Flying Island

Madrigal for a Mackerel   Remember how You dressed This flesh  The onion skirt Sipped slightly Wine of white Shine of light In metal tab Finger lift The tomato The olive Nothing more Lemon juice  Splashed gash  That’s the sting  Mackerel my heart Cram my love  Into this tin shell Where none  Is left that  Felt the sea  No deception  Or obscurity Only waiting  For the air  The cracker The mouth - P. C. Tavarez P. C. Tavarez is a Cuban-Dominican poet living in the Midwest. Born in Miami, she writes about love, grief, mental health, survival, and the mess of being human. Her first two books, That’s Not Love, That’s a Live Grenade (2021) and Love in Winter, Alive in Spring (2024), were self-published. Her newest chapbook, I’m Sorry, I’m Just a Girl (Pure Sleeze Press, 2025), is her most vulnerable work yet. Tavarez writes with her heart open, carving poems out of struggle and resilience, always reaching for honesty. Her words ar...

Recipe for a Dallasite Looking for Love in Indy Forget the taste of love first. Or rather get used to tasting text breakups. Whataburger lovers. Football boys who ask for blowjobs in your parents' bathrooms. Try Indy instead. Meander in miso ramen. McDonald's. Lovers who leave you with nothing but salt. Enter senior year solo. Grow stale from months of frozen foods. Which come after years of same old meals and men. Which come after a lifetime of self-unworthiness. Because queers were never meant to eat. Then,  him. Let your tongue soak up the Indy in him. The real Indy. Its flavor-filled menagerie. Salty  Shake Shack burgers and fries. Citrusy liquor-store soju. Sugary Lincoln Square pancakes.  Savory Ambrosia spaghetti. He brings you this hidden buffet. This solar system of several tastes. He sits at the center. The main course. Feel starved again despite having gorged. Savor not just  these planet-sized bites. Chase the sun who arouses your appetite. - Ollie Sikes ...

Bayside Morning The surface of Lake Huron, across St. Martin Bay, ground perfectly smooth with a diamond chip sander. Driftwood stumps and branches, mirrored twins in the shallow water. Overcast sky brushed in pale pink, with which the lake agrees. On the bed, atop the comforter, he lies naked on his belly, which expands, contracts with his gentle snores, encouraged by the serene water, still air. Lake and sky all but indistinguishable except where an artist has begun to sketch out a horizon in grey chalk. - M. J. Arcangelini M. J. Arcangelini, (b.1952, Pennsylvania) resides in northern California. He has published extensively in both print and online formats, and in more than a dozen anthologies. He is the author of 8 published collections, the most recent of which are the full-length Pawning My Sins , (Luchador Press, 2022), and the chapbooks Fierce Kisses (Rebels & Squares Press, 2024) and Hooking Up (Pure Sleaze Press, 2025). He has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize.

Speak through Seed  —after Hadara Bar-Nadav’s “Death by Design” Within our world I am  a secret to some  a secret to none.  I dream to run  by the pinked water  through choices, past pasts  I lost the light  candle, path, pain  still cries to me.  “Indiana” of Lenker & Meek  grand reminders hanged  high treason for change— Chug along,  push along,  play-along crescendo  to reincarnation— By wing my kin  goes seed to soil to sky to rafter  By brushstroke my omen  goes to speak to pry to seek to look after.  - Brenna Sobecki Brenna Sobecki is currently an undergraduate at Indiana State University. Brenna is a Northwest Indiana native who has lived all over the Hoosier state. When not writing, Brenna can usually be found hiking in the Indiana Dunes or spending quality time with their cat, Twig. Their poem “Gerascophobia” has been published in Tipton Poetry Journal .

The Puzzle Of Buttons every morning my mother chose his clothes. laying them flat on the freshly made bed. since his second stroke took part of him, every morning she did it.  because he could not solve the puzzle of buttons.  the mystery of tying shoes, or remember  how to walk out a door.  so my mother helped.  because she remembered everything. and with automatic hands tended to the chores, her eyes staring out at something else;  narrowing against the morning’s glare coming through the kitchen window, she helped the man she had married half a century ago  remember how to keep shirts together  and things in their place.    - Gilbert Arzola Winner of the 2019 Passager Poetry Contest and the 2021 Rattle Poetry Chapbook Contest, Gilbert Arzola has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Award. His full-length poetry collection is Prayers Of Little Consequence (Passager Books, 2019) and his poetry chapbook is The Death of a Migrant ...

Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 10.31 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! In this edition we publish poems by Boyd Bauman ,  Lillian Toumey , William E. Smith III , and  Zann Carter . Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers All images are sourced from the Canva library from various artists. 

Praise Song for the Basement    though some folks might call it a cellar,  granite and quartzite, glacial rocks of ages  unfathomable, cement spread roughly between,  propping the 1910 farmhouse above.    My dad sought refuge here,  huddled for warmth next to the radio  the AC Church didn't allow upstairs,  Grand Ol' Opry and "The Wabash Cannonball"  carrying him away from fears of the father.    Warmth came also with chainsaw and ax  in the timber, scoop tractoring the load  to the basement’s east side, propping the chute door  to a yawn, feeding the ravenous furnace all winter,  a steel beast six feet deep,  pipes to the metal-grated vents upstairs.    We lay our work gloves on top to dry,  and once from the nest a startled snake shot out  into the space above my head,  finding nothing but air acrobatically doubled back.    Dad got up on a chair and flipped over...

Leaving Home In this house the air still smells like your old almond lotion, Mom. Upstairs you used to let me wear your wedding veil for ceremonies with my bear. Aunt Dee said I looked like you but in the mirror my face was mine alone. In August of last year you drove me in the minivan to college. On the sly I packed your tweezers and your perfume in my duffel bag. When classes ended I wished you’d bring me ginger ale and chicken soup in bed. Tucked up onto the couch my pinky toes feel callused just like yours. Your shower walls have mildew on them – I knew that would make you cry. Mom, I cannot hear you. I do not know you with those tired eyes. I baked a chocolate cake last week that tasted nothing like your recipe. I don’t think you’re boring, Mom – tell me what you’re working on –  I never read a truer story than your one about that long-haired girl. Why did you make me change my skirt before the sophomore dance? Mom, when you sent me to my room that night I should’ve gone. The ...