Eunoia Review

Eunoia Review is an online literary journal committed to sharing the fruits of ‘beautiful thinking’. Each day, we publish two new pieces of writing for your reading pleasure. We believe that Eunoia Review can and should be a home for all sorts of writing, and we welcome submissions from writers of all ages and backgrounds.

[eunoiareview]

Question Unanswered

I confess had I spoken to you before you left for Scotland, I would have welcomed your expectations because I often reminisce about our seven o’clock hikes on autumn mornings across Vermont hillsides when dew still covered tall grass along the path when we traced a rippling stream, when we almost forgot to breathe. In daydreams, I often replay those times when we sauntered hand-in-hand under a…

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Nightly Conversation

I’m keeping time between remnants of vivid dreams and a ticking alarm clock in the vast recesses of night when I thought I heard murmuring sounds that I didn’t recognize while the midnight sky questioned sunrise, delivered little revelation in this landscape of forgetfulness. A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019). His poems…

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Negative Space

The movers take the bed apart and leave its skeleton leaning in the hall. I stand in the room that was a room. A sock behind the radiator. A receipt from a year I’d rather not. On the windowsill: no dust at all— the exact, clean rectangle where a fern stood for three years and is already in the car, holding the ghost of itself better than it ever held the fern. The water heater clicks off…

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Small heart, thin wall

said my cardiologist looking at the screen and suddenly it was very funny to be seen from such a strange angle. She had fists, unworn, one might say, and a heart the same size, vestibules with open doors or something like that. She had all ten fingers and tired eyes that she kept half-shut when she told the truth; she made long confessions that brought no relief and had freckles on the bridge of…

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Apocalyptiii

The Apocalypse Show opens on holy ground. First comes a gunny wolf, she whispers kumquee, kumqua There were two wrong moons back in 2009 and I mentioned it at the time. You had inherited your grandma’s little ways and did not listen to me. No one did. And now a humanzee checks the museum labels for species errors. And now a banshee ushers in 1) a dark robin and 2) a black bluff. The bird’s nest…

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Tarmac Lies Dormant on Our Sheets

you settle on top of me press into folds of skin I choose not to remember there is always a landing impending in the jagged obscenity of a lowered elbow earth is listless beneath tar & slag air pushes forth the violent scent of rubber tires scraping across some blackened surface Argy Koutsothanasis is a poet and creative director based in Queens, New York. She is the great-niece of Markos…

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Umbrellas Holding Up Half the Sky

in the beginning everything was gently bent and arcing towards a happy ending just beyond ground zero. post-big-bang: found footage horror scripts, written by soggy meat treading water in a jar. some lessons last a lifetime. lucky for me i don’t exist. i mean my self’s a movie, a person’s a process, and what does the milky way look like to a rock? that’s what i want to know. learned astronomers,…

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Cannibal Dynamo

“Moloch whose mind is pure machinery!” —Allen Ginsberg, “Howl” The porch lights coming on across the anesthetic townships, and somewhere down the hallway someone’s hunger curled up on the carpet, licked its paws, and died. The television sets are praying to themselves again. The clocks keep nurse-shift time. The beds keep score. The silverware knows everyone by name. This is the country. This is…

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Put Your Shoes at the Door

The sky has managed a sun. A thin wick today, already spent above the roofs. Morning presses its face against the pane. In the dark room The wine continues its slow work. The ceiling. The fan, yes. Fingers wander from bed to sill Through yesterday’s ash, Through yesterday’s ash. I must have missed the dawn. The walls are so high; I cannot see the spring. Feet fall hard to the floor. Something was…

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Every Person Leaves a Room Differently

You work with history, when all you want to do is forget. There are things you said decades ago that you still regret. Art flows into life, but you don’t understand it. Life flows into art, but you don’t understand it. What is this world if not a cracked garden? There’s a certain type of happiness that can only be described as relentless. Daniel Addercouth grew up on a remote farm in the Scottish…

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My Shelter Pets Are Pure Love

Everyone agrees it was a turning point when shamanism became the state religion. We’re all still trying to shock our parents, especially the dead ones. That’s the price we pay for a happy upbringing. As a child, I wasn’t allowed to let cats in the house, but I remember being the same size as Granny’s dog, lying on the mat in front of the fire. I’m collecting the stages of grief, just not in the…

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Pattern Recognition

Faced with a dark-green canvas, you might ask yourself: what is there to understand? At the centre of the storm, we are awake and watching. I attempt to catch your eye, want to keep you in the loop. You seldom stop shivering; I try to simplify things. My attention slows. An abstract request – another reason to be scared. The birdsong is still on your lips. I have some calls to make. What is this…

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Laundry Day

Before I box them up to donate to Goodwill, the wind breathes my father’s clothes drying on the line back to life one last time. Kip Knott’s most recent book of poems, Rothko’s Gospels, is available from tiny wren publishing. You can follow him on Instagram at @kip.knott.

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Appalachian Funeral

The earth atop your fresh grave swells with last night’s rain while a congregation of wind fills the pews of the abandoned church miners once coughed prayers in before coal veins turned to sulfur. Murmurings of the forgotten faithful rattle cracked and shattered stained- glass windows with a chorus of gusty Hallelujahs and the soft breeze of a hundred breathless Amens. Kip Knott’s most recent…

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Score for a Long Drive

(for two voices and an engine) [Silence.]            [Static.] [A short chorus of a country song, in which the singer over-enunciates the m in America, as if trying to spread the grease evenly over his lips.] [Static.]            [Click.]            [Silence.] Tell me something. What? Anything. [Pause.] How long ago did we meet? A week ago? Two? Just one. Anyway, two weeks ago, I went swimming in…

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Self-Portrait as a Hall of Mirrors

The trail cam blinks twice.      Motion detected. Two stags fighting by the creek. The water is green. It could be a painting except for the blood: pinkish, high- fructose. The blood makes it a movie. It’s mating season, it’s hunting season. Through his rifle-sight the hunter watches the pair stomping and crying locked together and hesitates – then shoots. One stag crumples. The other tries to…

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Self-Portrait as a Nesting Doll

Open my mouth:   instead of my tongue an accordion. Open its bellows and they gasp   a diver’s last breath above water. Open water and find light in the trenches of the sea      so many lights lights hadal   chthonic   glowing green like plastic stars I meant to stick to our walls but never did. Open them and find every one of the things I meant to say to you but never did. Open those and find my…