Review: The Snow Dead

Marc Zegans

The Snow Dead is an unconventional, title-less book of poems that work in tandem to weave together love and loss as it is depicted through the metaphor of snow. Lines like “They leave their offerings” throws you in the heat of the moment, knowing not agency but place. This is the strongest work possible given its clever interweaving of theme, place, loss and heartache. I very much recommend The Snow Dead. At 23 poems, it is both expansive and clever. A win all around for Marc Zegans.


Marc Zegans is a poet and creative development advisor. He is the author of six collections of poems, The Snow Dead, The Underwater Typewriter, Boys in the Woods, Pillow Talk, The Book of Clouds, and La Commedia Sotterranea: Swizzle Felt’s First Folio form the Typewriter Underground; two spoken word albums Night Work, and Marker and Parker, and the immersive theatrical productions Mum and Shaw, and The Typewriter Underground. The Snow Dead debuted theatrically in Erotic Eclectic’s “Sin-aesthetic” at the Lost Church during San Francisco’s 2019 Lit Crawl. Marc lives by the coast in Northern California. His poetry can be found at, and he can be reached for creative advisory services at

Three Poems

Remy Ramirez

No Blow Jobs

Honestly though, no blow jobs.
Not permanently, but for a while while
you penises figure it out. Stop

putting yourselves everywhere,
this schizo shit makes me nervous,
the muffled anxiety pushing outward—

are you reflecting on your nature? Think of your
future, think of your mother. It’s like
worry got the better of you,

in darkness so often, concealed under
cotton. Two parched plums make
cruel companions, I know,

I know. I get it though: the desire
to be seen is consuming. Last night
I dreamed I was swimming

in a black sea, and a school of you
circled me: tiny Cyclops creatures
darting fragilely,

mimicking the unit, urgent
to conform. I asked one its name
but it had no identity

and they all swam away.
What we’re left with
is what we memorize, after all;

The reach so endless
and the gain so small.
Loneliness looms:

the black of that black sea.
And yet, the grieving being
exposed to itself

is more dangerous than any beast
the deep could muster, more
than any lover.

Still, I refuse to graze
or tongue you. A pool of water lilies
unfreezes at the other end

of that aching. And the perfume
it’s making wakes me
suddenly, as if from fainting.

The sky above me—so empty, but so
infinitely blue—echoes where those
revived before me flew.


Spanish Linguistics, 2002

In your class,
language is a string of chaoses

formatted to your maps
and your angry martyred armies.

I am thinking of things
apart from the Iberian Peninsula,

the invasions of Arabs.
Despite my slogging, my useless

redirection of thoughts to your
linguistic discovery, I am simply

less interested in your dark histories
than in tonguing darkly, the faint

possibility of naked
thighs, of strong fingers,

of fires. In the end,
aren’t we better

educated on human hurt
and contradiction

by the feel of cashmere
hands turning to sand

on our hips, than by the evil Christian
politic, the distant voices of Visigoths…?



At 2AM we left
Joel’s apartment and his dad
fat and Christian sleeping
under the windows opened
to the freeway buzzing
and the ceiling fan spinning
a clicking noise so that
we could have sex at
a friend’s house whose mother
was too drunk to ever
hear our sounds which were the
awkward and predictable sounds
that one might imagine.
But now
a grown woman
I remember them
as apple cores I threw
out the window as I was leaving
only to return and find the changing years
muted in the shade of enormous trees
and the smell of fruit blooming
everywhere in the streets.


Remy Ramirez is a poet, essayist, editor, and pop-culture journalist. She has an MA in creative writing for poetry from the University of Texas at Austin and has been published in The Southern Review, Cherry Bombe, NYLON, BUST, and Tidal (where she is currently the executive editor), among others. She lives in the Arizona desert because the thrifting is good and so is the karaoke.

Three Poems

Laurinda Lind

Elsewhere, Seventeen

Four hundred seventy miles south
of where I sat with molars jerked
from my jaw I saw the jerker,
my dentist down the road at home,
in the Smithsonian standing under
the Spirit of St. Louis, which was
suspended from the ceiling like
an interlude of novocaine. From
the balcony above I didn’t breathe
but no sixth sense made him look
to where I stood in his sky with
a hand hiding my mouth. I was
away with my aunt where in a city
of seven hundred thousand, eight
staticky hours straight down across
three states, no one could expect
to see someone else from our cold
ruined corner. Two years later in
the city for a second time I saw
a couple of so-good girls from
school in my tiny town on a senior
trip, square in my path at the zoo
carrying purses so full of purity,
they could not stand this surprise
from someone who had escaped
but was supposed to stay in place
far north. So it turned out they too
were unnerved by extraction and
wondered, I did too, how I had
dropped down in their lives like
an outrageous engine. Like
wreckage from a root canal.


Drive Into France with Your English Car

Venez! You’ll like it. Probably
no one will bomb the Chunnel
while you’re chugging through
it under water. Vraiment. Your
headlamps aren’t right for
running around par ici but feel
free to spend un peu on peel-
off deflectors plus le crap
you need to carry in the boot
but will never use. Enjoy driving
at the droit edge of the lane
while guessing what goes
on at the gauche. Souriez for
the photo; you’ll look so bon
for the fine. You didn’t need
all those euros anyway.


After It’s Over It’s Not Over

David Berkowitz found his birth family
while his neighbor’s dog was still telling
him how to take down more dark-haired
women. Reimagined genes weren’t about
to weld his wires. What kept you so long,
he said, once the heat finally figured
him out. They filed him away at 24
and today he’s 40 years older and, guess
what, saved. Every second year he passes
on parole review. Even my youngest
son’s older than he was then, a blacked-
out light, a guy getting girls the only
way that worked but now he is
a persistent preacher shooting that shit
as far as it will fly, because belief
goes broader and infects them so much
faster, much better even than bullets.


Laurinda Lind lives in New York’s North Country, near Canada. Some poetry acceptances/ publications have been in Constellations, The Cortland Review, Paterson Literary Review, and Radius; also anthologies Visiting Bob: Poems Inspired by the Life and Work of Bob Dylan (New Rivers Press) and AFTERMATH (Radix Media). In 2018 she won first-place awards for the Keats-Shelley adult-poetry prize and the New York State Fair poetry competition.


Donald Hubbard

Our dogs introduced us, I walked my beagle and she chased her loose dachshund and we tracked down her dog and like our dogs we later mated.

After we had real children, I watched her play with them and marveled over how seamlessly she brought our dogs into their playtime and how sweet she was as or dogs aged and died. How wonderfully she explained to our children about how our dogs were in a far less unkind place, all this before The Lion King was released and postulated the circle of life.

We bought new dogs and she lovingly welcomed them into the family, rescue dogs who no longer needed to worry about having enough to eat or beatings from masters. Only hugs, I hugged the dogs and she hugged the dogs, and though our love for each other grew, eventually we only expressed intimacy through our dogs.

Our children left home, though they returned for holidays and their mother’s funeral. I embraced my children and we wept and I gave my dogs to a young couple who had contemplated divorce before my gift to them.


Donald Hubbard has written six books, one of which was profiled on Regis and Kelly and another that was a Boston Globe bestseller and Amazon (category) top ten. Two books have gone into a second edition and he was inducted into the New England Basketball Hall of Fame as an author in 2015. A chapter of one of his books was published in the on-line edition of Notre Dame Magazine. His published stories include those in Funny in 500, Quail Bell, Praxis, 101 Word Story, Flash Fiction Magazine, Crack the Spine and Oddville Press.

He studied English at Georgetown University and the University of Kent. Law at Notre Dame.

Three Poems

John Grey


A heart must take care of its needs.
The head will follow in time.
But then there’s Jenna – not an ideal subject for thinking straight
though she is among the most intelligent of all women.
Add her silky black hair, slim figure, soft voice
and what do you have?
Thoughts, thoughts and more thoughts.
Jenna’s family includes: Rosalind, Michael, Sean.
Jenna has a large dog, a Newfoundland I believe.
Jenna could be a noun – a soft sigh expressing joy or accomplishment.
Jenna has traveled to every continent except Antarctica.
Jenna is opportunistic, but not cruelly so
Jenna is the brightest in just about every kind of company.
Many have had to admit their error in her presence.
Jenna has a way of communicating with her eyes
Jenna doesn’t play the field, plans to be with only the one man.
It would be a triumph indeed to be that man.
Since the end of adolescence, with a growth spurt,
and the fading of various species of acne
she has been the proverbial cynosure of all attention.
Even when she only drove that blue Honda Civic.
Lawyers, teachers, construction workers –
all have taken a number at Jenna’s door.
Each in turn has learned there’s someone out there
more than what they are.
I can’t imagine Jenna as an old or ugly woman.
Everything she does, no matter how modest, how minor,
is one more note for a love poem.
Oh she has dated. But nothing serious.
I think it’s best to just be liked by her,
to be witness, but not take responsibility beyond yourself.
Today is Friday. I haven’t seen Jenna in weeks.
She is out there somewhere.
I’m content to let that be enough.


I showed him my passport.
He stared at it intently
like it was a crime scene
and he was looking for clues.

I was guilty of having
my photograph taken
and slipped inside
a small booklet

but nothing more than that.
He rippled the pages.
He held up the picture
against my face

like he was a witness
in a police lineup.
He didn’t say anything
but his silence

was hanging-judge severe.
Finally, he waved me through.
There was nothing he could do
about me, my body,

my feelings, my thoughts,
my associates, my history.
He left it to his country
to find me out.


She was barely noticed, scrubbing floors on the margin,
always on the brink of what would finally kill her,
death threats in the intestine, cruel jokes played on knees,
the rising monster in her left breast.

Sometimes dreading, sometimes forgetting,
but always a time when, with mop and bucket,
brush and soap, she bent her back
just to make sure a hospital ward was spotless.

So much sweat went into someone else’s benefit,
so much dying into the life around her,
besides the daily dilemma of food and rent and bills to be paid,
on a paycheck that never broke minimum.

And now the question arises:
who’s to make the necessary arrangements?
And one even more pressing according to some:
did she live on the right side of the church?

Oh she had an occasional vision, a dream
of something she couldn’t quite see
but whether they were reflected this life or the next
never made a difference either way.

Their meaning was untidy, like the grubby tiles before her
and her course involved neatness and cleaning.
The rules dawned on her clear at birth.
Do what’s expected and you’ll be paid to be black.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and Visions International.

Two Poems

Chella Courington

Three-Quarter Time

I watched a woman
hair once the color of coal
shape bagels at the corner deli
her long fingers
looping dough around her hand
rolling it on white marble
until a round tube twirled
in on itself.

She dropped the circle
into steaming water
the dough rose swollen & wet

Through her I saw
faintly a girl
in dark braids sitting
at a Wurlitzer
turning pages faster & faster
until the paper floated up
my hands holding to the treble clef
swinging above brick and tile
through altostratus clouds.


The Steady Drain of Habit

as two bodies
side by side
sharing the same bed
same morning coffee
wake one Wednesday
or maybe Sunday
see the other
etched in lines
crevices of the past
and walk away
to find what’s lost.


Chella Courington is a writer and teacher. With a Ph.D. in American and British Literature and an MFA in Poetry, she is the author of six poetry and three flash fiction chapbooks. Her poetry appears in numerous anthologies and journals including Non-Binary Review, Pirene’s Fountain, and The Los Angeles Review.


Three Poems

John Grey


I am writing this
as white as the pith of an orange.

Is she okay?
Her face is as red and sweaty
as a boiled beet.

Everything’s fine.
She’s durable.
She wasn’t born with a high temperature.

And her sweetness isn’t compromised.
Nor is the softness of her voice.

She’s vulnerable, as we all are.
A baby bawling for its comforter.
But tough like a hard-backed chair.

Her sickness is merely filtered through
the skin that she wore the last time 1 saw her.

Call it tropical orchards in bloom if you must.
Or any plant that’s nasty and meaty and beautiful
as all hell.



For the longest time
I thought it was going to be
one of those futile drives

when nothing I said
could salve your mood exactly right
and I plead endlessly
until frustration overwhelms

but then the road
had the good sense
to change from paved to gravel
and the suburbs gave way

to farms and hay meadows
then rolling blue hills
followed by deep lush woods –

I stopped talking,
you still said nothing

but I had a sense
that there is more than
one kind of silence –

there’s that which sets itself up
as a counterpoint to sound –

there’s that which
chooses to hold its tongue

often and without warning.



No more tear
of conception, beds, relatives, bodies.
And virginal loneliness.
Sex happened
and it didn’t kill you both.
It was more like humanity
than you imagined
and less like a playground
for youth.
It reminded you of
the time you had orchestra seats
for a play,
front row in fact.
You could reach out
and almost touch the actors.
Only now.
it was more than almost.
You might never see him again
but you could always have husbands later.
For now,
you could believe that
was as close as life had ever got
to being all about you.
It may not have been heaven
but it was better
than nothing ever was.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

4 Women: 1 Damaged, 3 Dead

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois


A woman supine on a Mexican blanket is pitted like an olive, with one deft twist. The brass bars of a wind chime hang above her like a skeleton. Her joints glow in the dark, like something freshly soldered. She sleeps.

The men in the front room peer out the glassless windows and listen for moans. When the infant comes, it will be an icon of metal scraps and fish-heads. They will set it in a bare corner atop a

It will scrabble. White powder will film its brown belly. One of its arms will be crustacean.

The dark man and his wife—their hands will fit together grimly, like railroad cars coupling.


I took the tiny Guatemalan doll out of its knitted pouch. It looked like Nanci, recently dead. Dark hair, straight features, a Twilight Zone moment.

Nanci could have reincarnated as this doll, comfortable in her little pouch with no need for food, toileting or other mortal maintenance.

She looks forward to my gently removing her from the knit-work to hold insomniac
conversations. She has plenty of time to catch up on her sleep. After all, she’s dead and, as she always joked, busy painting or making photographs or traveling in distant lands, I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.


My dentist tells me I have acid erosion. Then he bashes Princess Diana. She might have been pretty but she was dumb, he says, a typical aristocratic British daughter, raised to be a potential Windsor brood mare.

What are you saying, I demand. Diana’s been dead… how long? And today you want to bash her? You know I admired and respected Diana. You know I was in love with her (I stifle a sob).

I regret taking the nitrous oxide. Me and Dent huff it recreationally after my appointments, at other times too. We prefer it to cocktails.

Oh, he says, a new biography just came out about good old Princess Dead. I’ve been reading it, and the author’s style and sensibilities have affected me.

Dent and I have been friends since junior high, when he admired my performance art. Now I’m a portrait painter, not terribly successful. I show up in his office in paint-spattered pants. Dent pays his assistant extra to work on me because she despises me and the smell of turpentine.

Dentistry is soulless, I accuse him. Every year you become more callous, more empty. Princess Diana shone like the Virgin in the grotto at St. Mary Star of the Sea.

Dent turns off the nitrous. He yawns. Yeah, yeah, she was a princess she was, he says in a bad British accent.


My favorite cousin killed herself. She took a massive dose of Benadryl. She won’t have to worry about bee allergies ever again. She won’t have to run screaming from them. She won’t have to fear any toxin. She won’t have to fear the toxins inside her head.

I’m so pissed at her, I want to plunge my arm into a bee hive. I want to scream in earthly pain.


Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois  has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including several times in THE MISCREANT. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and. was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To read more of his work, Google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.