“I did—I did tell you— when they were all sleeping in this one apartment. That everything became a bed. The floor was—” (No—) “a bed. The ironing board was a bed. The chair was a bed because it was so many kids in this very small apartment. And— my father always told the story of when he was sleeping with brothers— his brother Jack on the floor, and there was another— man there. So Frank thought it was Jack’s friend and Jack thought it was Frank’s friend, and in the morning they said, ‘Why did you invite another one?’ Because we didn’t know who then— they still didn’t know who this was— like—” (Oh my goodness.) “But you know—” (In their home?) “In their home, yeah. You know they would bring home friends to— a boarder would come in, you know— to pay them a dollar to sleep on the floor. And— I— I don’t think that children today or people recognize the— the greatness— of immigrant society. “They were very brave, very brave, very brave, very gallant. …“You know don’t forget they all spoke Yiddish, so there was already commonality, and you know if you speak Yiddish you’re part of the tribe, so— this is how they— you know—" Two Jews, three opinions The outsider within One relative, when I told him who I was: “I think you’re full of shit” Bio: Joshua is a writer and educator living and working in Houston, Texas. He has published poetry, essays, scholarship, hybrid, and multimedia writing, and has two books of poetry available, including his new book Dybbuk Americana, available at Wesleyan University Press.

It sighs – the door – and heaves creeks – the floor – as steps traverse the kitchen. Departs from, cold reader, the page of news. You start the bath — and back again — and check the water with back of hand… He, the neighbor who thought to sell the bath. You two — the pair who could not lift and felt near slip of disc. The beginning of this strange relationship. Up looked the man with copper wire hairs poking through his shirt. “Let’s work something out. A time share situation.” Bio: Franklin Mindich is the founder and editor-in-chief of Rail Switch Poetry. More on this (Timeshare Bath) later. Stay tuned:)

Allen Ginsberg's “Have You Seen This Movie?" Music composed by Philip Glass Voice: Allen Ginsberg Piano: Anton Batagov Production and Editing: Alex Gray Animation & Supervising Editor: John Andrews, instagram: @Johnjandrews Executive Producers: Peter Hale & Jesse Goodman in Association with the Allen Ginsberg Estate Published by May King Poetry Music & Dunvagen Music Publishers, Inc. “Have You Seen This Movie?" is part of Allen Ginsberg’s The Fall of America Vol II: A 50th Anniversary Musical Tribute. https://allenginsberg.bandcamp.com/album/allen-ginsbergs-the-fall-of-america-volume-ii All proceeds benefit PEN America / Pen.org

I. & still (the nausea) I swallow it all— night sky stitching old wounds glint from decommissioned stars but it comes back up Nausea naming why I can’t let you touch me (not even in the dark) II. Untitled for Eileen A bird bloats on wedding rice Bathes in ice cold water Wings freeze splayed like Jesus on the cross Enter the orchard where words don’t follow but my father is in a decade long conversation with the other trees & a mourning dove is a human is me waking up for the first time in six weeks not wanting to die III. How we find our way back: wisp at edge of sleep the old voices radios buried in the garden hiccups of divinity dissonance sitting on our chests spiders hatching on ceiling what wouldn’t we give to be birthed in the night, legs under us by morning? IV. How to be Human (part three) Learn the difference between fear of & fear for. Assess the risk. Make a choice. There are a multitude of endings. Listen to the relentless pulse in your body. Time in any life is short. Be brilliant. You already are. All your flaws a staggering perfection Bio: Shannon Quinn is the author of three collections of poetry. She also worked as an Associate Producer for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Quinn has published widely in literary journals and most recently in The Best of Canadian Poetry 2025, She created these video poems while at The Chateau de la Napoule Residency in April 2024. Quinn currently lives in Toronto, Canada.

Team conquest, they take but refuse to convict. A fortunate gradient of light caught her hair in the trees. Spooked, I jolted up. On edge. Or on For good. It’s silly, how this machine works. Team conquest, but they fail to inform. If only I stopped Calling out to an empty amphitheater. Frilly motion cauterized my sleep. Woke with a pounding heart, made in mind, seamless in body. Overturned, the lean-to revealed a rotten rotten Underbelly. It was thorough, At least. Some sort of silly twin situation. They recognized each other, through themselves. And me? I scattered; weeks ahead just so long to remember. Capturing a fleeting dodecahedron poses its own distinct challenges. Though, Assuredly, One can always make. Omniscient, senseless. At least You and I. We’ll always maintain our co-mystery. Fraudulent, dear bird. Cackle over arms, over elbows. A fixation on keeping time stagnates more than it organizes. Bio: Sometimes nonesense makes the best sense.

Keep getting my toe nails done These days– in order to hold onto them Maroon, red, maroon, red, maroon, now red Like I died all over myself. So I mark them red like dead ducks in a row In a row there is beginning And end and it’s so nice to know There is a beginning and end with eight in between. This time, this time while I turned red My mother noticed how the nails were doing Underneath They are yellow, she said. You need to let them breathe. She had already said this the Last time– the last time my little ducks were already Old and yellow Like old man nails Yes they are dying, I thought to myself this time and last time. They are dying so I paint them to hold onto them, stupid. It is always a little bit Like holding onto life being In a salon– but only if you walk out again. What if: one day I watch them Take the alcohol swabs to my yellow ducks And run out–barefeet and all—before they can Paint them again. Would I feel pain? I would certainly cry, But would it be a painful experience? Image: my dying toes running through the streets so fast You cannot see they are really human toes and that they are really dying. Bio: Bella Butler is an undergraduate in the German Department at Princeton University. She is a poet/writer, musician, and thinker. She considers making art a way of living.

You burned brightly long enough, There was joy to be found in your light, But now it’s back to how things used to be, Cold shudders during long nights Even the mightiest oak has been made toothpick, Who was I to think you’d never burn my leaves, Even as I lay here burning, It is the very thoughts of us that I pray give me my final reprieve Does the matchstick recognize what it once was as it burns? Who was I to you, as you turned me into the kindling you breathe? No matter, this ash does not fear returning to dust once more May the sands of time cover your lake of fire’s shore Flame, oh flame You burned brightly long enough Bio: Joe-Francis Kiaga has been passionate about photography for the past 8 years. Since capturing that first frame he knew photography was his passion. He always applies himself to his work whether it be his media company, poetry, part time film making, or naturally, his photography. After being self taught for 5 years, navigating the freelance scene the best he could, he went to get a professional degree at Orms Cape Town School of photography. He currently co-owns a company called Kiagraphy Media where he produces stylistic photographic content, short films, documentaries and event photography.

It was dry and opulent in our bikinis on the speedboat as we drove towards a little restaurant in the cave of the night and it wasn’t so much that it was dry outside but that between us— as we sat on our damp towels hugging kind of manically because the boat was fast and the air whipped warmth into ice like little tempests stationed at every meter— there was a dryness, a good one, like it was easy to live on this speedboat and relish the handsome Greek guy ploughing the boat through the fat night and think about how good it feels to be a girl and be billowing and have dads that are proud of us and a boat that can sear this water. I felt a kind of pain, then. The island behind them was like a cinder and as if drawing from the same capillary we were suddenly terrified of the water that was like a reflection of black jelly, of the stranger flogging this vessel in this open water, of the fragility in the understanding that there was friendship here. Also of the engine but also of this joy searing between us like an affliction, waterless and billowing and ginormous and panic spread like panic and everything came down: the cave of dryness, the comfort of our dads, the planktons coming with us to the shore. Bad bitches! Small and charred we disembarked and I was convinced we were microscopic and dying. Bio: Penelope Ioannou is a poet and writer and recently Editor-in-Chief of the Oxford Review of Books. She just finished her master’s from Oxford University in and is (obsessively) wondering what comes next. She presented her first visual project called Translation Swims Like Algae In A Winter Pool (2023) at the Comparative Literature and Critical Translation discussion panel at Oxford University, a short film which focused on the visual games and peculiarities of following the translation of a single poem.