Dear Third Coast Readers, it’s that time of year when students put on their graduation regalia and move from one side of the stage to another. In this graduation season, it is common for those undergoing big life changes to be full of questions.

What will the next few months look like? How long will I be in this new job? Can I pay off my student debt before I’m 80 years old?

This feeling of puzzlement is reflected in today’s selected prose poem, ‘April’ by Evan Nicholls. The staff at Third Coast wishes a heartfelt congratulations to those graduating in 2024.

— Logen Crandall, Editorial Intern

April

By Evan Nicholls

If I put on a boot, would a matching boot appear on the other foot? If I swallowed a diamond, would a crop
 of diamonds grow in the basin of me? If I ate a whole lamb, would my arms become legs of mutton? And if I
 listened to Simon and Garfunkel on loop, would my organs grow sprigs of parsley, sage, rosemary? Would my
 nose become a bundle of thyme? If I named my dog Art Garfunkel, would he grow the hairdo? If I passed
 away in my house, and no one found me for weeks, would Art Garfunkel use me for eating? Would I be dog
 food? If I did wrong, would an angel poof onto my left shoulder? If I prayed, would another one poof onto
 the right? And if I walked into a church, would I become the church? Would my fingers and toes turn into
 steeples? And if I opened the big church doors of my chest, would a bomb go off in me? If I were a school,
 would something go off in me? If I were a plane, would I be used as a plane?

Evan Nicholls is a poet and collage artist from the peach, fox, horse and wine country of Virginia. He is the author of Holy Smokes, a chapbook of poems and collages, and co-author of THERE HAS BEEN A MURDER, a micro-chap of poems co-written with Evan Williams and Benjamin Niespodziany. Both books are out from Ghost City Press. Evan is also a co-founding editor of Obliterat, a prose poem journal that blew up (as planned). Presently, Evan is working on two full-length collections of poetry, one of which is based on a 12th century English folktale. He currently lives outside of Washington, D.C. More of Evan’s work can be found at www.enicholls.com. Continue reading “Revisiting Issue 48 – April by Evan Nicholls” →

In addition to the newest album from Taylor Swift, ‘THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT: THE ANTHOLOGY,’ creative writers are found expressing themselves within every publication of Third Coast!

As Earth Day approaches on Monday, April 22nd, we have selected a picturesque poem from Issue 51 by Brian Czyzyk. His piece depicts the nostalgia tied into our childhood landscapes, and describes his longing for a world without “runoff”. Whether one lives in a metropolis or a small town, I think it can be agreed upon that nature is important to us all, and should be treated as such. Even if waves only straddle the shore in our memory, there is something sacred that lives in areas untouched by the “squeal of passing cars”.

In the Great Lakes State that Third Coast calls home, we are lucky to experience four seasons. With warm weather just around the corner, Czyzyk’s poem reminds us of the wonderful lake days coming our way, as well as the need to preserve the environment we live in. Whether you live in an urban area or not, there is the opportunity to plunge into written portrayals of nature from right where we’re sitting!

— Logen Crandall, Editorial Intern

Where I’m From, Lake Michigan Straddles the Shores

between sand dune & cityscape.
I spent so many summers skipping
rocks along its surface, pinched flattened

granite & basalt between my thumb
& forefinger, swung one arm in an arc then
watched the ripples smooth into the sand.

I want back the sparse clutches
of puzzlegrass, the blue stretches
of water & sky—on a clear July day,

the difference grows imperceptible.
I’ve long lived like this: between water.
Now, I’m pinned to flat fields of soybeans

by horizonless sky. At a bus stop, I’m eyed
by turkey vultures, farmhands, drivers
on the highway rushing elsewhere. The whole thing

gives me vertigo. I need boundaries & shape.
Need the sun steeped like a saffron sachet
in water unmucked by runoff & swell.

I know this is selfish. As if I could stake
claim on an entire lake. But no one
ever said it’s impossible to be haunted

by a place you once called home. I guess
leaving is like this. Sowing your doubts
until you wake up to buzzards carving

hoops in the gray sky, listening to the cough
& squeal of passing cars until the bus ratchets
up, & you climb through the doors alone.

Brian Czyzyk is a poet from Traverse City, Michigan. His work has most
recently appeared in The Cincinnati Review, The Journal, Colorado Review, and
the New Poetry from the Midwest 2019 anthology. He holds an MFA from
Purdue University and is currently a PhD candidate in creative writing at
the University of North Texas. He wishes you the best.

Happy Spring! We are so thrilled to reveal the cover for our next issue, coming to you soon! Kudos to our talented cover artist, Ashley Miller—check out more of her work here!

March
Emiliana Renuart
The drumming is back. Slow. Measured. Long
pauses. From behind the azaleas, neon and fervent
as they are. They are zealous, dedicated so to living.
Am I zealous like that? About living, yes, I think so.
About flowers, yes. About strange drumming, from
beyond the sightline, which stirs in me some wild
urge for sound and impact. And my home is here
now? We are barefoot for the first time and we are
watching the doves with the bleeding hearts hop
around and everywhere the world is ruined and
everywhere it is perfect. Please. Let me be surprised.

Emiliana Renuart lives in St. Louis, Missouri. She is originally from
Michigan, where she attended Kalamazoo College and worked with and
advocated for young readers and writers.

Hello Third Coast Readers! I hope you are enjoying this busy month of renewal, which appears to be halfway over already. Despite the perpetually quickening pace of life, this swift passage of time has not caused us to forget the acknowledgment of International Women’s Day, celebrated on March 8th. Last week, gratitude was expressed to countless mothers, friends, sisters, and significant others for their contribution to the lives of so many.

As a brief history lesson in itself, Women’s History Month was officially established in 1980. The first march in Washington D.C. for women’s suffrage occurred in March of 1913, and in March 1917 the National Women’s Party was formed. March contains the birthdays of women such as Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Flannery O’Connor, and Simone Biles. Women are increasingly being awarded Oscars and Billboard awards, which both have ceremonies in March. In addition, I find it fitting that March contains the first day of Spring, and aside from the cliché association between women and birth, there is something about a woman that brings life to whatever environment surrounds her.

Throughout history, women have worn many hats. We are mothers, friends, sisters, and significant others. We have careers and hobbies. No matter what life circumstances we find ourselves in, it is easy to feel fractured by the variety of spaces that we exist in. In honor of Women’s History Month and the incredible achievements that we accomplish daily, whether big or small, collectively or individually, I chose to share Mónica Gomery’s poem, “The Poet Considers If Her Body Belongs to Her,” from Issue 51. It serves as a reminder of the many spaces we occupy, the power of autonomy, and the importance of taking care of ourselves in the midst of our daily responsibilities. To quote Michelle Obama, “Here’s to strong women: may we know them, may we be them, may we raise them.”

— Logen Crandall, Editorial Intern

The Poet Considers If Her Body Belongs to Her
By Mónica Gomery

In the mirror some edges taper off
into light, light-filled sound. Here

are great waves of breath riding into
and leaving the body. Doors spin

on their built-in revolvers, the opens
and shuts of you. Take a breath.

Everyone cycles through.
Mostly the body is exits, arrivals.

Mostly on-ramps, back doors, trap
doors, fire escapes. Red carpets

rolled out on sternum and tongue.
Mostly mailboxes, runways, trade port

and train station. Skin cells stacking
for decades like bricks into doorways

and archways, gateways and courtyards.
The body may be less like a house

and more like an airport––
organ of transit, fluorescent

at dawn. An airport, no matter
the hour, is a churning.

In the mirror breath stills the filled body
but it is not only breath that enters

and leaves. It is dust, streetlights
and rages. Secrets and weather. Voices

of metal and earth, other names, other people
altogether, arrive and depart, land and take off.

How many brutal and generous citizens,
tourists of the body, built this coming

and going thing of clutter and silence––
every scrap, every linoleum tile

belonging to all of its architects, all
of its authors. How many travelers,

cellists sliding wheeled
instruments down lit corridors,

belonging to no one
or everyone, belonging to

anyone who has laid a hand
at her edge.

Mónica Gomery is a rabbi and poet. Her work explores queerness, diaspora, ancestry, theology, and cultivating courageous hearts. Mónica serves as Rabbi and Music Director at Kol Tzedek Synagogue and on the faculty of SVARA: A Traditionally Radical Yeshiva. She is also a co-founder of Let My People Sing! With the writer Moriel Zecher-Rothman she currently hosts the 5-3-5 poetry salon in Philadelphia. She is grateful to work with incredible teams of people on these projects committed to intergenerational healing and cultural, political, and spiritual transformation. More information about Mónica and her achievements can be found here.

Hello Third Coast Community and Happy Friday! Today we find ourselves in the middle of February and meditating on post-Valentine’s Day warmth. In addition to being a commercial holiday, did you know that the 14th is also the birthday of the great Frederick Douglass?

As we glow in appreciation for those we care about, it is just as important to reflect on the literary activism of Douglass and his successors. Third Coast strives to uplift the voices of creatives within the Black community, so today we will revisit Kara Jackson’s poem “lost & found” from Issue 48. The month of February serves as a reminder of the excellence that has emerged from inestimable hardship and courage, but also the distance that remains between where we are now and a world without systemic racism.

— Logen Crandall, Editorial Intern

—

lost & found
By Kara Jackson

i thought i left my black in a safe
place i thought my black pulled on me
an umbilical cord, thought my black was cut
for safekeeping i thought my black was floating
in a jar or maybe my black is a button
i’m supposed to rush to in case of emergency
i take my black off of my shoulders and hang it up
my father only mentions his black if he’s drunk
my black is something we claim
on our taxes, the very high ones, my friends
they come to visit and ask me how i’ve gotten on
without it, ask do i miss my black?
like a childhood pet i tell them it’s around
here somewhere, dust assigned to some crevice,
sock in the lost & found i ask my neighbors
if they’ve seen my black and they call me
a nigger
how did they find it so quickly?
like a bird heard and recognized

Kara Jackson is the daughter of country folks. She is the author of Bloodstone Cowboy (Haymarket Books, 2019). Jackson served as the third National Youth Poet Laureate from 2019-2020. Jackson made her musical debut with her EP A Song for Every Chamber of the Heart, which was self-released. Through a multidisciplinary approach, Jackson attempts to document her lineage in a country that demands its erasure. Her work has appeared in POETRY, Frontier Poetry, Rookie Mag, Nimrod Literary Journal, The Lily, and Saint Heron. Jackson is a TEDx speaker. She is a junior at Smith College. (From The Spoken Word Club)