Flying Island

Phantoms After the geraniums’ red had bled to pink, foliage curled to furls of brown, after the trees’ leaves had struck gold then folded, fallen in loss across the lawn, after the water, caught in the flower pots, had frozen, forming icy grins around the rims, after the birds had deserted their perches in the evergreens, packed their wings for someplace warm, two butterflies, phantom white, glided together, touching and untouching, unphased by winter’s chill, like two spirits of their past selves or snowflakes come to life, fragile crystal harbingers. - Linda Neal Reising A native of Oklahoma and citizen of the Cherokee Nation, Linda Neal Reising has been published widely in journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks and four full-length poetry collections, including her most recent, Navigation (Kelsay Books, 2025). Reising was named the Official Eclipse Poet of Indiana, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize five times. Her other awards include...

Ancient Lilt How common the robin, its lilt and breast, red by name since that juicy globe the orange  did not reach England  until quite late, its color             usage appearing as a daub  on the painter’s palette  in the 1500s while its  Pleistocene syrinx, an ugly twist of a word,  remains unchanged down  through the millennia, its  sweet tadah still timing the measure of our  troubled days. --Roger Pfingston Roger Pfingston is the recipient of a poetry fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and two PEN Syndicated Fiction Awards. His poems have appeared in a wide range of publications, including Valparaiso Poetry Review , Naugatuck River Review , I-70 Review , and Cloudbank . He has held residencies at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the MacDowell Colony, and Ragdale. In recent years, he has received numerous nominations for the Pushcart Prize. His lates...

The Funeral Director  After each funeral, we take the cut flowers that have nowhere  else to go to care facilities where the joy of bright blooms and fresh greenery, for some,  may be short-lived.  I will see their frail bodies soon enough for me and far too soon for many of them.  Our pledge is all about respect, a special reverence which each of us deserves and truly our greatest gift, our product, our service, the pride we take in our work. St. Joseph of Arimathea, our patron, your loving hands helped make the Lord’s final  arrangements, the herbs and salves, the fresh linens. I have never had one of mine come back after any amount of days, no stones  rolled aside. The next one is always waiting,  the last one now grey ash  or sleeping beneath  the lilies, six feet down. - John Peter Beck Raised in a milltown on Lake Michigan in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, John Peter Beck is a recently retired professor in the labor education program ...

Tackle Box Double hinged with a broken handle  the tackle box opens wide.  Two layers of partitioned trays.  Whiffs of stale 3-in-1 oil escape.  A few granules of dried mud from some lake,  probably Bull Shoals, lie in the bottom  along with a tangle of leaders and swivels.  I reach for a Heddon Tiny Torpedo,  the treble hook on its tail missing. Some Rooster Tails fill a tray.  They are small and weightless as time.  Spoon lures lie dulled, like old medallions.  A red-and-white Lazy Ike, chipped down one side,  still warm with memory:  My grandfather, his hands raw and nicked,  returning the lure to its place like it was something holy.  The aroma of a cheap cigar as he leans-in  to teach me how to tie a proper knot.  So much silence in those mornings.  Just the water and the sound it makes  when it laps against the stones on the shore.  The lake is smaller now and the hills are,  w...

Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 12.26 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! In this edition we publish poems by P.C. Taverez , Ollie Sikes , M.J. Arcangelini , Breanna Sobecki , and Gilbert Arzola .  Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers All images are sourced from the Canva library from various artists. 

Madrigal for a Mackerel   Remember how You dressed This flesh  The onion skirt Sipped slightly Wine of white Shine of light In metal tab Finger lift The tomato The olive Nothing more Lemon juice  Splashed gash  That’s the sting  Mackerel my heart Cram my love  Into this tin shell Where none  Is left that  Felt the sea  No deception  Or obscurity Only waiting  For the air  The cracker The mouth - P. C. Tavarez P. C. Tavarez is a Cuban-Dominican poet living in the Midwest. Born in Miami, she writes about love, grief, mental health, survival, and the mess of being human. Her first two books, That’s Not Love, That’s a Live Grenade (2021) and Love in Winter, Alive in Spring (2024), were self-published. Her newest chapbook, I’m Sorry, I’m Just a Girl (Pure Sleeze Press, 2025), is her most vulnerable work yet. Tavarez writes with her heart open, carving poems out of struggle and resilience, always reaching for honesty. Her words ar...

Recipe for a Dallasite Looking for Love in Indy Forget the taste of love first. Or rather get used to tasting text breakups. Whataburger lovers. Football boys who ask for blowjobs in your parents' bathrooms. Try Indy instead. Meander in miso ramen. McDonald's. Lovers who leave you with nothing but salt. Enter senior year solo. Grow stale from months of frozen foods. Which come after years of same old meals and men. Which come after a lifetime of self-unworthiness. Because queers were never meant to eat. Then,  him. Let your tongue soak up the Indy in him. The real Indy. Its flavor-filled menagerie. Salty  Shake Shack burgers and fries. Citrusy liquor-store soju. Sugary Lincoln Square pancakes.  Savory Ambrosia spaghetti. He brings you this hidden buffet. This solar system of several tastes. He sits at the center. The main course. Feel starved again despite having gorged. Savor not just  these planet-sized bites. Chase the sun who arouses your appetite. - Ollie Sikes ...

Bayside Morning The surface of Lake Huron, across St. Martin Bay, ground perfectly smooth with a diamond chip sander. Driftwood stumps and branches, mirrored twins in the shallow water. Overcast sky brushed in pale pink, with which the lake agrees. On the bed, atop the comforter, he lies naked on his belly, which expands, contracts with his gentle snores, encouraged by the serene water, still air. Lake and sky all but indistinguishable except where an artist has begun to sketch out a horizon in grey chalk. - M. J. Arcangelini M. J. Arcangelini, (b.1952, Pennsylvania) resides in northern California. He has published extensively in both print and online formats, and in more than a dozen anthologies. He is the author of 8 published collections, the most recent of which are the full-length Pawning My Sins , (Luchador Press, 2022), and the chapbooks Fierce Kisses (Rebels & Squares Press, 2024) and Hooking Up (Pure Sleaze Press, 2025). He has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize.