by Peter Viggers

That worm in the ear
those worms of the soil
 
elvis wiggling
down in the deep
 
radiant colours
like Joseph’s coat
 
sunk five fathoms
to a sunless hole
 
feeding on whalebones
back-biting each other
 
no shore for the leaving
no star to be seen
 
ten thousand mouths
a shimmer of song
 
a whale call vibrating
in the depths of my ear
 
collapsing the space
between them and us
 
a body of water
a body of bone
 
the distance of difference
the strangely same
 
wearing their gold
a jitterbug jive
 
the brilliance of pink
the glamour of glow.
 
Elvis having a whale
in heaven below.

Note: ​the fourth species’ shimmery pink and gold scales earned it the name P. elvisi, a tribute to the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll.

Peter Viggers gained an MA in Poetry (2016) from the University of Manchester; poems
shortlisted for the Bridport Competition, the Anthony Cronin International Poetry Award and
Brian Dempsey Memorial Poetry Award; and published, amongst others, in Orbis, SMOKE,
Ink Sweat and Tears, Best New British and Irish Poets Anthology (2021).

by Lisa Zerkle

​Once I watched a snake encircle
the post of a picnic shelter,
spiraling towards a wren’s nest tucked under
the eave, not dissuaded by the shrieking
pair of swooping decoys or their frenetic
flailing as it breached their haven
atop the post, plenty of time
to consider how it would allow
each egg into its mouth, how each would shatter
into tasty slurry of slime and shell,
those brood-warm ovals cradled
in beak-woven straw, how—no rush--
it would swallow all but
only one by one.

Lisa Zerkle’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Quartet, Heavy Feather Review, The Collagist, Nimrod, storySouth, among others. She was the creator and curator of 4X4CLT, a public art and poetry series for Charlotte Lit. In January 2023, she was awarded an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. She lives with her husband and a 100 pound slobbery bulldog named Ozzie. Follow her on Instagram @hag_lore

by Kris Spencer 

The April-wind kicks up, leaves are
all grown back on the maple. It sings
quieter than the sycamores that line
the street. Branches chafe and chirp as 
a squall comes in. When the rain stops,

we sit under its canopy. The light comes 
green through the new wood as the tree
drips. We pat and stroke the trunk, finely 
shaped and kinked halfway—like a dancer’s 
leg. In a hot spell last August, a jay slept 

in the shade of the branches, every afternoon 
for a week; a mirthy spot of blue, too big 
for the cats to bother. In the autumn, my wife 
raked the fallen leaves into three hessian bags. 
All neatly tied and stacked, they stayed 

by the shed all winter. Each sack, 
frost-haunched or soaked; sometimes lit 
by the pale circle of the sun. Today, 
we spread the dark mulch, enough 
for the flower-beds and the new saplings. 

My daughter tells me, in winter the tree
keeps the sun inside, like a cactus
keeps water. She lifts my arm so it rests 
on a low branch, where the feeder hangs; 
my son says, you are the tree now.

Kris has work published in journals in the UK, US, Eire, Europe, Australia, India and SE Asia. His debut collection, Life Drawing, was published in 2022 by Kelsay Books. His second collection, Contact Sheets, is due for publication early 2024. Also by Kelsay Books.