(Maternity) Leave

There is a stretch of the most precious time in the mornings after your husband has gone to work when the baby wakes up and you feed her and she falls asleep on your chest, her small arms holding your torso, their full length barely reaching the edges of your back. You can't move, of course, so you listen to an audiobook and lie there in the mostly-dark room and you are two places at once: this most precious place with your daughter sleeping on your chest (which she does not do throughout the day, high on milk scent too close to your boobs, demanding to be held but a safe enough distance away from the food of you) and the other place of deep deep sadness that in 35 days you have to return to work and these small morning hours will go away. Bad mother. She will sleep this last stretch of night sleep instead in a pack n play or not at all, having to be woken up more fully and moved around, crying while you get dressed and cannot hold her. She is so small. Impossibly small. Bad mother. This most precious time is a gift and you are squandering it thinking already of when it will be over. Your neck hurts because you spend so much time staring at her. You don't eat enough in the day and you've been crying more at night again and my God there are already so many things you are doing imperfectly (which is to say, wrong). Bad mother. She already grew out of her newborn clothes and you cried when you packed them into a little plastic bin for storage. The beginning especially was so hard and exhausting, and there was so much pain (the literal, physical kind) it was almost unbearable but now you worry you missed it and you're missing it and you aren't ready to leave her. It is perhaps technically far away but it feels far too close and you aren't ready for these small hours between night and day to disappear, packed in a small plastic bin. You aren’t ready.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Number 3. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Laws of Motion

We don’t talk the way we used to / but sometimes I still feel the pull / the air thick with what used to be gravity / your voice dimming / a hum caught between rooms / I think of you in motion / in fragments / your voice screaming against the faucet / steam ghosting your face / how even light, stretched too far, forgets its source / once, you said everything keeps moving until something stops it / so I wonder if it was time that slowed us / or the quiet between what we meant and what we said / distance growing like a crack beneath paint / invisible until it splits / last spring, I found your handwriting on a grocery list / cursive thinning at the edges / paper softening where your hand once pressed / now it’s just residue / Newton would call it equilibrium / I call it the stillness that comes after naming / each law another way to say silence collects / settles / fills the room like dust / when I pass your doorway / the air still shifts / slightly / measurable only in ache / someone told me sound never dies / it only travels / maybe that’s why, some mornings, I hear dishes clink / the soft drag of your slippers across tile / and pause / certain for a moment / that nothing has moved at all.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Number 3. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Please, God, in the Event of Dictatorship

Allow me to run from America and, if it be Your will,
Have Germans roll out their welcome mats
As America opened her arms to my parents
When they escaped Berlin in the ’30s.
Or, if not, allow me to tend my garden,
And don’t forget to protect my stocks.
Or, if I end up in some relocation camp out in Utah,
At least let it be humane, or, if not,
May I thrive in suffering and hardship.
Didn’t Sartre say “We have never been so free
As under the German Occupation?”
Today on Morning Joe I heard terror in men’s voices
Even in those normally mechanical and robotic.
But Germany might be a better option anyway
For decrepit age, since they care for elders cheaper
And I’ve now got my German papers.
But maybe it’s too lonely there.
I know the language but don’t know a soul.
How does it work, to not know a soul?
I’ll just be in some affordable nursing home,
And everyone will be talking German
While I’m looking out at snow instead of palm trees.
Of course, if one listens to folks like Knut,
There never was a Holocaust.
What I don’t understand about antisemites is,
Shouldn’t they be cheering for the Shoah
Instead of denying it?
What would it take to convince him?
He also assures me the earth is flat
And schools everyone that BLM is a Jewish plot.
I wish, God, You could open his eyes at Auschwitz
But he’d claim that’s just an ingenious Hollywood set,
And Hollywood is Jewish-owned.
Maybe I should tell him about my grandmother
Who was deported from Germany,
Branded, starved, gassed and burned
Even though she’d converted to Christianity
The way I converted all these years later.
But he’ll assure me that’s all myth.
Knut once hoped to be a child support investigator.
And gave my name as reference.
When they phoned me, I told a bit of the truth
About his “issues” with black people and Jews
Though he has “mad respect” for one or two individuals.
They thanked me and never disturbed him again.
But You already know all this, dear Lord,
Because You know and direct everything.
Help heal Knut, lift him and others like him
Out of the cesspools of Reddit and 4chan
And into the yeshiva of Your grace. Amen.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

My Therapist Shows Me How to Write in the Affirmative or An Alternative to Writing “Don’t Kill Yourself”

We're proud to feature this poem from Maya William’s chapbook Feminine Morbidity, which was selected by Olatunde Osinaike as the winner of The Headlight Review’s 2025 Poetry Chapbook Contest.

stay kin       stay kin       stay kin       stay kin
stay kinder to myself stay kinder to myself stay kind stay alive
I want to stay kind I want to stay alive I want to stay kind I want to stay alive I want to
stay alive stay kind stay    be alive be kinder to myself be kinder to myself
be kind be alive     I want to be kind I want to be
alive I want to be kinder   I want to be alive   I want to be alive be kinder
be stay alive stay alive be alive stay alive be alive stay alive be alive stay alive
   be alive stay alive  be alive stay alive be    alive   stay
alive     be     alive stay  kind  be alive    be kind    stay alive
be kinder to my  self be kinder to my  self be kind be alive
I want to be kind I want to be kind I want to be kind I want be kind I
    want to be alive  be kind be alive be kinder to myself be kinder to myself
be kinder to my   self stay kinder to my   self be kinder to my   self stay
kinder    to my    self
be stay alive stay alive be alive stay alive be alive stay alive be alive stay alive
be alive stay alive be   alive stay  alive be   alive stay
alive be   alive    stay kind be a live   be kind    stay a live
stay a live   be a live   stay a live   be a live  stay a live  be a live   stay
a  live.   be  a     live   stay a     live be a  live   stay a live be
   a live     stay         a live be
a life a life a life a life a life a life a life a life a life a life a life a life a life

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Sweet

We're proud to feature this poem from Christina Hauck’s chapbook An Angel and Other Poems, which was selected by Olatunde Osinaike as a finalist of The Headlight Review’s 2025 Poetry Chapbook Contest.

I cut my hair short as a boy’s and lounged
by the river with other naked women,
all of us laughing and talking with hands
and with mouths, wading in and out of the water,

shining. Your eyes took me in. I sifted,
sand through my fingers, soft and warm.
You peeled a mango, slipped dripping slices
between my lips, tasted sweet strangeness

on my chin. O sweet the days we played
by the river and sweet the nights in your room,
mornings when don’t go you’d unbutton
my blouse, gather me in.

The day you showed up late wearing leather,
chain-smoking unfiltered Camels, I guessed
what you would say hours before you would say it,
your tongue loving the sound of her name: Elizabeth.

Elizabeth. Same as my grandmother.
I cried a little, driving home across the bridge.
I remember you wore a red beret and I was always so
impatient at your before-the-mirror adjustments

sometimes taking minutes. Sweet, sweeter
than anise, I remember your lower lip caught
between your teeth as you rose from the river
silver streams of water pouring from your hair.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

She Replants

The family tree is gnarled and warped. Witch’s bony
knuckles and fingers sprouting from a dark corner of the earth.
It hangs like a curse and blights the lonely apple that grows,
hiding. A thin branch reluctantly bows to its weight.

The disgruntled farmer marches toward, callused fingers
gripping an axe. A ruling by nature’s court would have
taken longer. As the bit kisses wood, neighboring foliage pockets
stray echoes—as if the tree never stood. For a moment,
even nature forgets its impartiality, wishing it good riddance.

Striking ground, leaves quake and abandon loyal dew drops,
while the tart apple tumbles away unceremoniously, catching bruises.
The apple finds final refuge not too far from the felled tree:
chopped wood hauled away after an inconclusive autopsy—
why that tree grew diseased and wicked, neither the apple nor the farmer
knows. Perhaps it was simply impartiality. The apple finally begins to rest
and somehow, it does not rot until the very end. Its secret is peace.
Though nature would never acknowledge it.

With graceful decay, the elements accept the sunken
apple’s sacrifice as offering. The cost to plant roots paid in full,
its seeds are blessed. They lay dormant, mourning.
At the turn of the season, they shed their coats of hesitation
and begin ascent. In old age, the deer, hawks, and ravens
finally bear witness to an anchored palace ornamented
in abundance with sweet rubies basking in the sunlight.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Moon (as translated from the Hebrew of Nathan Alterman)

Even an old landscape has a moment of its birth.
The strange, impregnable
And birdless skies.
Under your window, moonlit on the earth,
Your city bathes in cricket-cries.

But when you see the path still looks afar
To wanderers, and the moon
Rests on a cypress spear,
You ask in wonder, “Lord! Are all of these still here?
Can I not ask in whispers how they are?”

The waters look at us from their lagoons.
The tree in red of earrings
Stays a silent tree.
Never, my God, shall Thy huge playthings’ sorrow
Be rooted out of me.

Original Hebrew text of “Moon” by Nathan Alterman

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

[a go phone shivers something important past outdoor seating pints and appetizers]

a go phone shivers something important past outdoor seating pints and appetizers
while the quiet trumpet flower springs bright jazz with a deep throated calico reach
like schoolyard entropy with a slow universe heat death blasted from lily depths
I manage curb horse rings with small plastic horses tethered to a rediscovered history
where there is witness to a dead cigar butt still available to cartoon tramps
we recognize faces as human just as squirrel recognizes squirrel scampering away
in the wet purple dawn berries begin the hard work of turning color
with a quick sweet peep across car tops we question the Palm Springs of Washington
to jokingly shit on a small town we drive through buried in a fruit tree basin
not the airport locker return in a new city hauling clothes books and sleeping bag
avoiding gnat clouds and mosquito gatherings with continuous movement
a momentary raspberry can be plucked crushed and rolled for the juice pockets
reminding a thick blanket nap symbol across couch cushions
and a morning pigeon litany praying for seed and air in both cloud and sun
as the flowers stream brighter with a particular court conviction
celebrated with a book warehouse sale rush to add to shelves and stacks
saying

the act of writing about writing is the act of writing

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Still Wondering if You Made It

We're proud to feature this poem from Jed Myers’ chapbook Our Use of the Stars, which was selected by Olatunde Osinaike as a finalist of The Headlight Review’s 2025 Poetry Chapbook Contest.

I’ve been able to miss you, without knowing     
if your silence began at the grille of a truck    
on a state route at dusk, or with a secret               
decision, or in sudden sickness I’d never learn        
the first thing about, but about the first thing
you told me—you were already in love 
with the bristlecone pines. Their twisted praise
clawing the sky, agonized and ecstatic
in their spare clusters and pairs, catatonic 
manics in wait for the rapture they look like
they’re in. You’d need to go stand among them
you said. And though it took tearing your roots
from the sea-level riverbanks where we lived—
though it meant never seeing your wish
for us to wrinkle up slow into faithful twin 
writhings on our slope of years—you did, 
on one forgettable argument’s thrust, set out 
for Utah I guess, to walk up the ridge
where you hoped you’d find them, bare ancient 
wood warped and gouged and goldened 
in the late light, alive. They’d stand by you,
silent but for wind brushing their skin—
presences surer than this one who misses you
and still imagines the horn-blast, the brights

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Shutdown.log

if (soul == None):
 log("disconnection detected");
 backup("last known version of me");

if (heartbeat.variation < 0.01):
 run("old songs");
 try:
  trigger("feeling");
 except:
  pass

if (voice == empty):
 load("your messages.txt");
 loop:
  hear("you saying goodbye");

if (system == unstable):
 restart();
 load("quiet");

if (presence == ghost):
 print("I loved you");
 shutdown("gently");

Instructions for leaving.
When there’s no one left.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Parietal Operculum

We're proud to feature this poem from Kristyn Snedden’s chapbook Urchin to My Shell, which was selected by Olatunde Osinaike as a finalist of The Headlight Review’s 2025 Poetry Chapbook Contest.

       Lessons from my husband’s neurologist

I listened while he unfolded every millimeter
of the cortex that cuddles up to the insula,
all that integration. His voice was driftwood

full of holes and swirls. Simon Lacey says the parietal
operculum is where we sense texture through touch,
even if all we do is read it somewhere, our brains

light up on the machine. Someone said your skin
is like velvet, which produced only a worn out
glimmer in the region, but when I touched

you I was myself full of ocean nettles, scalpels
and scythe, yellow and deep rose, forest green.
I was a wilderness captured by the dune,

waves ran over me in the sea of you
and no thought lingered, just the colors
and touch of mossy dark, the taste of brine.

Adrift in that damp sea, that gentle tide,
every minute as sweet as the sting
of the Atalla jellyfish, as bright as a supernova.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Ars Poetica with Amateur Tarot

We’re proud to feature this poem from M. Ezra Zhang’s chapbook Self-Portrait with LSD and Mirror, which was selected by Olatunde Osinaike as a finalist of The Headlight Review’s 2025 Poetry Chapbook Contest.

While my lover the tarot reader is comatose
in the bedroom after a night of talking to a god
I could not taste or touch, I scatter
the cards across the living
room like spores
into darkness. Yesterday
under the domination of that god, my face
thrummed in my hands as if
I were wielding a bucket of light. Recoiling from its glare
I was disgusted to find that it followed
me everywhere.

Knowing nothing
about divination I pull three cards:
the moon, the tower, the devil.
If you, like me, don’t know the interior of these
cards, I beg you not to look for them.
It will only make things worse. Look at me
instead while I tell you something true:

One night you are moving
under the hot wet animal of the moon.
You coil upwards a couple hundred
spells until the horizon drowns into the earth
and abandons. At the eye of the tower you become the
eye of the tower. The black grass from below
swells heavenward and then you
become that darkness too.

Today on earth, the living
room window transfixes me
for hours but I find no tranquility in the scene
of the people of the world arriving
at where they need to be.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

an “i want” poem about hilarious masochism

to get sunburnt
   on the scalp & the top of the shoulders
              where it freckles after the second burn
   & that sun burns the sand too & it grinds between heel & flip flop
      until, sandals abandoned,  cold salt waves engulf     ankles & up

to miss the step
   the one to the garage & shins collide with wooden doorframe
                  dad curses, shit, you startled me,   stop running
              so damn fast through the yard
      & for some reason it’s funny to feel the cool cement of the garage against
                      those knobby knocking skinny knees
         & each bruise evidence excitement & dad
                  cared enough to cuss

to crash the bike   
   milli—micro—nano seconds before it hits annie       & both challenger & chicken
                      fall into the grass  bruising on dirt
           blushing under sun &   adrenaline   &  full-stop stupid
       & the bike hits the telephone pole before it cruises into the street
     & two girls now have grass stains up their (one pale, one olive) forearms slight
                           & bug-bitten & tree bark-carved
       & everything is laughing, the summer,  the sun,   the breeze,
       & annie gets the bike & starts up the hill for her turn to come down again

to crawl back in the window
     dictionary under armpit &     shingle pieces   breaking palm skin
           soft landing on the twin bed where the cat tilts his head
                             at crickets   under the sill
        & the ribs have burned   & burned   from summer’s insufferable
                         way of causing laughter
             & the sun is pulling its linen blanket    over its head now
             & the power is still out   & the Nintendo DS died two
                         hours ago &  the bookmark sits at R
                                in the dictionary: raucous, rabid,
                                   rampart,    rapeseed,
            & being bored is worse than bruising or burning
                   because it leaves the fewest marks

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

The Assembly Line Flow

Steel slab after steel slab
guided, slid, shoved
into a push press
expected to deliver
on loose screws and bolts,
thirty seconds of ear-shattering bangs per sheet.
Bang!
Bang!
Eyes, mind closed to own smoke—
Overheat—
but maintain top speed.
Slow down, breathe—
become obsolete.

Move and manufacture,
produce and progress
till guide, slide, shove
devolves to push, pull,
snap back on a fallen piece.
Till each steel slab
on assembly line's flow
spawns a sob
masquerading as a rattled screech.
Bang!
Bang!
till screaming prayers to remain composed—
on shifts one through three—
looped on an endless repeat.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Rex

We're proud to feature this poem from Van G. Garrett’s chapbook Chinaberry Constellations: Odes, which was selected by Olatunde Osinaike as a finalist of The Headlight Review’s 2025 Poetry Chapbook Contest.

Big Mama’s house was two floors
of adventure:

A library of memories
A storehouse of stories

A patchwork of possibilities

Walls with hidden treasure
Creaking steps
A haunted attic

Photos and old records

In the summer
we swiped at the sun
laughed until our sides hurt

Brave as kids could be
Except for when we hard-sprinted
from a German Shepherd
with amber-colored eyes
named after a dinosaur

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

ACCESS_DENIED: heart.exe

> Running diagnostics...

Emotional drive:
fragmented.

Accessing main directory:
/hope/memory/you

Status:
file: touch.exe — missing
file: laugh.wav — corrupted
file: promise.txt — overwritten
folder: trust/ — access denied

Attempting repair...
Error: permission denied.

System prompt:
“Feeling requires vulnerability. Proceed?”

User input:
...
Suggested action:
abort.

Some systems forget
how to open again.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

On the Death of a Queen

there is laughter like the ripples
when something dark breaks the water,
the laughter of children colliding
with the inert thigh of their mother
stood hollering,

there is the laughter of that discovery
of looking up at the mother’s face softening
and learning fear is a thing
you grow into
not out of,

there is the laughter of wind filling a sail
and two lovers’ hands on the tiller,
peacocks pluming and the dogs’ mistress returning
to a forest of tails around the hearse,
there is

the laughter of doors opened slowly by lovers
with a bottle in one hand and a lie in the other,
then the dark laughter of the same door closing some hours later,
the laughter of disbelief and crumbs in the bed,
there is

the laughter of the town crier drunk in the night
swaying under a lit window
where
the pert whisper of a curtain being drawn
seems louder than the tolling bells.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Scooch

The lower I scooch, the better the reception.
Like the signal’s intensity is what it is except
around me. We’re watching The Rockford Files
in my father-in-law’s recreational vehicle in a
private drive in Ft. Lauderdale, James Garner /
Jim Rockford handing out uber-macho lectures.
It’s 1980. I’m a new dad and reading Faulkner
for a class. I catch the politics of calling women
Honey. The woman in tennis whites has framed
Rockford for felony murder. Her navel, an innie,
packs loads of social import before its vanishing.
Arthur Dixon, my kind father-in-law, stands. He
steps to the antenna. Now he’s motioning Scooch,
Jim Rockford smart-mouthing his way to triumph,
the rest of our family inside the house or at church.
This evening, Arthur loves his battery-powered TV,
asks if I like Florida. I say, Positively, as Rockford
calls up William Faulkner in a ’74 Firebird Esprit,
skillfully spinning a steering wheel—like America
is okay just fine but you need to be willing to, well,
scooch down so you catch sight of the road ahead.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Pennypoker1919 to His Followers

Welcome to my playground sanctuary, friends/fans. This room is an extremely passionate and sensual place filled with mystery, desire, masculinity! I am permissive and open, live to be in front the webcam. Please play along and look at the bright side.

My tip menu, dears:

Send me 1 token lol if you enjoy * 2 if you love * 10 for flash my stuff *
30 foreskin massage * 60 explain you my 53 seduction tattoo in ethereal detail *
70 intellectual conversation * 100 special armpit entertainment *
200 open window for view of downtown Kharkiv * 250 confirm theory that I look like
Timothée Chalamet * 500 virtually you sniff my bushy base * 1000 body tour *
1,500 we listen to the air-raid sirens * 3,000 I ship my underwear to your door anywhere *
4,000 seven somersaults in city rubble * 5,000 after the bombs, watch dawn over Kharkiv *
6,000 I introduce you to my hamster * 8,000 intellectual conversation plus *

10,000 become the god of my castle * 20,000 we meet in Kharkiv, you and I, for a night
of body contact only * 40,000 I take you around on my motorbike and you hold me where you
have need to * 50,000 real life body tour + armpit entertainment + bike tour + intellectual
conversation * 100,000 roommate life with you in your country after the war, you house and clothe and feed me and teach me the language and bathe me + unlimited intellectual
conversation + armpit entertainment + long tongue games + every orifice explored + 20 new tattoos *

500,000 I read to you what genre book or mystery you desire, I wash your feet and go for your shopping, we marry, you explore every orifice + intellectual conversation + Maserati convertible + I clean, do house jobs and fixing + unlimited foreskin massage, hundreds of handstands and somersaults

**************1,000,000!************** I belong to you, my every orifice for your curiosity and whim, even after my passing of twink years and you pass into aged years, I feed you, clothe you, bathe you, nurse you and wheel you, and when you’re disappeared I arrange all and inherit all and bring flowers, whichever you command, and keep the earwigs out of vase by your headstone as long as I am able and forever, my love.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.

Breakout

As soon as you reach a hand through them,
the walls will dissolve. Work with
the window there, above your eye-level.
Even if you have to stand on your toes
until your arches throb, become
a part of what you see through the bars:

the alley where snow hangs on in smears
under bare trees, garbage trucks
pack the sodden refuse, and a grey-striped cat
skirts the puddle under a downspout.

Your window will enlarge until it replaces
the entire wall, and you will walk out whole.

This piece was featured in Volume 3, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.