving me

running twice for the bus, you skinning

your knuckles with the lemon peeler.

Later I see the ghost in the green seat, and she turns away. Thank god,

a two-finger tug is all it takes for the driver to let you off.

There is red in heaven.

STUNTED APPLE

by Chris Dungey

This is a tree so small

it might be a Japanese

ornamental. It once celebrated

a man's one-year birthday

as his 12-step friends called it.

The woman who gave it has since passed away,

struggling to breathe.

*

The gnarled trunk leans now,

pushed over by years

of prevailing wind. Rabbits

from a neighbor's undergrowth

of arbor vitae and wild grape, sample

its bark in winter. The apples–

fallen, squinting, runts,

get mowed, raked, or tossed

into an adjacent field

where deer yard up.

*

It wouldn't take much

effort to grow edible fruit–

a few spikes of fertilizer,

an oily spray to foil

insects. Come next spring

he swears to mark her life

with these simple measures;

perhaps a toast

with sparkling cider.

WHAT IF IT'S LIKE EASTER?

by David Earl Williams

What if it's like coyotes n puppies?

What if Jesus is just being nice to you

until He can get you alone

in the afterlife

with His Pack:

Father, Son,

Twelve Apostles, 72 Virgins,

Marys

so they can tear you astral limb from astral limb

eat you

your soul in your afterlife body

screaming and alive

like a

big

family

Easter dinner?

...Jest axin'!

Irina Tall Novikova, "Changeling"

DATELINE, 07/29/2253–

LOOKING BACK AT 07/29/2153,

THE DESERT WORLD:

by David Earl Williams

and here we find

the recollection of

New Ottoman Invaders

calling themselves humanitarian interventionists

in an impressive array of unsealed E-letters

reports on morale and efficiency

Reports of: failure and ugliness

Reports of: political and military concerns

small town culture and theology

notes on prisoner hygiene

notes about meaning to laugh but sobbing instead

internationalist orthodoxy

complaints about inscrutable Atlanta, Georgia

complaints of the hideousness of the food

the slattern shameless women

Prayers of deliverance from "these unintelligible accents"

fear and crowd control– "college football" ––?

and questions: "Is it homosexual"––?

conclusion: yes

IN WITHERED GRASSES

–After Louise Glück

by Elaina Edwards

Go ahead: say what you're thinking. The garden

sits below us, and I know that it's cliché, but yes:

it is dying. This morning,

I observe the scattered fragments

of white– rabbits,

fleet-footed, running after

their pick at the garden. My dog

set to chase after their cotton tails.

I like to think she'll never

grab them. No:

I don't want them torn at their necks,

stained by her brute hunger.

She lets them go and I watch them disappear

too fast into the shrubs and feathered grass.

Still, you say the garden is not the real world.

I counter with the patterns. Look: the intricate, hairlike

roots between plants and fungi that form vast networks

to communicate all at our feet; They alter their behavior, dependent on thirst

or infection. They are always talking underneath

what is recognizable to us as dirt, or loam. I confess:

I thought I would know he was getting married.

For what purpose is a sixth sense if, in dreams,

we only spoke in silence?

I stopped knowing how to read his lips.

I know what you want to call this:

Limerence, a symptom of my obsessive compulsive disorder, chronic

wasting disease, stupidity. I'll let you name it. The garden:

its colors now brassy gold and brown, I know that it's done but

I won't shovel the last few lingering lines. Soon, their clamor

must empty itself like a starry sky to morning.

My dog runs back to us: scoreless, but happy.

We go inside and she is more than willing to eat dry food. She

doesn't truly know what is missing, but her body reminds her

every day, and yes: she is full of that starving.

THREE POEMS

by Amelia Schroeder

DECIDUOUS SOUL

I will unfurl my soul-skin

sheet to the wind,

watch it puff and gather

'til there's room to crawl

right in

I will sing

to summon her skyward

gone too long in the harness

cede rusted plows for deltas

blood already run thin

I will build

cairns of bones in the desert

ensconce her with quills and thorns,

my old resting space glazed

by an equinox moon

I will recline

in a trough of black earth

hammock of earthworms beneath,

parched soul-skin

drawing the dampness she needs

I will dance

as a riparian willow

pants for her spring coat,

deciduous soul tree

dragging bloodied fingertips

I will draw

rivers on skin,

waiting at the shoreline,

a slight stork bird

until she, dripping lake

like molten pebbles

decides

she's made it home.

MARCH MAY WEAR PURPLE

shoes but We

are damp flames dancing

on Earth's green wick-

for a handful of Moons-

til Autumn slips into anaglyptic golds-

Bear fattens -sleeks- as

Walnuts make gunshots on the roof-

for whole days-Fungi release

dark chocolate--barometrics of

Rain-leaves its taste on the wind--

two Crows swing on wire-

a pair of abandoned black nikes--

Corn monolith, from the base-

yellows and browns--

Fall turns colors into verbs

REFORESTATION

an acorn skitters,

halts

on a river of humus, forest yeast,

mica glitter.

to listen closely is to hear the cells divide.

labels keep us from seeing

regardless of belief.

let's refuse to name this

before we've begun

to revive it

THANKSGIVING

by Jack Martin

A record of fingers, like a child's drawing

Of a turkey on Thanksgiving Day

I am your index finger's whodunit

When we were children I left a scar

On your forehead with my thumb

I didn't start or end the fight,

Your perfect pilgrims word did both

Later

I'd run rings around a tree break

An arm and a cast would be molded

To hold me all together

Again some things are lost to time

Others are lost to the layers we grow

Around our core

I saw:

A procession of masks interchanged

By a traveler never saw their true face

But decided that was a safer fate so I

Followed suit determined to become

Just the same and when my bones

Set—finally—sloppily I took the cue

And split

Into two

I do remember how I made the scar

And the splitting of his skin

I do remember the cutting of flesh

For a feast as well we once said what

We were thankful for and this whole

Mess was never a part of it

Irina Tall Novikova, "Bear's Dream"

HE WAS FROM CHARLESTON

by R.P. Singletary

From Charleston he'd say, She from [blahblah], But I'm from Charleston

Northernmost mainland outpost, that English Caribbean,

rich,

spared,

saved

Spared? Saved? finally she said

Who? What? keep seein shadows

Them streets every side

All days like-a-night

From Charleston he mumbled

'Til he started to crack

I'm, from, um, Char-

Street corners them now, all, talkin // Him feelin old out

Through dirt in their, mouths, ears // Him started to feel hear odd

I was from Charleston they don't ask // So sorry to say he wanna

(But he hid in the shadows this time go around) // He started to listen no-talk

Name means "free man": Charles, old, english, yeah?

Some say very, old, say // Them shadows stilled spilled spot

Where street meet, our-hour year-here // Funny name our, Charles Towne so dear

Holy City fulla-funny // Steeples casting all ill (-humored) light

'Cross that once-mighty, Broad, Street // That day-glare finally here.

(ALMOST) SATED.* (ALMOST)

by R.P. Singletary

Not near as briny up this way for sure for show for want-what?

But a honey sweetness to its lurking: lovely wetness, what we rurals sip

Miss Pinckney, ma'am, we have so much we thank you, oh for so very much indeed

These 45 miles inland, not yet quite upland quiet, no not yet that terrain

Yes Lowcountry still, here a hundred years on and more, we hope the scene

of rest:

Storm about to settle in, tannic leaves light up on our darkened brew

Wisps-o'-longleaf tint-tinting green; ya know the bitter bite of

Piece-o'-pinecone scale? straddle in your drink? You do. I do. We do.

Everybody here a homecomin', what with clear skies, no breeze--

December late for Wiley woods a-parted mid-season wild!, mid-memory to open this--

I stop, and stumble

Completion (sigh) would ruin it all; it do too much to me! And you?

Like that batcha tea? My my, o oversweetened overtaken, left out too-good to spread.

Overnight and in this heat, the air!

Come cooler, yes to refresh, refurbish?

this ancient place now yours

we wish

To sit up on a spell and taste, sate

most lasting 'til it won't, sate

'most lasting 'til it wants

Another season from our tired swamp up here, back from rising coast so dear, what what-

want we once thought protected

*In homage to Charleston Renaissance author Josephine Pinckney and her Sea-drinking Cities,

first published 1927.

EAST ON ROUTE 66

by Leah Mueller

Your toes like waffles spread beside me on the mattress

Your kind teeth that give light before sunrise

I rise from our bed in the middle of the night

I wander towards the back stairs

But there are no back stairs just a gap where they once stood

We swim side by side like twin goldfish

In the body of a too small automobile

Our possessions jiggle like jelly blobs

We ate all the jelly before we left town

We are the jelly smeared across the highway

The slow turning of the steering wheel

The animals that rush across the center line

Both of us lit candles so my house would sell

We chanted to the gods of real estate

We held hands and tried to remember everything we'd read

about rituals

We erased the mountains with our closed lids

We shot Category Four hurricanes from our eyeballs

Category Five was too dangerous we didn't want to disturb the

neighbors

But the neighbors were already disturbed

Maybe we can hold our bed lightly in our hands

Make it float into the future like a pillow cast adrift

Maybe we can push our old skeletons into the night and keep

our eyes open until dawn

Maybe we haven't allowed time to shove us around like a

crowded paperweight

All the bills we refused to pay or couldn't pay or forgot about

entirely

None of it is any more real than the man

Who prepares espresso at the outer edge

Of a city we're about to leave forever

The parking spots have all been taken

We drive in circles until we finally give up and go home

But home isn't there anymore

Just pomegranate skins the sparrows forgot to eat

We forget to eat our promises and lies

And whatever else might be inside our brain cupboards

We forget to go downtown because it won't exist when we

arrive

We build a fire and hope the walls hear us

We build a cabin and hide from wolves

They will never intrude if we remember to keep flowers in our

window

MOTEL 6, NASHVILLE

by Kareem Tayyar

bees swirl above the swimming pool.

now & then they perch

upon your shoulders

& ask how many more laps

you intend to swim.

it is late summer.

the tree-leaves all seem

glazed with honey.

& each time you plunge underwater

you can't tell whether the buzzing

that you hear is the sound

of small wings flapping

or a joy so sustained that

it has begun to feel electric.

Irina Tall Novikova, "Two Bears"

THE COVERED BRIDGE

–After Ada Limón

by Mikey Jones

I'm leaning against the picture window

in my white socks and camo crocs

pretending to be you. Outside, raindrops

pulsate along the glass, the leaves on the trees

turned upside down. Yesterday, pappaw fixed

the moldy bench inside the covered bridge he built,

but, it's raining too hard to walk to it right now,

so it stands alone while the creek floods underneath.

I want to tell you something, or I want to give

you something. I want to feel the existence,

the warm shoulder against my own, the mud on

my feet, smell the sweat rising from our shirts.

Maybe we could meet on that bench

inside the bridge, just right out there.

I could carve you a note on a nearby tree:

The bridge, the bench, the downpour of a June storm.

We could be in that same place watching

spiders make webs across the ceiling,

taste pinesap drooping down the beams,

listen to our breaths and water rushing below.

IDLE

by Robert Beveridge

the final marmosets pack

the makeup, the cables,

the last few lights at the side

of the soundstage. The female

lead walks out, case in hand,

gives the remainders a forlorn

look before she walks out

to the cab that will take her

back to the city. Even

the caterers have left,

just a few pickles, a tilapia

in their wake. "the days

run away", a voice booms

out over the loudspeaker,

"like wild lemmings over

the cliff", and no one knows

who's in the booth.

FOUR POEMS

by Cheryl Whitehead

NO HARM

HOME REMEDIES

SHEEP UNDER A WIRE

AND THE LORD SAID

CONTRIBUTORS

JAMES AMMIRATO (b. 1999) is a multimedia artist from Boston, Massachusetts. He graduated from Emerson College in 2021, and is currently based in Providence, Rhode Island.

ROBERT BEVERIDGE (he/him) makes noise (terminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo Land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Al Dente, and Stickman Review, among others.

CHRIS DUNGEY is a retired auto worker in Michigan. He rides mountain bikes, hikes, lifts, spends too much time in Starbucks. He follows Detroit City FC and Flint City Bucks FC (in person) with religious fervor. More than 165 of his poems have found publication in lit-mags and online. Most recently in Dipity, 12 Mile Review, Brown Bag Online and forthcoming in Cypress Review.

ELAINA EDWARDS is an ecofeminist poet, essayist, and lover of critters. She has her MFA in Poetry from Texas State University and is a 2024 Tin House alumna. You can find her work in Porter House Review, Variant Lit, and South Broadway Press.

MIKEY JONES (he/they) is a queer Appalachian poet living on stolen Coast Salish land in Seattle, Washington. He is the co-editor of Grief Journeys, an anthology of grief from The Healing Center. His poetry also appears in Screen Door Review. Mikey enjoys tending to their houseplants, long walks in the woods, and books that make him cry.

JACK MARTIN is a writer and artist from South Carolina. He is currently living and working in Colorado.

LINDSEY MERCENE is a mixed media painter who specializes in southern dreamscapes. Her work is greatly informed by roadside vignettes in Appalachia, combining elements of fantasy with Southern landscapes and animals. Mercene attended UNC Asheville from 2019-2023 to study film but after being enrolled in a mandatory first-year liberal arts course, she found herself enamored with the artists of experimental liberal arts school, Black Mountain College. Her time spent studying the historical school during college and later as an intern at its dedicated museum greatly influences her work's thesis. Mercene's fascination with antiques and functional art objects also play a role in her creative process. Mercene currently resides in Raleigh, NC and is researching her next piece.

LEAH MUELLER is a Tulsa-based poet and prose writer. Her work is published in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has received several nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. One of her short stories appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her fourteenth book, "Stealing Buddha" was published by Anxiety Press in 2024. Her website: http://www.leahmueller.org

IRINA TALL (NOVIKOVA) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.
The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorns, animals with human faces, she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines: Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories", and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter".

AMELIA SCHROEDER is trying to fit all her passions into this lifetime, such as writing, and mushroom and flower farming, Nature, meta-musings, good love, emotions, wordplay, and catharsis are some of Amelia's inspirations. More work can be found in her chapbook, "Hillbilly Pillory" (Bottlecap Press, 2023), in the "Dark City Poets' Society Anthology", "Understory", a 2024 relief zine for Western NC, by Loblolly Press, and forthcoming in Eunoia Review, and The Dewdrop. She holds a BA from Marietta College, and lives outside Asheville, NC, and is tickled to be part of the Dark City Poets' Society. ameliaschroeder.blogspot.com

A rural native of the southeastern United States, R. P. SINGLETARY writes fiction, poetry, drama, and hybrid. His short monologue MONO fe appeared Off-Broadway this autumn as part of the Apron Strings project at AMT Theater in Hell's Kitchen. Literary works published in LITRO, The Wave - Kelp Journal, Worktown Works (U.K.), en*gendered, The Collidescope, Rathalla Review, Wicked Gay Ways, Cowboy Jamboree, Stone of Madness, and elsewhere. Affiliations include Authors Guild, Atlanta Dramatists, Dramatists Guild. www.rpsingletary.com

KAREEM TAYYAR'S most recent book, Keats in San Francisco & Other Poems, was published by Lily Poetry Review Books in 2022, and his work has appeared in a variety of literary journals, including Poetry Magazine, Prairie Schooner, Colorado Review, and Alaska Quarterly Review.

CHERYL WHITEHEAD is a teacher, musician, and poet from Snow Camp, North Carolina. Her chapbook, So Ghosts Might Stop Composing is available from Finishing Line Press. Her poems have appeared in Mezzo Cammin, The Hopkins Review, Crab Orchard Review and other journals. She has been a finalist for the New Letters and Morton Marr Poetry Prizes and the Unicorn Press First Book Award. She won an emerging artist grant from the Astraea Foundation and received scholarships from the Sewanee Writers' Conference, the Quest Writers' Conference and the North Carolina Writers' Network. She currently teaches English at the Chatham Early College in Siler City, NC.

DAVID EARL WILLIAMS is The Absurdilachian, a writer of working class absurdist anti-dada dadaist poetry ( for sure as hell rollin' in the aisles, barkin' at the moon DaDa-Dogmatic times... ). Learn more @ https://wetcementpress or @ https://cruellestmonth.com or @ The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature or simply google: david earl williams poetry --- you'll find reviews, more bios, and many poems--- it should do ya for now.