by Anna Roscoe 

the hive has relocated 
itself again
i’m used to it by now 
the swarming weight 
near my heart
and anyway, the cloud 
is still, sluggish 
from the chill
no need to worry
i can just reach a hand 
into that dull buzz
move it all from sight 
once more
in crawling handfuls
carefully, gingerly
i keep them for the honey
but you shouldn’t
get too close
if one memory starts 
to sting 
then the rest will soon follow
​
Anna Roscoe's work appears or is forthcoming in Going Down Swinging, swim meet lit mag, and Aniko Press. Her writing often uses natural elements to explore emotions and memories. She grew up in Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung country, but now lives in Asia. 

by Javier Bateman
After Milo and Ocean Vuong

You are a plate scraped clean.
Dog-eared, folded,
a ‘come back to me later—please’ sorta guy.
He runs his thumb across your back
like it is some small thing, like it is
nothing at all.
Your mouth opens like a wound
 
He says,
all smooth and terrible,
‘I am Abel and my brother is Cain.’
And for a moment you can misremember
his hand in your hair,
the rock orbiting your skull,
and how the night overhead
was punctured by the white teeth of starlight.

Javier Bateman (They/He) is a queer, chronically ill, trans-nonbinary academic and poet living on unceded Whadjuk Nyungar Boodjar. Javier's poetry deals with diverse themes of grief, gender and gender identity, love, obsession and occasionally, Keanu Reeves. In his downtime, Javier is often found at home consuming media about sad cowboys.