This is bare-breasted vulnerability.
This is not wearing a bra today
because I slept in, and my
chest needed a break. My ribs did not hear
that TED talk about the importance
of opening up. This sensation cannot
be kept in Tupperware, for later.
It rots over time. Not shelf-stable,
not even stable stable.
It’s just a feeling. Adding it’s just before something
huge or awful is the equivalent of
holding up a wall that’s falling on you,
crushing you. Adrenaline saves the day
and takes the night in return

And this, this is my understanding of night:

The night, without knowing me,
knows my
address and phone number. Breathes
into the receiver
before hanging up. This is the apple tree bearing
the early fruit. This is the late spring snow
covering fruit like
some kind of scandal. This is my dream from 5am:

The owl hovering next to the airplane window
and my phone’s battery finally running out.



McKenzie Hyde finds poetry in misspelled street signs, dull emails, old photographs and oceans. (Her heart must surely flutter at old photographs of oceans.) McKenzie’s work has appeared in the USU Creative Writing magazines Sink Hollow and Scribendi, as well as Foliate Oak.



Silence Between

By Robert Morgan Fisher / 10/01/2018

The Truth Teller

By Allison Futterman / 09/24/2018

Negative Space

By Elana Wolff / 10/01/2018


By Troy Varvel / 10/15/2018

Blood Money

By Cassandra Caverhill / 09/28/2018