Working Out Again

At first it feels foolish, this sudden drive to drive somewhere

and run in place. How, either way, going nowhere quickens

the heart. To love anything is hard, is to lift its weight to failure.

Still, this metronomic click in a knee going up the stairs,

your black book of prescriptions. Watching infomercials before bed,

you almost believe parts of you could be incinerated,

torched, melted like sea ice in this climate of supplementation.

The less of you always a plus, an addition of years,

what the years bring – this creaking house, this August yard

with a peach tree bearing so much it almost kills itself.

They fall, polka dot grass with sunset, soft skulls frocked with newborn

fuzz like your beloved, her moon-head unwrapped beneath

a lamp’s pale gloam. The silver lining of sickness, she says,

this lessness of her clustered like erratic cells on

the porch: new pair of jeans, soft top with its delicious dip

of neckline. Deadlifting’s proper form, you know,

this bending over, straight backed, boxes brought in. This new

you needing more steps, strain looked forward to once,

its push-pull kind of intimacy. How, just before the knurled

bar of iron once crushed your convulsing chest, a pair of hands.

That just after, you sitting up on the bench, breathless, core

gone light as light. Almost gone.

Gus Peterson lives in the smallest town by land area in Maine. Poems are forthcoming with Prairie Schooner, Poems From Here, and the Deep Water series edited by Megan Grumbling. His first full length book, Male Pattern, was published in 2025 by Finishing Line Press. He decompresses by cohosting a monthly poetry salon at his local bread/bookstore. On Instagram @poeticswede

Eridanus

when the sun fell into me, the people burned

Zeus’s temple

alone survived

though not a stone remained of it

fire raises capital

that’s why he’s god of lightning

and this river I’ve become

wears down your edges hourly

Originally from Seattle, Elizabeth Kate Switaj currently works at the College of the Marshall Islands on Majuro Atoll. She is the author most recently of Serial Experiments (Alien Buddha Press, 2025), The Articulations (Kernpunkt Press, 2024), and The Bringers of Fruit: An Oratorio (11:11 Press, 2022). Previously, she taught English in Japan and China.

Anatomy of Grief

Time folds itself like linen at the foot

of the bed, creased from nights we’ve

held under it, our bodies pressing new

constellations into the fabric of our loss.

Each exhale is a new type of departure,

each inhale return, the lungs building and

demolishing the same small world. We

call this breath, it feels like prayer, our

mouths a doorway for our unnamed ghosts.

Each moment we remember slices at

the tender lining of our throats. We gasp

and only ash and smoke remain. The light

is gone by the time we call it beautiful.

Betty Stanton (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer who lives and teaches in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in various anthologies. She received her MFA from the University of Texas – El Paso and also holds a doctorate in educational leadership. She is currently on the editorial board of Ivo Review. @fadingbetty.bsky.social