Resilience is a Tardigrade

By Marilyn Close

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A one-millimetre invertebrate moss piglet.
An eight-legged little water bear
able to survive extreme environmental conditions
under suspended animation.
hot - cold - dry - wet
    In a vacuum
          Dissociated & Alive

My brain must be inhabited by microscopic moss piglets
as thoughts float around. Unnoticed but for
a thick, clumsy lump in my throat.
Only these organisms can survive humanity’s toxicity
then come to the surface after laying dormant
deliver green energy out of ruminations.

Our gentle Tardigrades, to accompany reincarnation
with their ‘come-back-to-life’ cycle.
They carry the conscience of the universe.
I will carry them with care.
Join their swamp parade from earth to ashes to dust
           and back again.

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Marilyn Close wrote sappy poetry as a little girl and then put her pen down. Recently the desire emerged to write again. She lives in Canada with a few published poems and more in progress.

Curated

 By Dale Parnell

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Losing her
felt like drowning in wool,
a thick, clumsy lump in my throat,
the strands
knotted
around my tongue
with all the begged chances
she wouldn’t hear.

It took ten minutes to pack her things -
Cherry-picked from the gallery we had curated
together,
and I realised
how little of herself
she had ever shared,
how little our lives
touched.

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Dale Parnell lives in Staffordshire, England with his wife and their imaginary dog, Moriarty. Dale has had over twenty poems published, but he doesn't feel like he can call himself a poet. You can find Dale on Facebook and Instagram @shortfictionauthor.

Silver Trail

By Lynn White

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It slid carefully
from under the plant
and slowly down the pot
like a body sliding out of bed
in early morning
uncertain
of the way to the bathroom
in a haze of sleep.
It didn’t like the carpet
and made uneven progress
across its pile.
The cat looked at it uncertainly
stretched out a paw
then withdrew it
in doubt
as the slug waved its horns
this way and then that
uncertain too now,
thirsty and dry
in too deep
drowning
in wool
and dry
so dry
shrivelling up
out of its depth
leaving
only its trail
of shining
silver
behind.

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Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Sometimes heartbreak

By Zeke Shomler

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comes quietly, like a body sliding out of bed
in early morning. Like the heart is a stone and the stone
slips beneath the surface 

of a lake. Sometimes the lake
is a daydream. Sometimes the stone
is the answer to a question

never asked. Still, the chest thumps, dumb, unruly:
a procession of grey footsteps
under skin. And heartbreak is the sheet of ice

across which you must stretch your wind-whipped limbs.
This I know: one is always
leaving something, going 

somewhere else. Like the sky,
learning every night how to be lonely. How the sun slumps
below the cold horizon, the closing

of another bleeding mouth,
and life begins.

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Zeke Shomler is a poet and math educator in Fairbanks, Alaska. His work has appeared in AGNI, Modern Language Studies, The Shore, and elsewhere. zekeshomler.com