by Ashley Kirkland My husband tells memy hair isn’t curly. It’s wavy. Says I don’tclean the house. I tidy. Like I’m some woodland creature in a cartoon. What’s weird is I clean constantly, curls swinging wildly downmy back. I wonder if this isn’t the epitomeof marriage after a decade(or flash, I can’t tell): saying the same things…

by Grace Lee Because we stared at the mirror througha fog of tears, pinching and pointingas the male gaze held us tightly in itssuffocating grasp like the dresses theysqueezed us into. Because feminismbecame the “F” word, inviting a chorusof jeers as it left our lips, forcing usinto painful silence, our lips lockedand the key thrown astray.

by Nina Forsythe Is this what it’s like?You go to work, make dinner,order new reeds for your clarinet,replenish the bird feeder,you hear worrisome newsfrom hundreds of miles awayand stock up on rice, toilet paper, coffee.And then one day, just as the cherry treesare coming into glorious bloom,the air is explodingand tanks are coming down your street.

by Ann Weil tracking time, crossingoff days— Mondays I washyour clean shirts, hang them on the line one by one they unpin, fly away, I hope they are homing pigeonsTuesdays I sweepunder your bedI am stillfinding your hairWednesdaysI sit on the rooflight a signal fireburn down the houseThursdays I buy…

by Alicia Hoffman Promised I’d quit if my desires, like a switch, clicked easily off. Once, under the bright lights of Westminster, I walked lightly over stones and maybe I sacrificed nothing but the sacrament. Transformation was what I was after. Promised myself my poem would be vast. Definitely not superficial. Not coy. No clever lines in lieu of beauty. What can I say?

When January House Literary Journal launched in May of last year, I had barely an idea of where we might be headed. I've been overwhelmed with gratitude for the response from our readers and contributors, making January House a greater success than I could have imagined. In our first, abbreviated, year we've published three issues, nominated for Best of the Net…

by Elizabeth Shanaz The ones tired of performing / The ones with tattoos and piercings and cuss words’ fragrance on their tongues / The ones who are nearly hafiz / The ones who still have to look up the steps for namaz / The ones sick and tired of that masjid Attitude Aunty / The ones with more ex-lovers than fingers, maybe toes, too / The ones who cover / The ones who will never cover / The ones who crawl back under the shimmer of a…

by Karen Bramblett The Caribbean’s azure handsgather moisture, pour waterover the mountains where it tumblesdown in a rocky river to the steel bridgeat Boquete’s center. On the west side,the Caldera River is flankedby tall-spined grass and adobe homes with open balconies. To the east, half-brown blades flop overbefore a fenced-in, manicured lawnand asphalt path.

by Z. T. Corley after Betye Saar’s The Beast that Pounds the Devil’s Dust, 1964I was made in the Devil’s image, something like a bull or a buffalo or a unicorn, wallowing in the dust of damnation. I kneelat the Devil’s feet like a wifebefore her husband, restingmy head on the burning ground,offering my throat for the usual violence.

by Jill Khoury cape of dew on my neck / flames in the turquoise chakra / inner unseaming / no one knows i am awake right now / the moaning also a trigger / painting with bird in snow hangs crooked / portrait of my long dark ago / when the tale wrote the teller // anonymous dm: get those…

C.L. Von Staden is an artist based in Central Texas. His work has been published in Bat City Review, Rejection Letters, Last Leaves Magazine, Star 82 Review, Moon Day Magazine, Ranger Magazine, Icarus Writing Collective, Thimble Literary Magazine and Exacting Clam.

by Ian Johnson Within the borders of the unfinished staffroom jigsaw, their blessed river glistens like the scales of a sated snake. The glossy vista, blessed beneath imagined sunshine, shifts and pulses and convulses in a fathomless rhythm, threading the cogged hum of two cities—dividing and defining the fraternal twins of Newcastle and Gateshead—identical only to strangers. Ancient bridges of centuries gone leer their consent as the mighty Tyne punches through to bitter North Sea nothing—those cross sections of daring and doing, wrought to conquer and cow, with splayed legs schemed to give peaceful passage for hulking freighters and ten-inch guns as the bloated shipyards played war…

As I Anticipate My Lover Arriving in the Snow, I Make Up SomeCat-Themed Lyrics to My Favorite SongLincoln, NebraskaFlurries mixed with sleet turn the city white and slick. These things don’tseem so nice when it’s almost as frozen in my house as it is outdoors. Giveit another hour, it will be a full-on snowstorm in here.

GenerationsOne more election and my firstbaby can vote. The other daywe saw two men walkingalong the side of a roadwith a gas can. She asked What do you think are they doing? And I said, starting a fire or, perhaps, they are just helpingone another get home. There really isn’t much distancebetween fear and hope.

by Jeffrey Heath Our Winter 2025 issue is now live on the site. You can view the free PDF edition here. Print and Kindle editions are also available via Amazon. Jeffrey Heath, Founding Editor, EIC - January House Literary Journal

Samantha Lucia (she/her) is a queer poet and photographer based in Asheville, NC. Her creative work is shaped by chronic illness, heightening her sensitivity to nuance, and she approaches both mediums as acts of witness. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Poetries in English, Witches Magazine, Fang & Flower Literary Magazine, Lunar Sea Literary, and Yin Literary, among others. Connect with her on Instagram, Bluesky, X, Substack, Tumblr, and Vero: @iamsamanthalulu.

by Isabel Navarrete Dill weed, dill weed, dill weed echoes in my head as I scan the wall of seasonings that are packaged the same. Transparent plastic jars with green lids cover the shelf; the only thing differentiating them all is the name printed in fine font. As I keep searching, my eyes begin to blur, my arms sink closer to the ground, tired from carrying all the other ingredients I plan to cook for the both of us.

by Hugh Behm-Steinberg Walking home I saw something dressed in green and impossible, fluttering above a bus stop bench with an online therapy ad on it, lacey dragonfly wings humming. “Hi Jake,” she waved, like she was real, and knew who I was, but in my mind I was going nope, nope, nope. Nobody else was acting like there was a Maxfield Parish perfect looking fairy come to life in this world, just hovering about, one who just happened to also know my name.

We are open for poetry nominations from independent presses and lit mags for our fist annual Best in INK Poetry Review

Beautiful Red CreaturesWater mites ride a mosquitolike clusters of hot cherriesthe color of Mars or Arcturus,Earthworms, foxes, male cardinalsplumed with flame, tomato frogsoozing poisonous glue,scarlet ibises and their bills’ sickles,red pandas, red squirrels, lobsters,vermilion flycatchers with wingsas small as rose petals, red-on-yellowto kill a fellow–coral snakes,summer tanagers molting the blaze…

by James Evans On the day you died a snake fellfrom the sky as I opened the overhead doorto my garage. It thumped long and black against my chest, slid downmy legs and raced awayinto the green, tall grass. It could be an omen,I thought, but I don't really believe in things like that and neither did you. 

by Samuel A. Bellin I am released into my nothingness. I turn it into airdisturbed by the pitiful clacking of black squares. Above my gabled roof the yellow moon hangs like a pearripened and full of summer’s sweet juice. I lustand flick the dial on the record player back to “phono”,watch its red light burn as I deftly pick the needle,

by Tracie Adams I once had lunch with royalty, but what mattered most wasn’t the crown. It was the moment a young woman in a royal-blue dress lifted her head, met my eyes, and made me feel visible at a time when I thought I might disappear. It was 1983, long before Charles became King. He was there too, making jokes over wine, but it is Diana I remember.

by Wim Hylen After a drunk driving arrest, Kyle Perkins moved from Bradley Beach, New Jersey to Eldham, Colorado, a town he picked by throwing a dart at a map of the United States. Intent on making a fresh start, he adopted the name Charles Bonhoeffer because it sounded regal, like an Austro-Hungarian prince. He didn't think of it as a lie, but as an exercise in creativity and imagination, a powerful wave in the dull sea of his life.

by Linda Laderman I am three thoughts away from the grave. Alone, I sometimes see coffins under sail. Endlessness enfleshed in emerald & frost & shades I couldn’t name without further study. The gray air molds. Geraniums heat the alleys. Jasmine and gasoline undress the night. I don’t know what to think of first in the list of all the things that are disappearing: fishes, birds, trees, flowers, bees, and languages too.