Your Last Day in Madison by Jennifer Tonge you tell me to come over and I do, to hover helpless while you clean. Finally I can't take it and wipe out the fridge, that old song from Hee Haw twanging in my head—Gloom, despair, and agony on meee. . . I am trying to cheer myself, and it is a bitter cheer: Here's to you leaving me destitute, deprived of a movie companion and provider of sliced pears and tea, gossip, and the Sunday crossword; bereft of conversation, lurching with pauses and laced like a punch with your startling, sly wit; of margaritas on the porch, freezing under blankets, even though it's May, and Hank Williams, Sr., retrospectives. Gloooom, despairrrr. . . I scrub my guts out. You're the only friend I have who’d consider buying a mint-green polyester suit, or rent Island of Lost Souls just to hear the line, The stubborn beast-flesh creeping back. In the front room, after the fridge, I pace tight circles on the barren floor, an augur turning with grim purpose: I will not cry. I will not cry. You say, You're not going to start crying, are you? You look like a little boy who's lost his wagon. Already you've finished, and tell me to come out with you onto the jetty, where you take my photograph. I try to look summery. Then we sit down together and you eat your lemon sorbet. I stretch my legs out, wary in the sun, regarding the tree that swoons at the edge of the lake. Soon you’ll get into your yellow truck and drive away. We don’t say much; there’s not much we can say. Our sadness is inarticulate, previous to the glib deflections of the screen, beyond the pale of the pop songs. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue Most of my favorite poems have been published, but this one remains in my finished-but-unpublished folder after many years and many submissions and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s too sentimental? Maybe it’s to narrative? I don’t know. I like it because it’s both playful and sad, as I was on that last day in Madison with my friend. .................................................................................................................................................................................... JENNIFER TONGE Received an MFA from the University of Utah. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Quarterly West , Poetry , Ploughshares , New England Review , and Bellingham Review . The recipient of fellowships from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, the MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the Ucross Foundation, and the Djerassi Resident Artists Program, Tonge has taught creative writing at the universities of Utah, Wisconsin, and Texas as well as at Butler University. She served as poetry editor of Quarterly West , as president of Writers@Work, on the board of City Art, and as associate editor at Dawn Marano and Associates. She lives and tends cats in Salt Lake City. Next - Stand Up Comedy by Joel Long Next

THE NOMAD is a nonprofit literary magazine delighted by what can be conveyed through words. Second Issue ................................................................................................................................................................... "FAVORITES" - 2024/2025 We've Been Out Dancing - poem Northern Climate II -poem ..................................................................................... by Gabriela Halas Some Things to Do in the Face of Death -poem The Concrete Poet - poem ..................................................................................... by Jim Lavilla-Havelin Bruce - poem Past Lives . . . That's Still a Thing, Right? - poem ..................................................................................... by J. Diego Frey Interstellar - poem Sunday Morning Early - poem ..................................................................................... by David Romtvedt Peach - poem Your Last Day in Madison - poem ..................................................................................... by Jennifer Tonge Stand Up Comedy - poem The Organization of Bones - poem ..................................................................................... by Joel Long Storms, Maybe a Metaphor for Us - memoir Fake Soldiers - nonfiction ..................................................................................... by Kase Johnstun First Sighting - poem Waiting Around - poem ..................................................................................... by Trish Hopkinson The Problem with Mrs. P - fiction That Time We Got Married at a Tent Revival - fiction ..................................................................................... by Michael Shay Worry Poem - poem This Poem is Backlit - poem ..................................................................................... by Alexandra van de Kamp Day Dreaming - poem A Love for Loneliness - poem ..................................................................................... by Stacy Julin Michaelmas - poem For Hank Williams - poem ..................................................................................... by Lisa Bickmore The Other Man is Always French - poem The Barking Dogs of Taos - poem ..................................................................................... by Richard Peabody The Little Old Lady in the Woodstock T-Shirt - poem Frozen January Mornings - poem ..................................................................................... by Robert Cooperman Pilgrims in Argyll - poem Motives for Theft - fiction ..................................................................................... by Joseph Riddle Flag (2024) - poem Decoration Day - poem ..................................................................................... by M.L. Liebler Lincoln and Lydia - poem Predictions of the Past - poem ..................................................................................... by Alison Moore The Queen of Hell - nonfiction Ignatius - fiction ..................................................................................... by Karin Anderson Knotted Wrack - poem Acrostic Lifeboat - poem ..................................................................................... by Maureen Clark The Afternoon on the Sava - memoir The Gospel of Overconsumption - nonfiction ..................................................................................... by Scott Abbott Tiananmen Mother - poem And "Tenured" was Dropped from the Dictionary - poem ..................................................................................... by Michael Wells Mastering the Hunt - poem The Fox's Nonce Sonnet - poem ..................................................................................... by Lisa Chavez A Cat Place - poem Walking the Bear - poem ..................................................................................... by Star Coulbrooke The Glazier - poem Vespers in the Great Basin - poem ..................................................................................... by Danielle Beazer Dubrasky Kayaking on Hebron Lake - poem Ode to Everything - poem ..................................................................................... by Marjorie Maddox

Village Fiddle by Ken Waldman I toted my junker, side seam already cracked, an old cheap box of wood that would take the steep banks of small planes aiming for runways, the bumps and jostles of sleds hooked to snowmachines, the ice, the wind, nights in the villages. Higher education missionary, I made rounds to students' homes (where I visited, but never fit), to liaisons' offices (where the state-issued equipment sometimes worked), to the local high schools and elementaries (where I volunteered service)— fiddle closer to my heart than the backpack full of books. Indeed, closer to my heart than the frozen broken truth: a bloody pump buried in utter darkness. Quick to unsnap the case, I scratched tunes where no one had, played real-life old-time music to Eskimos and the odd whites in that weathered land. The Pied Fiddler, I might have been, gently placing the beat-up instrument in others' hands, giving up the bow . Good for smiles and laughs. Random questions and comments. A third-grader: It must be like having a dog making noise— you must never get lonely. A high-schooler: Is it hard to learn? One of my college students: Why are you out here? Where is your family? Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue First published in High Plains Literary Review, and Nome Poems (West End Press, 2000). From 1990-1992 I was the one-person English Department at the Nome Campus of the University of Alaska Fairbanks, where I taught mostly over the phone, and occasionally flew to Native villages to encourage my students to keep at it. Each village also had a school, which I'd visit as part of my service. In classrooms, I'd share both my fiddling and writing exercises. I can't emphasize enough how distant these communities are. In one, a teacher mentioned how her students had never seen a violin before, a remark which led to me writing this, my all-time favorite. .................................................................................................................................................................................... KEN WALDMAN has drawn on 39 years as an Alaska resident to produce poems, stories, and fiddle tunes that combine into a performance uniquely his. kenwaldman.com and trumpsonnets.com Next - New Orleans Villanelle by Ken Waldman Next

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I'd Rather Be Influenced by Patrick Ramsay to send more postcards. To kiss with more tongue and let cantaloupe juice run all the way down to my elbows. I’d rather be influenced to cook more quiche and make cold brew at home. To wake up early and stay in bed. To be better at remembering my friends’ birthdays. To vote early. I want an algorithm that worships heirloom tomatoes. The sound of that one summer cricket outside my window. Peach sorbet with tiny spoons. The way the mountains go copper at dusk. The chatter of your dog laughing in a dream across the room. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue First published in Gwarlingo , "The Sunday Poem." This poem marked the beginning of a new season in my writing. It emerged when I felt like I was finally settling into my life in Utah after years away. More importantly, I was settling into my own voice as a poet. I was slowing down. Whispering instead of yawping. I was making the case for a slower life, one where influencers focus their attention on unsellable glimmers of life beyond the algorithm. James Crews featured it as The Sunday Poem on Gwarlingo and it went viral. Funny enough: many folks sharing it online were the influencer-type who inspired it. .................................................................................................................................................................................... PATRICK RAMSAY is a queer poet & owner of the indie shop Happy Magpie Book & Quill. He explores land, community & heart in Ogden, Utah. patrickramsaypoet.com Next - Before Thirty by Patrick Ramsay Next

The Concrete Poet by Jim LaVilla-Havelin I. this is the first trans mission of the con crete poet report on exhibit at co-op gallery no press release no postcard no crackers no brie II. the alter native paper critic who is sometimes too smart for words but still uses them found her way there wrote: “_______ has found an alphabet of disaster.” III. somewhere between the calligraphic epics of Cy Twombly the incised mud-silica of Dubuffet the Rosetta Stone and J.G. Ballard’s CRASH IV. was this my fifteen minutes of fame? hiding in the basement while the police streamed through the sleek gallery asking everyone my name, my des cription, my whereabouts V. the art critic for the daily who also reviews restaurants, books, and covers the auto show describes them as “a grammar of happenstance or perhaps mishappenstance” VI. I don’t know when I first began to see them as messages scraped by metal onto barriers stories in stone VII. out with the truck with the pneumatic lift cones, flashers the jackhammer and the blow torch it comes to me we’re not in art school any more more dangerous than pastels VIII. it is the opposite of graffiti I remove de-construct re-contextualize present an outlaw aesthetic that makes art-speak go tongue-tied IX. I am so tired of the language meta phor I went to the wall to escape words I hacked out these sections of barrier to see silence as much as any markings deaths or near scrapes with it may have left I’m not telling stories I’m hammering away at walls Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue THE CONCRETE POET is the third volume of a five-book sequence. Though this section was written in 2010, the book is just now (2024) reaching its conclusion. This was the first section I wrote. It’s a favorite because it lays out some of the extent of what the long poem will include. A road map? A first shot of a voice? A catalogue of possibilities. .................................................................................................................................................................................... JIM LAVILLA-HAVELIN is the author of eight books of poetry, including two forthcoming in 2025, Mesquites Teach Us to Bend (Lamar University Press, 2025) and A Thoreau Book (Alabrava Press, 2025). He is the co-editor of the Houston University Press, Unsung Masters volume on Rosemary Catacalos (2025) and as Literary Executor for Catacalos’ estate, he is assembling her unpublished work for a volume Sing! . An educator, editor, and community arts activist for over 50 years, LaVilla-Havelin coordinates National Poetry Month activities in San Antonio. Awarded the City of San Antonio’s Distinction in the Arts for Literary Art, he teaches at The Cyndi Taylor Krier Juvenile Correctional Treatment Center for Gemini Ink’s Partners Program, teaches senior citizens in the Go Arts Program through Bihl Haus Cultural Arts, and high school students as Poet in Residence at the Young Women’s Leadership Academy. Next - Bruce by J. Diego Frey Next

The Glazier by Danielle Beazer Dubrasky All through the Depression he worked in the barn, surrounded by glass shards from panes he sanded and pressed into wooden frames for neighbors who brought him their broken things. His thick-gloved fingers scraped putty into grooves, carefully fit sharp edges into place, then brushed the wood with lead paint to let dry near the boiler—a furnace on the barn’s gravel floor we were too afraid to start up, after buying the house on the same quarter-acre sixty years later, the realtor’s chatter distracting us from cracked plaster, uneven floors. One night a nameless stray who lived in the loft slid through a tear in our bedroom’s screened door— our legs sprawled, sheets shoved away for the heat— and lunged onto my husband’s thigh, kneaded her claws into his skin. In my half-dream I moaned, thinking an alien creature was howling through our open window. She dug claws in deeper, and he yowled, tried to push her off as she nimbly leapt down, scrambled out. We couldn’t stop laughing, didn’t sleep for the rest of the night but talked until dawn when lilacs wafted through the screen on a morning breeze, and our dog nudged to be let out to the yard of our first garden, freshly planted rose bushes, maple trees that would shade the swing set and the barn. The stray slept in the loft for years until one winter she disappeared. We rattled the food bag in snow, called the name we gave her, returned to the bedroom, finally knowing what we had lost. I still find glints poking through soil hard-packed by a century of footsteps. Sometimes I think I see him too, beneath rafters, cutting and beveling to feel transparent weight in his hands. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue The first house my husband and I bought was a hundred-year-old house with an original old barn in the backyard—one of the last barns in Cedar City, Utah. The man who built the house was a glazier who worked in the barn. This poem captures the feeling of the first few years in our new home, and what it is like to live in a place informed by the past while not always appreciating what you have in the present. It has been a long-time favorite searching for a home. .................................................................................................................................................................................... DANIELLE BEAZER DUBRASKY is the author of Drift Migration (Ashland Poetry Press, 2021). She teaches Creative Writing at Southern Utah University and directs the Grace A. Tanner Center for Human Values. danielledubrasky.com Next - Vespers in the Great Basin by Danielle Beazer Dubrasky Next

Predictions of the Past by Alison Moore Maybe I need an excuse to come here. The dog needs a walk, and during the day nothing is half as haunted as night. There’s evidence— the dead have been reading, not nineteenth century novels not personal letters or sweepstakes rules, but the Northwest Arkansas Times. The pages are all over the graves. Not the section called “Living,” not the horoscopes, certainly not the future which no longer concerns them, but the wants ads, all those vacancies: rooms with views, sublets, yard sales, must-sees and have-to-sells. Possibilities of one sort or another. Are they planning on coming back? Or simply curious about the places that have opened up now that they are gone? I wonder— is there such a thing as the Reincarnation Times , a deity writing the personals: Middle-aged couple in Des Moines looking for eleventh-hour child, orphans a plus all expenses paid. Lonely heart takes a beating, apply within. My dog runs among the papers, spooked by the way they ride the wind, rustle and snag on the tilting wire stands that once held ribbons and wreaths. She flushes a cardinal and it lands in a nearby cedar, a red gash in the wood, watching. There are families here, but none of mine. My father, who art in Virginia, a drifter reduced to ash. I threw him to the wind five years ago, from a rusted bridge over the Rappahannock. He’s drifting, still. He won’t stay put, certainly not beneath the stone that bears his name in Orlean, in the family plot next to his sister, the one he didn’t mean to kill. He was nine, lifting his father’s shotgun. She was seven, and simply walking up the stairs when the bullet met her, one step below the landing. And so—is this why I’m here— to summon my father, former journalist, to a cemetery in Arkansas to read the paper? He won’t look for a job; he never did. For once he’s not going to comment on the headlines, give a lecture about the whims of the gods, the cost of hubris, or the Real Reasons for the War Between the States. He will concern himself, finally, with what he might need, beginning with minutiae, the useless and marvelous he can now afford: Hermes Typewriter (letter X sticks, otherwise excellent condition ). Printing press (needs work, runs good ). Trunk of Confederate Bonds (like new! ) And best of all, a 1912 Remington rifle (never fired). He can barely bring himself to lift it. It’s heavy and I have to help. It’s all right , I say, I’m right behind you. He closes his eyes, squeezes the trigger. The sound that should have been thunder is no more than a harmless click, the most beautiful of vacancies, the empty chamber. No child will fall. The bird watches from the tree, a red ribbon with wings, ready to disappear. It won’t. It stirs; it stays, sings. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue “Predictions of the Past,” was awarded an Honorable Mention by the Patterson Review for the Allen Ginsberg Prize. The title came from a billboard in North Carolina advertising a palm reader who offered “Predictions of the Future and the Past.” It struck me as ironic and perfect. We think we can predict the past with some certainty, but what if we could revise it? This poem is ultimately about a family tragedy. My father, as a boy, accidentally killed his younger sister with a double-barrel shotgun. He never spoke of it. So I did. .................................................................................................................................................................................... ALISON MOORE is s a graduate of the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers and a former Assistant Professor of English/Creative Writing in the MFA Creative Writing Program at the University of Arizona. She is the recipient of two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships in fiction, and tours with the multi-media humanities program, "Riders on the Orphan Train" which she co-created with the musician Phil Lancaster. ridersontheorphantrain.org Next - The Queen of Hell by Karin Anderson Next

Past Lives... That's Still a Thing, Right? by J. Diego Frey In my most recent past life, I was almost exactly the same I am now (same job same body shape and fear of spiders same wrinkled cotton wardrobe) except that my hair was curly my name was Margery and my beard was longer. Oh, and I had tentacles where my ears are now. Personal-sized octopus arms, about the thickness of a Marks-a-Lot brand magic marker and long enough to hold in front of my face a cob of buttered corn, which I would eat using the same chewing motions that I do now. In the life before that, prior to the great gene wars of the 2050s, I was shorter, and chubbier, hairier in all the wrong places. And I sold pet insurance to the nervous widows of Omaha. There must be some record of the life that proceeded that but the ether is murky. I was a sort of famous vaudeville act a few lives prior to that. On stage, animal noises would resonate through my enormous, hairy proboscis. In make-up, I had the head of a donkey. My showbiz-name was J. Donkey Frell. A big nose and a fey artistic tendency described my person through an extended series of lives during a dozen generations preceding this, always one of many similar, short, hairy men, weak of will and chin falling always to the sad symphonies of war or at least the singing telegram of venereal disease. Little known fact: Chlamydia…got its name from a character in an unpopular satiric opera I wrote in Vienna in the 1800s. Mostly, though, the spirits describe me as just a surfer of the lower to middle layers of society in a succession of Balkan territories. Notably, once, in the 17th century, I was, due to a clerical error, the Pope for three weeks. Remarkable—my eyeglasses prescription has been almost the same in every life. I don’t want to brag but the gypsy told me that a few thousand years ago, I was a red show pony named Fernutis— rumored to be quite handsome. The gypsy rules our lives. She twists the fabric of time and reality into dental floss. Do not forget to tip the gypsy. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue This is a newer poem by me—first draft written maybe 3 years ago. It’s a much longer poem than the previous example. I’ve always felt more comfortable with the short poems, always worrying about overstaying my welcome. But lately I’ve been trying to stretch things out a bit. Mark Doty talks about pushing yourself past the end of your draft to discover where the poem is going to go after your current last line, and it turns out that can be a fun exercise. Mostly I hope that I am keeping the energy all the way through this poem. It starts out with a nice juicy image, so most of my revisions have been along the lines of enriching the subsequent imagery (hmmm…just noticed how close the word imagery is to the name Margery…). Thanks for sticking with the poem over all 23 stanzas! I hope this poem will be an anchor for my new, yet-to-find-an-interested-publisher collection, Froot Loop Moon . .................................................................................................................................................................................... J. DIEGO FREY is a poet living in the Denver area, which is where he grew up and never completely escaped. He published two quite likable collections of poetry, Umbrellas or Else and The Year the Eggs Cracked with Colorado publisher Conundrum Press. jdiego.com Next - Interstellar by David Romtvedt Next

Sacrament Meeting Started the Three Hours of Church on Sunday by Natalie Padilla Young A friend taught her how to pass the time: flip through the hymn book and add “in the bathtub” after any song title: How Great Thou Art…in the Bathtub Now Let Us Rejoice…in the Bathtub Did You Think to Pray in the Bathtub? Know This, That Every Soul Is Free in the Bathtub. An hour of speeches broken up by hymns, prayers and eating Christ’s blood and body (blessed, white Wonder Bread and a doll’s cup of water for each worthy member). She no longer sits through church meetings or questions her questioning, though often hums those hymns around the house, slips holy ingrained choruses into a tub of hot water. Ears immersed, she can hear the sounds of her own choir. The heart’s bahdum, bah-dum bahdum, too fast for its own good. Rejoice a Glorious Sound Is Heard…in the Bathtub. From a gurgle to a shout, rustling empty stomach. Whooshes of breath tunnel in and out. Hard enough to simply sit still, then left to a porcelain amphitheater— Where Can I Turn for Peace? In the bathtub thoughts thud and whirl. Come Along, Come Along With All the Power of Heart and Tongue. Maintenance of this submerged body too tough, too much Master the Tempest Is Raging. Not enough still, small whisper: Ye Simple Souls Who Stray Let Us All Press On. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue First published in The Wax Paper and All of This Was Once Under Water (Quarter Press, 2023). I’m terrible at picking a favorite of almost anything, so I chose this previously published because I am proud of the craft. It does a lot of lifting to fill what was a gap in the manuscript/book, combining humor and religion, while helping to flesh out one of the main characters. .................................................................................................................................................................................... NATALIE PADILLA YOUNG co-founded and manages Sugar House Review . Author of All of This Was Once Under Water (Quarter Press, 2023). natalieyoungarts.com Next - Teddy Thompson Croons Leonard Cohen by Natalie Padilla Young Next

Acrostic Lifeboat Take words with you and return to God. Hosea 14:3 by Maureen Clark The bug zapper flashes Morse code, A spark for each dot and dash - saying - pay attention. Words are being Kindled from these fried insects. The rise and fall of empires depend on Each death. Our elliptical orbit brings another year of language. Why would you take words to return to God? Why not bundles of wheat? Oil in clay jars? Fresh baked bread. Why not take salt? Red wine, purple cloth, things more like worship? Depending on the alphabet is risky with its creation of ambiguity Scratched onto vellum, paint on papyrus, so much lost in translation. Poems Written on napkins and grocery receipts. I can’t deny that I’m compelled, enticed even, To thrust my fingers into a bowl of letters and return Holding on for dear life, writing ‘lifeboat’ just in time, Yielding to the possible safety of the right word. Only language can tell our stories. Some letters generate echoes of the Utterly haunting past, mistakes, the resonance of the earth. Any word can be a talisman. I’ve always wanted to Nail down how civilization evolved into writing. I want to write the word Dromedary because the cadence mirrors the way it moves. Ridiculous of course, but I’d ride that one-hump camel to the oasis any day. Even the unvoiced desire can eventually be put into words, and spells To cure warts, whip up a tempest, make a magic potion. Unless words carry different weights like numbers and can be Rounded up or down. Someone show me the runes! Never mind, I’ve wandered off again, Too full of questions that can’t be answered Overwhelmed with finding a word to rhyme with orange, Grappling with the alphabet, the number of syllables in a perfect line, One too many or needing one less. It’s futile. Please take my words God, Do whatever it takes to return to me. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue First published in Utah Lake Stories: Reflections on a Living Landmark (Torrey House Press, 2022). I like to try different poetic forms. I had never tried the acrostic in a serious endeavor, but I found it to the be right fit for this poem and the idea of creating words as a means of returning to God. I also liked how it allowed me to turn the phrasing around so that God needed to return to me. .................................................................................................................................................................................... MAUREEN CLARK retired from the University of Utah where she taught writing for 20 years. She was the director of the University Writing Center from 2010-2014, and president of Writers@Work from 1999-2001. Her poems have appeared in Colorado Review , Alaska Review , The Southeast Review , and Gettysburg Review among others. Her first book is This Insatiable August (Signature Books, 2024). Next - The Afternoon on the Sava by Scott Abbott Next

Hiroshi Tanahashi by Jerry VanIeperen echoes travel across the icy sea foam in cherry blossom sundown the Dome crowd quakes Hiroshi Tanahashi leaps from the top rope falling in love, frog-splashed against the mat in magnitudes in cherry blossom sundown the Dome crowd quakes Tanahashi wasn’t born a constellation falling in love, frog-splashed against the mat in magnitudes all the neon signs illuminate the borders of ropes Tanahashi never born a constellation when the world swoons in uncharted patterns of lava and stars all the neon signs illuminate the borders of ropes the sweat and spectacle captured in a camera’s eye when the world swoons in uncharted patterns of lava and stars Hiroshi Tanahashi leaps from the top rope the sweat and spectacle captured in a camera’s eye Tanahashi echoes a constellation over the icy sea Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue I arrived at a point of liberation where I decided I was going to write poetry about pro wrestling—former Utah Poet Laureate David Lee said that may be the greatest oxymoron of his time, which I took as encouragement. I watched wrestling with my grandpa, it was the topic that got me back in touch with a dear friend after years apart, and it was also common ground, for a time, I shared with my son. So, it’s fairly meaningful to me, and I’m especially proud of how this poem about a Japanese pro wrestler turned out. .................................................................................................................................................................................... JERRY VANIEPEREN lives heartily in Utah with two children, two dogs, and one wife. He earned an MFA from the University of Nebraska and was a founding editor of the poetry journal Sugar House Review . Next - Pissing Towards the Sky by Jerry VanIeperen Next