Hilary King Joan of Internet Slut They say on Twitter Whore They say on sub-threads Burn this bitch They say when she speaks up about #gamergate #metoo #anything She lived simply once, spinning wool beside her mother. She…
Anne Graue Piece of My Heart Come on. The rain fell on the long drive across New York, along the southern tier—each mile stretched out before and after with bare trees, creeks, and winding snow. The ice hanging from…
Carol Berg Origin Story: Breath Particles can appear out of nowhere, science says. What our breath contains—frescos, cathedrals, mountain paths of green. What does the clementine exhale—what knowledge of the sea’s wind? When the oak tree’s leaves fall, does…
Siân Killingsworth Inanna Speaks My manifold guises traverse the earth spinning facts, fictions, and associations I rest on pallets of red ocher gold of a goddess I warm my body with lions weak bodies of men writhe in worship…
Marcos L. Martínez Amá (El Cruce) I. Puentes She drowned one once, caught its scraggly little feelers in the whoosh and spout of faucet, flushed its fragile alien body down the stainless-steel sink: black against silver, sliding and swirling…
Elizabeth J. Coleman Two Subway Trains on Parallel Tracks The baby across the aisle in a yellow slicker flirts with me, eyes crossed in shyness, lodged in his mother’s safe embrace. He’ll forget me in a little while, ensconced safely…
Mary Makofske Jazz Duo Now our son learns to accompany a woman singing. Not too much amp, don’t step on her words. He takes his solos, or leaves them, they talk about key, where to start, how to end. The…
Katie Manning Love Poem with Teeth for Jon What would you do with it? you ask. I would keep it hidden in my jewelry box like a witch collecting body parts for a spell, I think. Then I go ahead…
Lorraine Currelley Under The Bridge on Saturday mornings mama would dress us children and take us under the bridge. under the bridge was our name for the marketplace in spanish harlem located under a bridge. it was also known as…
Alexandra Beers Henry at the Hair Salon My 14 years’ son sits in salons admiring himself, discussing intently his intentions with cowlicks and product and natural wave. I indulge this vanity. Not like my own mother who saw but did…
Morals by Abigail Walthausen What can I give without Joseph, Doula and sheepwives and cowwives? A range of applied pieties, against pan proteins for storybook farmers for the beauty of the earth against a token virus. Every coffee ground to…
The Loss by Dorsía Smith Silva At first, it begins so simple. The pain itself is nothing, something you control, by default. You recognize the strange violence, as it drifts through the pelvis and lands in the vulva. Now…