Oatleaf

 ... A golden butterfly fell from the sky At twenty four karats an hour A uranium bee fell from a tree And that season’s Honey was sour ... Mike O’Brien lives in South Yorkshire, England. He has previously been published in the Black Nore Review, the Stone Circle Review and Dreamcatcher. He publishes his own poetry online at Sixty Odd Poems (zoomburst.substack.com) and the work of others at Sixty Odd Poets (sixtyoddpoets.substack.com). He also publishes selections from these sites as physical volumes and organises regular open mic nights in Mexborough to showcase the work of the Sixty Odd project and encourage others to get involved.

 ... Start with things we know      but can’t name. Sacred things our words have failed to find, falling headlong through open fingers into a rush of sun-warmed summer rivers. We live on the suburban branch, navigating in naked vessels made by human hands, yearning to be clothed in something eternal as we turn toward cooler waters that crackle with the static of old vinyl dreams. As a child, I swam the other way, upriver, fighting the currents because I could. Life was made of named things then, things we didn’t know, some of them scary. I’ll name one: Viet Nam. But we were nourished by secret instincts: suburban rivers were just a surface thing;  underneath, the world moved in circles, a giant turntable turning too slow to make much sense to children. Still –  those who named things expected us to be part of their revolution, to let their needles make impressions, inject us, wear down our grooves, so that all lives crackled the same, eventually. ... James ...

 ... 1.   Plinths and ornaments; a cavalcade of bookshelves.   The pulsing energy                   of continuity: e-learning mornings. Rose, in headphones: jumping jacks. She smacks   a stack of paper loose, to the hardwood. A handful of pencils, scraps. Their grade two   calisthenics routine. They shake their sillies out. Across the living room, Aoife shifts and re-shifts   zoom backgrounds: outer space, blue cloudscape, a temperament of snow. She responds, when challenged: My teacher taught me.   Junior kindergarten sight words, reading: the, a, she. A writing grid of nine, for Bingo, before they launch into a story   of a springtime frog. The blank space   of theoretical clarity.     2.   Home, home. We are home. We are endlessly, truly home. Isolating daily rounds of paired coffee, corner office margins.   Scoped and paired, these opposites rarely meet. Two positives c...

 March has come to an end and we'd like to say thank you to our wonderful contributors! We are so, so glad that you chose Oatleaf to showcase your work. ... We are grateful to: Vash Owen |  Echoes of Eternity Sia Moon |  Fur Malorum Marsal Soren |  Middle of Nowhere Noah Berlatsky |  The Last Time ... We appreciate the work you put out into the world!

 ... The last time I saw my parents was not the last time I’ll see my parents, probably. But it’s coming, slowly across a shorter distance like walking my mom down the walk with her cane and her new knee out to the big, twisted tree. “There’s a lotus flower there,” Mom said, “in the crook of the tree.” It blooms once a year, but I missed it. She laughed, because what can you do, and we walked back up the walk. Maybe I’ll see it next time. ... Noah Berlatsky (he/him) is a freelance writer in Chicago. His full-length collections are Not Akhmatova (Ben Yehuda Press, 2024), Gnarly Thumbs (Anxiety Press, 2025), Meaning Is Embarrassing (Ranger, 2025) and Brevity (Nun Prophet, 2025). @nberlat.bsky.social | Bluesky https://www.everythingishorrible.net/

 ... Long live the untouched village. Long live the odds every villager adores. Only rivers where they row to home, and their language is unique. The heart, in the middle of nowhere, when it beats, dances the tribes. This land has spirit and souls. The land where people fear to enter, the sound of the drums allure. They say there are crocodiles on the way and zero millionaire. If you got your car dead, nothing can repair. If you disappear, nobody will care. Would you still dare? Rich with beauty green, but dangers it spares. Upright is sky blue until downdraft it stares. Like the Blair Witch moves the silent wind, and the forest echoes Bird Box by Bier. Once caught eyes, you finally reside. Twice the steps, your feet ground ties. No crawfish out, you are possessed. Tone deaf blindfolded, lost in the middle of nowhere. ... Marsal Soren is a writer based in Bokaro Steel City, a major city in Jharkhand, India. He started writing poetry to share his thoughts on various subjects, rangin...

 ... when i was younger, ( arguably more so than i am now ) i hopped, bank  to slippery bank to wade up to my knees in river water and steal crab apples from  the tree of my grandmother’s neighbor. and before that, i plucked ripe satsumas from the  green-stemmed tower in my aunt’s yard. everyday, i grow younger than i am now  and i often indulge in picking fruit: gooseberries pierce  and split the very tip of my tongue on the daily. this  is why i say i grow younger;  though my red lips are  puckered by sour fruit, my fingers do not cease  to pluck. i consider myself lucky, for not many grasp  the footing to plant themselves on wet riverbanks  or the gall to compromise the safety of their tender tongues in  search for sweet berries. ... Sia Moon is a young New Orleans-based writer and poet of Black and Buryat descent. Her work has been featured in the Riverbend Review, the Eunoia Review, and Chewers. Her poetry has won a S...