< Back to Breakthroughs Issue Bird News Cynthia Hardy A thump against the cabin wall. I find the body, palm-sized, warm yet, on the porch. One eye glistens, the beak open. Someone says, "If a bird flies in your window he's come to tell good news." But, if the bird dies, and the news is never spoken? Or spoken late, words of comfort flung against a window they can’t pass through? I see your mouth move, like bird wings: the news shatters as it flies. As children we filed into halls nestled among coats and boots, our heads between our knees cradled by our arms. We recited the bad news silently. The skies shone clear and empty. The worst threat-- one not seen--comes in joyous blue. All we love can vanish, empty as the sky. I lay the bird on a clump of moss. Next time, I say, there will be no window glass. Next time the bird flies in free and clear, singing. This poem was written in response to the statement quoted in the poem. I was surprised at where the poem turned, and then, that the poem was published in the Heartland section of the Fairbanks Daily News Miner in 1986 (when they regularly published poetry). This poem was also published in my collection Beneath a Portrait of a Horse (Salmon Poetry, Ireland, 2010). Previous CINDY HARDY writes from Chena Ridge, Fairbanks, Alaska. She has published poetry and fiction, teaches occasionally, rides horses, and gardens all summer. Next

< Back to Breakthroughs Issue huntington beach, march 2 Shauri Cherie plovers scurry toward water only to shy from the kiss of waves against shore. A girl, small, uncoordinated on toddler legs, waddles after, feet imprinting into saturated sand, following pointed prints from the birds before they take to air. She stops near the tide and wiggles her toes, bending to pluck a shell with her thick fingers—you imagine it broken, sharp, and colored a dull red beneath its coat of sand, the grains wearing her skin where she clutches. Behind, a call of her name, and she turns, offering her free hand to her mother. The shell remains in her palm as they continue east, and you finally look away and walk west. Distantly, plovers land, resume their race toward shore. "huntington beach, march 2" is one of my oldest poems that has seen countless iterations, so finally publishing it is a breakthrough in its own right. Each iteration of this poem has been a breakthrough for me poetically, since I always come back to rewrite this aged memory with new techniques. Past versions remind me of how much my poetic voice has changed and grown, and it feels liminal to have this poem be both old and new. Previous SHAURI CHERIE is easily excited by travel, curry, and stingrays. Her work appears in Trace Fossils Review , Ghost Light Lit , and others. shauricherie.com Next

Nano Taggart < Back to Breakthroughs Issue Chalk-white, Canyon-deep Nano Taggart 00:00 / 02:29 Chalk-white, Canyon-deep Nano Taggart The nightmare isn’t darkness. And in this version, I’m frail enough to fall all the way down the precipice I’d skipped along the edge of since well before the fear was named. It’s white. So white I can’t distinguish its corners, its edges, its end, or its source of light; but my feet sink into something— having fallen from wherever it was that was was before. The fear doesn’t freeze, exactly, it’s the scared-to-to-trembling sort where I can smile, even laugh in a suddenly social setting. Anxiety strikes just as memory powers down. But only Natalie can tell. (The trembling is my schtick?) Then someone wants to know what I think about some dire whatever, and all that I can offer is, “I don’t know. But I think she sells sea shells by the sea shore.” People laugh, because I’m funny sometimes, and thankfully, the conversation moves on, moves past me and the nightmare-white I’m inside. Or—like accretion—that I’m supposed to be. How planets form. Little bits stick together and collide then stick together again-n-again- n-again; and even here, in here , addled with too many pronouns, I’m terrified of my voice’s pale echo or not-echo. Like I’ve gotta hide that my path crossed Rakim before “Ode to the Wind.” I’m walking around like—we’re all walking around like—like these blank pages are a way out. Out of here, out of the dream I can’t leave: it was a room that’s so white I can’t see its corners, just one incandescent band burning from under what must be a door with its otherwise-undetectable edges. That’s it, that’s the nightmare. Then the sandy dryness in my mouth and throat. So dry I can’t swallow, or call for help, or discern if that place (this place?) would allow—or cause—my voice to echo. One of the byproducts of my mental health struggles is crippling creative anxiety. This combined with my belligerent inner critic makes it difficult for me to write. Naming and acknowledging these things, and addressingthem directly, has been a topical breakthrough. It's kind of a cheat code to be able to write about these devils, and it's a deep to be panned. "Chalk-white, Canyon-deep" is a breakthrough in its confrontation of my childhood nightmare and the anxiety of influence. Previous NANO TAGGART is a founding editor of Sugar House Review , and would like to meet your dog. Next

< Back to Breakthroughs Issue Incunabula, Mother Tongue Max McDonough My mother—blogger, doll addict cyber queen, sniper at the eBay auction computer screen— mixed her idioms. From the get-go , for example, became From the gecko when she said it. Not the sharpest bowling ball in the shed. He side-blinded me. Shithead thinks he’s cool as mustard. Thinks he’s right up my sleeve. I escaped from New Jersey for college, which opened up a whole nother can of germs. In emails I wrote: Professor, I’ll have to mow it over a little longer. Professor, without a question of a doubt. I didn’t realize I made switches too until I re-read them—a nervous, first-gen scholarship student— as I’m sure my mother didn’t think she’d altered anything in her life. But that’s a different chiasmus for a different line of thought, not for nights like this one, alone and happy mostly, my heart at the peck and call , though, of those suburban woods of my childhood again— the ultraviolet yellow feathers of witch-hazel thicket, serrated huckleberry leaves—the understory so dense, tangled to itself, that walking a straight line becomes a tight circle, and my mother’s voice is mine. "Incunabula, Mother Tongue" was first published in Best New Poets . I’d been writing poems about a difficult estrangement from my mother only to realize that half the reason I love language – love to bend and break and rearrange it – was an inheritance. Suddenly grief had a meaning. Maybe even, can I say this?, it glittered. Previous MAX MCDONOUGH'S debut poetry collection, Python with a Dog Inside It, won the 2023 St. Lawrence Book Award from Black Lawrence Press. His work has appeared in The New York Times , AGNI , Best New Poets , The Adroit Journal , T Magazine , and elsewhere. maxmcdonough.co Next

Mike White < Back to Breakthroughs Issue Stones Mike White 00:00 / 00:36 Stones Mike White The most torn angel came into town and we were dazzled and a little afraid His one shredded wing he held to his side like a secret and for all our asking he would not speak of God An angel fully broken so that when we finally led him up the road (gathering stones as we did) He trusted us like a serious child and asked again for nothing but water and homecoming “Stones,” is an older poem from How to Make a Bird with Two Hands (The Word Works, 2012) that combines a sense of revelatory change with breakage. Previous MIKE WHITE is the author of How to Make a Bird with Two Hands (Word Works, 2012) and Addendum to a Miracle (Waywiser, 2017), winner of the Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize. Next

You Oughta Know by Brock Dethier Addiction fools the best of us: you smell the bait, acknowledge the hook, sniff it, flick it, tongue the steel point, but can’t guess how sharp the barb, how stealth its set. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue A short poem with a hook. I like to have a single metaphor carry the poem’s meanings, and I like to write poems that might affect readers’ lives. I targeted the arrogance of young people who think they are too smart and aware to get addicted. I’m proud to say that the teenage daughter I wrote the poem for is now almost 30 and almost completely clean and sober... though I’m sure the bad examples around her influenced her more than my poem. Sugar House Review published this poem and reprinted it on a promotional card. .................................................................................................................................................................................... Next - The Black Flies of Home by Brock Dethier Next BROCK DETHIER retired from Utah State University after directing the writing composition program for 11 years. His publications include From Dylan to Donne: Bridging English and Music (Heinemann, 2003), First Time Up: An Insider’s Guide for New Composition Teachers (Utah State University Press, 2005), Twenty-One Genres and How to Write Them (Utah State University Press, 2013), and two books of poetry, Ancestor Worship (Pudding House Publications, 2008) and Reclamation (Popcorn Press, 2015).

The Lure of the Unfinished for Elise Cowen by Amy Gerstler intercepted mid brush stroke those who die young or trun- cated loom still wet with potential those who elude us who fled into death their echoes gnaw at our future and we the abandoned remain unfinished too friends/lovers/ interrupted mid gesture or caress given the slip by loves gone to fossil or scholars' fodder or life-size paper dolls we chase through dreams we cast them in roles they never auditioned for blurred wrecks at rest on the sea floor fish flit through their dissipating hulls sentiment clouds the water their incompleteness = infinite possibility how ravenously I wish her back during nights spent struggling (without success) to decipher her handwriting— Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue This is a recent poem, sparked by reading the work of Elise Cowen, a female Beat poet whose small but intriguing body of work was a revelation. She died at 28, so I was left wanting more, troubled by regret about those who die young, wishing it could have been different. My excitement about her work was inextricable from an elegiac feeling. I'm fond of the poem because it's a document in which I try to contemplate and honor the effect her work had on me, and my sadness re: lives cut short. .................................................................................................................................................................................... AMY GERSTLER has published ten books of poetry and received a Guggenheim Fellowship as well as the National Book Critics Circle Award. She lives in Los Angeles. poetryfoundation.org/poets/amy-gerstler Next Next - Reading by Natasha Saj é

Day Dreaming by Stacy Julin My mother told me not to day dream. I know you love Grandma, but she’s a dreamer. Stay in reality, day dreaming does no good. Still, my grandma painted forests with water colors, and she would play songs on the piano that she dreamed in her sleep. She read a book to me with a picture of little girls with red hair like mine, poems that stayed me and filled my dreams with words. I felt my heart move when we read from those books. She had lived alone most of her life, but she could create lovely things. I know why grandma day dreamed. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link A poem inspired by my grandmother, whom I loved. My own life has mirrored hers in ways I would never have imagined. Back Back to Current Issue .................................................................................................................................................................................... STACY JULIN'S work has been published in Oyster River Pages , Pirene’s Fountain , Sweet Tree Review , Southern Quill , and Word Fountain , and has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks, A Pebble Thrown in Water (Tiger’s Eye Press, 2010), Visiting Ghosts and Ground (Finishing Line Press, 2018), and Things We Carry (Finishing Line Press, 2024). She lives with her family at the base of the beautiful Wasatch Mountains. Next - A Love for Loneliness by Stacy Julin 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

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

Sinatra, Sinatra by Paul Fericano Sexual reference: a protruding sinatra is often laughed at by serious women. Medical procedure: a malignant sinatra must be cut out by a skilled surgeon. Violent persuasion: a sawed-off sinatra is a dangerous weapon at close range. Congressional question: Do you deny the charge of ever being involved in organized sinatra? Prepared statement: Kiss my sinatra. Blow it out your sinatra. Financial question: Will supply-side sinatra halt inflation? Empty expression: The sinatra stops here. The sinatra is quicker than the eye. Strategic question: Do you think it’s possible to win a limited nuclear sinatra? Stupid assertion: Eat sinatra. Hail Mary full of sinatra. Serious reflection: Sinatra this, sinatra that. Sinatra do, sinatra don’t. Sinatra come, sinatra go. There’s no sinatra like show sinatra. Historical question: Is the poet who wrote this poem still alive? Biblical fact: Man does not live by sinatra alone. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue “Sinatra, Sinatra” was responsible for cementing (pun intended) my so-called reputation as a social and political satirist. Being an outlaw member of a poetry scene that seemed to have little interest in, or understanding of, the art of satire, I was constantly pushing myself and the envelope. The poem, a takedown of extreme conservative politics that used Sinatra’s name in vain, was completed in early 1982 after many drafts. The poem actually managed to attract the attention of Frank Sinatra and get under his skin (again, pun intended). It provoked some poetry lovers to dismiss me and the poem outright (this was, after all, the Reagan era). But it also motivated many others who didn’t really read poems to actually read mine. This favorite was the lynchpin for the 1982 Howitzer Prize, a literary hoax that mocked the absurdity of all competitive awards. After the intended target (Poets & Writers) was hit dead center, I dutifully exposed the hoax myself. This caused the usual righteous indignation and predictable blacklisting. But the overwhelming support of those who clearly got the message (and the joke) was all the more satisfying. .................................................................................................................................................................................... PAUL FERICANO is the author of Things That Go Trump in the Night: Poems of Treason and Resistance (Poems-For-All Press, 2019), winner of the 2020 Bulitzer Prize. yunews.com Next - Sacrament Meeting Started the Three Hours of Church on Sunday by Natalie Padilla Young Next

Nominations for the Pushcart Prize Anthology Best of the Small Presses From Issue 1 "July" by Shannan Ballam "Still Life with Mormons in My Living Room" by Paul Fericano "Missa Brevis" by Kimberly Johnson "The Little House: Crystal City, Texas" by Jeff Talmadge From Issue 2 "Knotted Wrack" by Maureen Clark "Storms, Maybe a Metaphor for Us" by Kase Johnston Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link