Home Poetry

the parts v the hole

by Zach Trebino




line up

more appealing,

the disciples
and tea,
brush my teeth,
and train to see the
when all they’re looking at
are little bits of me.



stock market trends don’t necessarily predict
the rates of births and deaths


because of your disordered senses,
i’ve had to hide securities in luggage
for my own defenses, take your car
keys, and lock my knees for impact
all just so we can go play blackjack
at a dimly lit roadside motel against
marsupials wearing stethoscopes who
pick their teeth with the scraps of
snail shells while shooting up insulin
cause their mom used to call them
sugar babies but really it’s the same
old babies spewing absurdities from
their fontanels meanwhile the mother
says “hit me” and all hell’s bells are
wrung by arthritic alcoholic hands
begging for a euthanist, damned to
a trance, dancing through case
histories of infant incest like a stock
market analyst.





i was thinking of
all the wombs i’ll never know
when i unfastened my
seatbelt, grabbed onto my
genitals, and drove right into
my future so hard i flew through
the windshield and found it on the pavement.




Zach Trebino populates the world with absurdly grotesque performances, videos, and texts. His performances have been seen in cities and truck stops throughout the US (and a few times in Bulgaria and Argentina). His friend Zack Bwaff (www.itsmezackbwaff.com) is a celebrity chef. His texts have appeared on stages in some places, on pages in some others, and a few times on both at the same time.






Setting Sail

by Jared Pearce


She said, Honey, let’s drop it all, take
The money from our home and put it
In this fifth wheel, tour the nation,
Live on the brushing powder I’ll sell,

On the leadership lectures I’ll hawk
To cruise-line passengers. What do we need,
Besides the roof, the road, the broad
Sea releasing us from dock to dock.

He agreed and spoke positively, giving up
His bus-driving, just as he’d sundered computer
Work, forsook the walls he’d refurbished,
The wood he’d planed and paneled for her.

It may be unfair to say his eye was like
A castaway’s, a man with only one anchor.



There’s no time to lose.


We’ve got to hurry, she
Said, the darkest space
Hurtling past us,
If we’re to find that wayward planet.

We sheared ourselves blind,
Our antennae going berserk
For some lush haven,
A tighter gravity, a syzygy of meaning.

When her capsule docked
There was a moment she feared to remove
Her gloves and helmet, having
Traveled so far so sightless

To where time began again, clicking
Its course and dragging us with it.



Not all plants need the sun to grow.


She said she wanted to love me,
And then the day ripped her like a tide,
Then the night blasted her like a diabetic
Dream, then sleep held her and she loved

Darkness. She broiled herself on
The bedclothes and folded her head
Like a door that trapped me in the closet
Of the morning. She rolled this way

And that way, away and always away.
Shooting forth a root, I didn’t catch her,
And so fed only on the night, nibbling
The hush hush of her breath, hoping her
Subconscious taxi would drop me at her place
With my bouquet she’d set in a wet-brimmed vase.




Jared Pearce’s collection, The Annotated Murder of One, was released from Aubade last year (www.aubadepublishing.com/annotated-murder-of-one).  Some of his poems have recently been or will soon be shared in Adelaide, Xavier Review, Aji, Wilderness House, and Switchback.

Still Sharp

by A.C. O’Dell


Even while I suckled, the spirits knew, and when the blueprints arrived, I chewed on them with the emerging razors of my tiny teeth. Truly, how can you be surprised?





When I was quite small, I remember you teaching me to bake in the kitchen. You wore a tired apron and I stood on a scarred chair, and when I scented the raw vanilla, my little eyes lit and I leaned greedily toward the be-battered bowl. I think I commented on it, and you smiled kindly and said, “try it.” Then you watched me, and laughed as I made a face and spat out the biting bitterness. You poured me a fresh glass of water. And then we went on, because I knew.



within the partition entitled ‘once’


[recollection, evocative]

I: #6, A-C
cavernous echoes
in an empty shower stall1,
and [the scent]
ephemeral, elusive
suggesting a thin, sleek ponytail
and a track jacket
with red trim
his skin felt

I: #6, A-D
the soft clicking [sounds]
of a manual desktop mouse
grey and smooth,
with the smell of
warm electronic equipment
and a sterile tiled floor2
his hands were

I: #6, A-E
nubile bass and electronic vamp,
the security of nestled earbuds
and [the feel] of cool spring raindrops
against the tips of the ears3
his eyes looked

  1. Brown
  2. Stroup
  3. Fox



Forever from now (hold fast)


forever from now,
(you mustn’t cry then)
((and indeed i doubt you’ll be able to))
the sky will be hung low
with bruised purple smoke,
and washed in peach, maroon and tangerine.
shadowy silver clouds will move like glaciers—
whoever heard of clouds scuttling? (in this age!)
with industry at its feverpitch-iest,
great unknown shudders will split the air,
and my children will hold aloft sweet lights
(that others might find their way).
though your body be gone,
you will yet see the thing,
for i have your eyes.





A.C. O’Dell is a writer and flash poet living in Virginia. She received her B.F.A. from Mars Hill University and her M.F.A. from Regent University. She has two chapbooks, Woman These Are Yours and Slightly Bitter, and has published two zines with watercolor artist Marni Manning: Americana Culture and Inktober. Her piece “The ordinary-ness” was recently published in Blakelight Literary Magazine. One of A.C.’s favorite things to do is run her pop-up poetry booth, where she composes extemporaneous pieces for clients as performance art. It is one of the most beautiful and challenging projects she has ever worked on.






A Last One for Richie

by Lauren Sartor


While you drove your date home
safe and unused,

I waited for you
in a cream-colored slip
keeping time
with a scented flame.

When you finally came,
you placed down a bag
of carefully measured drugs
as if you were preparing
for a parking spot.

You’ve always be so meticulous,
never leaving a sock caught in my quilt
or a piece of jewelry forgotten
by the alarm clock.

You must think it’s funny –
turning the cunt awkward
and disappearing soon afterward

leaving behind only
a few specks of soreness
and the casual
of self-esteem.






Life is full of anuses,
and cigarette butts.
It’s full of dicks
with no names, vaginas
with anuses. Everything
constantly needs cleaning,
(especially anuses).
Sheets need to be washed
between lays, old beer cans
dumped out and recycled.
The floor is sticky
and the refrigerator
smells like anuses.
Bed is a place to dream,
masturbate and fart.
There are blood stains
on each pillowcase.

The first cigarette
calls the bowls into motion.
Ashes drop on my thighs,
my anus clenches
and lets go. The first
inventory comes
from inside. It drops
past a halo of piss,
stains the porcelain.
Every day I check
to see whether
the turds are small
and tight or loose
like a scrambled
mind. My anus is a
mouth, the excretions,
the tongue escaping.






“I’m never so happy
as I was in East
Seneca Street,” he said
to nobody.

He his fingers moved
disjointedly, he stuttered
and was there all day.

It was almost
enough. It almost
made me

The poorest bars
are always richest,
where nobody drink

Where do women go
when they’ve drunk clean
the well of youth?
I can’t tell you

yet. The man kept
on talking
to nobody and
sitting next
to me.

It was disgusting
as if he were violating
a social contract.
It was

almost enough
to make me leave,
to make me
tell him

To shut up, to throw
my drink
in his jaundiced face,
to get up

and find
what happiness
could be housed
on East Seneca.


Lauren Sartor has an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared in publications, such as Black Fox Literary Review, Broad! Magazine, Calyx Journal, Literary Juice, Easy Street, and The Former People’s Journal. Her work takes an earnest look at the conflicted, and often misrepresented, facets of ordinary livelihood. She is currently a Ph.D. candidate at SUNY Binghamton.





Uniting with Beauty

by M.A. Istvan, Jr.


Ecstasizing us, placing us beside ourselves,
items of beauty drive us to reproduce them:
painting them, poeticizing them, and the like.

The most basic form of such reproduction
is simply keeping them present: following
the scent to stay in its plume; savoring
the taste to forestall the loss; moving
where the man’s whistling moves; tracing
the eagle to engrave it within your mind.

Is it a wonder that more beautiful women,
the best muses for begettings, are not eaten?
Is there not an urge to eat a dewy white rose?



Nostalgia’s Darkness


Nostalgia peeks in the face of crisis.
Items around us—our son’s first teddy,
the Christmas blouse, Main Street, the cotton gin—
revives a story, a home, now gone. “Things
were great then,” we think, mad perhaps at how
we took that time for granted. “If only
it was that way now.” We think this because
that was before our troubles now. Often,

though, there are other sides. It is not just
that there were likely forgotten struggles
then too. Some of these sides can be quite dark.
Take Gone with the Wind’s dark nostalgia
for a time—of unchallenged slavery.
Take as well my own dark nostalgia
for years—when my wife fought to swallow
what she most feared: full blown lesbianism.






M. A. Istvan Jr., PhD is a Texas citrus thief. He pinches not just a few grapefruits or oranges here and there. He has coordinated large crews to help him plunder entire acres in the secret of night. Most people stay out of Istvan’s vicinity. His hurried step, fierce expression, and wild hand gestures while speaking (speaking in what is best described as auditory cursive) set off the insanity-detectors ingrained in us by deep history.





The other mirror

by EG Ted Davis


Why must I sift
and search
through the
blackness of coal–
to find a red ember,
to smell caustic smoke.
And not see you
in the stairwell mirror.




Garlic coated salmon oil


I feel no pain now,
not in the physical realm,
only turmoil, deep inside,
acid boils up, burning my esophagus,
rancid in taste,
worse since consuming
gross milligrams of salmon oil,
slimy little capsules,
all to keep the fatty stuffs
moving through the arteries and
from sticking around too long–
leading to death threats,
as prescribed by the cardiologist.
Funny how deathly thoughts
invoke a healthy behavior,
and what is dying anyway–
if not followed by
garlic coated salmon oil.




This life fought for


We fight all of our lives,
for acceptance into society–
for respect of
age, character, experience.
No small undertaking:

From birth;
the fight to survive,
to the undertaker;
the fight surrendered.





EG Ted Davis is a semi-retired working stiff and poet who resides in Boise, ID with his wife and their two rescue cats. He has various works that have appeared, or will appear, in several online literary journals – both in the US and in the UK.






poem of a lazy night

by Adrian Cretu


and quiet


at peace with myself
and with all the mistakes of my life
I laze about on a foreign balcony

I look around, curiously
wondering how these flowers are called
and laugh
pleased with my ignorance

lacking ambition
and any desire
or expectations
without hope
or dreams of becoming
the silence embraces me
more and more
at her generous bosom
in the long poem of the lazy night




ars poetica


the air was moving lazily
around me
like a drunk barfly
flying in circle

without warning
half an hour ago
I had a brilliant idea
for a poem –
it was full of anger
and postmodern wisdom.
it moved me deeply –
by the time I got myself
to write it
the poem left me

now I’m quietly listening
to the crickets outside
and waiting patiently
for the night
to come to an end

the only fight I still carry on
to breathe –
to inhale
and exhale

any more than this
would be useless now



urban snapshot


lost in a whirl of lights
boundless steel and glass buildings
and an endless stream of cars
of the great city
the two were sitting motionless
on a bench
one next to the other


she sat her head lightly
on his shoulder
and whispered, in pain
‘I wish I could sleep’

‘tell me
will I ever get out of this?’

‘no’ –
he said –
‘it will become easier to bear
that’s all’





ADRIAN CREŢU is the author of the poetry book Orice om este un cântec fără rimă (Every human is a song without a rhyme), Junimea Publishing House, Iaşi, Romania, 2012. He has appeared in anthologies of Romanian modern poetry and participated in artistic residencies in Europe and the USA. From 2000 – present, his poems and articles have been published in: România literară, Tribuna (Cluj), Ateneu (Bacău), Cronica (Iași), Argeș (Pitești), Boema (Galați), Porțile Nordului (Baia Mare), Timpul (Iași), 13Plus (Bacău), Opinia studenţească (Iași), Alchemia (Israel), Ficțiuni.ro, Spații culturale (Râmnicu-Sărat), Constelații diamantine  (Craiova), Astra băcăuană, POEZIA (Iași), Columnele vieţii (Bacău), Litera 13 (Brăila), Expres Cultural (Iași).




All previously published in the poetry volume: Orice om este un cântec fără rimă, Junimea Publishing House, Iasi, Romania, 2012.





The unheated apartment

By J.A. Staisey



Crazed with love and loss,
and broke, so broke that winter,
we sold off our belongings.

First the kitchen went:
the knives, spoons, forks.
We even swapped the fridge

for windows lined with milk
and pots of jam. Kept two mugs;
we couldn’t give up coffee.

Next went the stereo and CDs.
Sold the furniture as well,
replacing it with what we found

discarded in the street.
Then things got worse
and the unthinkable occurred:

we had to sell the books.
Starting with the light novels
and cheap beach-reading,

we moved reluctantly on
keeping a careful list,
saying we would renew

in spring. But winter
dove straight back
into winter that year.






Arriving at your house
two hours too late because
I missed the 2:30 train.

Arriving just in time
for the dinner you promised
but hadn’t cooked yet.

Arriving in damp sweat
full of words and desperate
for a drink.



The fine line between stupidity and genius


It’s cracking down the center
you see. Here where the boards
join. A single karate-chop
would split it into two.

But if I had known
it would be that easy
I would have used my head.





J.A. Staisey lives in Los Angeles. This is their first publication.






Dim Light

by Alex Schmidt


not at all blinding
and yet, very much so
the mechanics of our pat-a-cake desire
from drippings of an orange hue
to the bacon cooked for the kitchen’s so many marks
you’ll have painted

touching it in one light
allows you to see it better than in touching it in others
I don’t know what that is, said the painter
he was not the romantic-type

imagine the hand
becoming a bug, becoming the dirt
yielding forth an eye for the sky
you, in the basement
calling for help

our furnace
speaking in plods like Milton
to you, and warmed into an erotic emergency
vehicle, sounding just below the belt
Thanksgiving in April

not a finger for one dimple on your body
not what Grandma liked
no children
could you blame the rain the china
the light bulb you called Freddie

there is no sureness
those were just types of sets of days
superfluous essential lard-like
yes the workers will not leave they are in love
they don’t see it this way
at heart they are just kids




The Paintings


are having a time of it.
Their laugh, a veritable infinity.
Oh but they are so cruel. Silent
but deadly: influential beyond volition.
So much life here, yaps a passerby, what a mess!
Oh how they are so cruel. Open
like lit courts at night for tennis, like the dark
plays no part in their awareness, so volleying
in soft spotlights like hypocrites…
How they have issues with intimacy.
Oh but they mustn’t be blamed.
Happiness Beats A Dead Horse is the name of one.
A triptych in the corner titled: See Ya
whistles with hasty lines, splices of yellow,
red powdery spaces, random slips of pencil shading.
How they’re conceited as the birds. March
March March March March March the Willows
is the new exhibits’ title no one is to understand only—
under a ceiling as quiet as Saint Anthony’s Torment—
intended to be a kind of jeer.
Their laugh, a veritable infinity.
Oh how they are having a time of it. How art
at first is an adventure then shrivels up
to a volatile pin-prick. So so small as to become
like consciousness, yet nearly extra.
How they mustn’t be blamed. OK.
I’m pooped. Don’t want to be here any longer.
Why’s all this stuff have to be so difficult? What?
Hell! Find the postcards. This
Bullshit. No. Get Grandma…
Oh they mustn’t be blamed.
They are as infinite as the birds.




Memory Nodes


A burnt steak.
Roscoe Mitchell caged. Sun
under a flat tar roof with lots of books.
How flat? How many? Forever,
those joyous days like shots fired
repeatedly from our pent-up youth
made dreamily of the multi-colored stuffing
we saw in that one exhibit those days
when you and I would ache
second by second of every Dylan Thomas
prophecy, incendiarily,
on the L train! Dont forget
Joseph Jarman by the lake. The Art Ensemble
of those days flit everywhere toward the park.
Grant. And that’s just it,
for in this realm, size and sum don’t weigh.
After all, Philip, it is a rattle like a ricktor
marks the presence of your energy’s whizz
even when those days were now. And so,
what of a daze that floats I wish to down?
What of the feeling, like nodes of memory
glued in the manner of clouds’ lineage quietly
pfsssting away, constantly returning,
then pfssst. Organical is mechanical,
I said. Ideas to and from infinity. Thought
cannot think what is higher than thinking,
someone said. Certainly,
thought cannot be anything heavier
than what it is. Flowery masculinity
of Henry Miller remarked your professor,
feigning a tonnage. Maybe to remember
isn’t memory at all, maybe air. A vision
of your face like a daze before a lit window
becoming the question: what window?
The Great Rembrandt’s rat-peddler,
that fine, gentle mist of pencil! Or jazz!
I wonder, was it the weight of time that killed
our walks down Adams Street with Art Pepper?
Wait, that is taking it too far.
Nothing about Art Pepper can die.






Alex Schmidt is an avid reader and movie-watcher… He rarely “goes” to the movies. But on occasion, about once a day, you will find him thinking about, editing, maybe even writing, a poem. None of his poems have anything to do with his life directly (his wife, his two kids, his cat), but he finds this to be a natural trait in his instinct to make music. If one day his life leaks in, so be it. But for now, let music reign supreme. And let’s hope meaning rings familiar for centuries before its paraphrased. The cards have fallen and their residue is colorful.







Night Terror

by Garrison Alecsaunder


And so I buried it to forget
In a place both dark and deep
Left there to putrefy, decay
Fluffed my pillow, went to sleep

But in the darkest of night
The hour of silence, all is still
Comes a movement in the depths
Twitch and shiver, iron will

Slow, determined, worming upward
Clawing, climbing, surface bound
At last the breakthrough, softly though
So not to make the slightest sound

Moving stealthily and slow
So its travel stays unknown
Silent, creeping, find the pathway
To my locked and shuttered home

Doors and wall? They will not stop it
Bolt and latch won’t slow its course
No wish or prayer stops It advancing
No show of might, no strength of force

Paused at the stoop, It gathers power
Starts then forward ‘cross the floor
Down the hallways, past the windows
Climbs the stair, then through my door

Now at the bedside, me there sleeping
So unwitting, quiet, at peace
Unaware of the Thing lurking
My tranquility Its goal to cease

Then slowly lowering down beside me
Without a jostle to perceive
Still frays my slumber with Its presence
My dreams each tatter,  lose their weave

Pressing, pushing deep within me
Enters my soul, once more Its keep
And I remember
Oh, I remember
Dear God, I remember
And I weep




Falling Part 2


Red rose petals fall
The last remains of our love
Drift down among them





Garrison Alecsaunder is a 35 year survivor of HIV. Artist, writer, general all around nice guy.




hippie from the ghetto run…

by Amber Wilkinson











dwelling or dwellers,slimy,creepy,untouched,unseen,numb,unfeeling,is called unloved…
its in your DNA
but is it a curse or maybe a cure…
not just for me but for a whole generation…
the RE jected or RE directed
      the alone and abandoned






If you don’t move you will die…
and the last thing I am doing…
because we must understand that this is just a body carrying a splendid spirit
and this spirit dying with the karma of a cowardliness…
i will desist!!!!






      spinning in my head…
making me believe…
that i was never dead…
in a spy of an eye denied…

(it was all in that twilight zone)

where we born to be different
why do we have to be weird
where do i belong…
how can i heal and escape…
how can i prosper
where can i find salvation
please with in my soul
love upon my lips
pain ridden in my heart…
where i should start…
you can hit me
beat me
even lit me…
i act like it wasn’t meant for me…
cause i know this life is a temporary life
equally it hits me
or cuts me deeply
because your understanding of me is “deplete”
i just wish people would get me
instead of hit me………..






with a hope for tomorrow a light at the end of the tunnel
if we were one we could conquer…
conquer what?




i was wondering will we ever think positive again?
or be who we need to be
feel the cool breeze of freedom from this hell
the dark deep secret of the world hidden from humanity
i guess ill take a reality slip and go back to sleep with an aching heart
of weariness and aching
who am i … who are you…
as i slip a mother fucking pill down my throat…





Amber is a self-taught, self-motivated, inspired and aspiring artist. Her work is primarily multi-media, 5-D abstract canvases. Amber found the Studio 526 more than three years ago through their yoga and meditation classes.  The studio has moved her to open up her inner core and creatively throw it up on the canvas. She also takes advantage of the Studio 526 music room, playing multiple instruments, singing and dancing.  She uses the audio equipment to compile clips for her DJ sessions. She also has creates one-of-a-kind jewelry. Her art has shown at Friends House Foundation, Skid Row History Museum, Bolt Barbershop. She’s an active participant with Zine Magazine festivals. She was honored to recite her own poetry at The Last Bookstore for Ivy Pochoda’s reception for  her latest best-selling book “Wonder Valley”. Her dream for the future is to own her own gallery to display her own work and the works of any other creative individual no matter their creed, race or gender.









Feeding Frenzy

By Mary Bone



Jaws drip saliva

Thirsting for the blood,

The bones, to chew.

Stomachs grumble,

The hunt is on.

Crouching low,

A jungle cat

Leaps forward.

The prey unaware,

Continues to graze

Until teeth snare and falls.

The jungle floor is covered

With carcasses from different hunts

Making way for ants to feed

On leftovers.

Nothing is wasted in the

Feeding frenzy,

And appetites are satisfied.




Alphabet Soup


I spelled words with letters

In my bowl.

I ate the verbs, adverbs and adjectives.

Nouns floated around and I crossed the i’s and

The t’s,

Stirring up trouble

With my spoon.

I realized my spoon was finally empty.

The soup was good.

It was the best words

I’ve ever eaten.







Mary Bone has been writing since the age of twelve. Some of Mary’s poems can be found in the Fall issue of The Homestead Review Online, Literary Yard, Oklahoma today, Poetry Pacific, Magazine Record Blogspot, The New Ink Review, Our Poetry Archive and The Writing Disorder.






Breathing Summer

by Judy Shepps Battle



Autumn cool mingles with humid
promise of change implicit

indifferent mosquitoes insist
on piercing repellant guard

living for the momentary
blood suck that itches, raises

welts, and claims my peace.

Eager to partake in painting
word pictures, Rusty trots over

licks purple Uni-ball Roller pen
wags his golden tail and

and sits content on my
bare feet.

Lone Blue Jay swoops, stares,
steals shelled peanut and

flies off, prize locked in beak
faster than my Canon can record.

My sneeze is signal for all
to scatter except for one

mosquito who finds the only spot
on my neck without protection

and bites.




From My Window


Leafless branches crisscross
creating intricate lattice

timber Xs
wooden Os

hungry starlings play
tic-tac-toe before

dining at swaying
cedar feeder

and vanishing into
cloudless sky.






nothing by accident
all affects all

smallest thoughts ripple
zig and zag

receive and transmit
connect and separate

magic and mystery mingle
taut muscles relax

breath swaddles
vulnerable heart

all in this nanosecond
all in this precious nanosecond.






Judy Shepps Battle has been writing poems since long before she became a psychotherapist and sociology professor at Rutgers University. Widely published both in the USA and abroad during the Sixties and Seventies, she deferred publishing to concentrate on career and family. Fortunately, her muse was tenacious and she continued to write during the next three decades filling a file cabinet with scrawled and typewritten poems that are now being organized into chapbooks and individual submissions. The material submitted for publication represents her return to active participation in the writing community. She can’t think of a better way to spend her retirement. Her poems have been accepted in a variety of publications including Ascent Aspirations; Barnwood Press; Battered Suitcase; Caper Literary Journal; Epiphany Magazine; Joyful; Message in a Bottle Poetry Magazine; Raleigh Review; Rusty Truck; Short, Fast and Deadly; and The Tishman Review.









by Jim Farfaglia



When you were in the backyard
measuring 2X4s,
I watched from my bedroom window,
trying to figure you out.

When you sat at the kitchen table,
worrying over the checkbook,
I was at my homework desk
studying why you weren’t good enough.

When you ruled the living room,
remote in hand,
I burrowed a hole under the covers,
my insides out of control.

When you and I passed each other
every day in the hallway,
our eyes never met,
not once.






Like watching a lightning storm
strike a tree, shocking us

as bolt after bolt
travels through you

your right side collapsing,
your stiffened left arm

pounding the hospital bed,
trying, as you have all your life,

to drive back
what comes to claim you.






The elevator’s ping startles me.
Sixth floor, a gentle voice confirms
as its steel doors part
and I step into another day

of your fading world. All week,
the shades have been drawn,
your bed wrapped in artificial light,
giving an antiseptic hope.

When your eyes open, you struggle
back from your leaving train
and we meet one more day
at the station of waiting.





Jim Farfaglia is a writer based in upstate New York. He has self-published three books of poetry that explore themes such as his rural upbringing and a devotion to the pop music of his youth, as well as several local history books. One of them, Voices in the Storm: Stories from the Blizzard of ’66, was a finalist in the CNY Book Awards. His website is www.jimfarfaglia.com




Don’t u just wish.

by DS Maolalai



dont u wish
the world
could be easy? and here i am
sunday night
typing away
fallen memories of old friends
& girlfriends
& things
that happened
as the wine
steadies down
like a thermometer
in a sudden snow.
the job
will be as it was before
& i will eat a chicken sandwich
& drink hot coffee
written on it.
on my break
ill stand on the roof of the building
and watch ships
coming in and going out
like emails
& pass the time
tasting the air
& tasting
(i will imagine)
the salt freshness
of breeze
that means
the sea.




A little squirrel.


I dont remember her name
but she had short hair like a boys bob
and big eyes under it
and she said she worked in films
mostly doing small stuff
set dressing and organising props
and when I got on top of her
she went mad as a little dog at the doorbell
arms all over the place
wild and fingery
as if sex was something that suddenly brought life to death
and cracked wind against flagpoles
or broke open old wood
to reveal a sudden ebb and commotion of maggots
and her body was small as teaspoons
and not yet fat
and she moved with such whip-snapping
that she almost dragged the come out of me
like a magician’s handkerchief
and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me think of you
and how gentle you were in bed
like a little squirrel
cautious about offerings
and I thought
               I’ll never tell her about this
she never needs to know
because if she knew she’d understand
and never let me near her again
and when I got back to Toronto
you were still away
and it was easy
getting used to lying to you
until you got back.




The coward.


I come back
after 4 years away
and still
it’s the same – my friends
gay jokes,
still laughing at the idea
of fucking someone
who used to be a man – one is convinced
that his boss only beat him to management
because the company wanted to be seen
to be progressive,
one says
his university
is stopping fascists from talking
because they don’t believe in speech anymore.
I get quiet
and laugh along with the jokes,
my pretty chinese girlfriend,
the guys I drank with in kensington,
the one time Dani got a black eye
because she told this fascist guy to fuck off away from her
and showed me all the
anti-nazi tattoos on her back
and along her shoulder –
I come home
after 4 years away
and it’s still the same
but louder
and I stay quiet
and drink along with them
because it’s nice
all the same
to still have friends
to come home to
when you come home.




my sister writes –


she asks me
if there are any tv shows i think she should watch
and then tells me
since she’ll be spending some time in vietnam
i should come and visit –
i can stay with her,
flights are expensive
but everything else is cheap
and she’ll have a flat by then
so it’ll be no trouble
if i want to sleep
on her floor for a while.




Oh boy, america.


oh boy
you really
make it hard
to want to live in you
the way
the news comes out now
over the sea
and yet
i do
i really do,
i want to live
in new york,
scabbed land
tamed from treelines to burning campfire skyscrapers,
i want to live in you
listening to people
talk like movies
like someone typed their dialogue in a cafe –
cats sitting on bread in bodegas when i buy cigarettes,
people in parks
having conversations about
anything –
i’ve been twice now
and everything
only deepened my lust to live
in you;
the crank
of the L,
the smoke coming out of dustbins,
but oh
boy america
the news is bad for moving,
the green card lottery
is all burning down,
the borders are closing,
the evening getting long,
is creeping over the mountains
and birds that sing,
bluebirds and jays and skyhawks
when dawn comes
like a thief
in the morning.





DS Maolalai recently returned to Ireland after four years away, now spending his days working maintenance dispatch for a bank and his nights looking out the window and wishing he had a view. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by Encircle Press. He has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.




Deception of Tulips

by Zoë Christopher



They discard their juicy
flesh and descend
into a riot of sea creatures,
jewel-hued petals throwing off
their gracious curves
in favor of eccentric contortions
and seductive grinds,
a raucous drunken party
where stem legs surrender to mush
in an inebriated collapse.

Their broader succulent
petal limbs wizen
into soft angular joints,
twisting into bony contemporary
dance interpretations.

It leaves me slightly dazed.

When the ovary has dried
stigma loses its magic,
and I lie down at last
exhausted and spent,
my perfect head resting
on the table.



A Crime He Can’t Remember


Mr. P is not among the current litigants.
He has undergone counseling, has no grudge
against the Order.

Do not wear bluejeans. No low-cut sweaters.
Wear slacks. Do not wear heels. No stockings.
These guys haven’t touched a woman in years.
Make simple conversation. Be attentive.
Keep your chin down.

Mr. P has been criticized, particularly because
he routinely speaks on behalf of the Order
and advises victims to reconcile.

Standard haircuts. Time-weary men in blue
work shirts, cuffed and belted jeans,
institutional shoes. Impeccable fingernails.
The air is smoldering and heavy.
Eye contact must never linger.
Thanks so much for coming.

It’s 2017 and Mr. P stands at a podium,
and I can’t hear his poems. I want to unravel
his cool-headed gaze.

I search those soft eyes for crazy,
trace the line of his jaw looking
for a stinging snap, a bite. I conjure
laugh lines but there are none.
We small-talk, cupping hands.
He is dead serious.

Mr. P applauds the friars for facing the problem long
before the nationwide scandal broke. He helps both
them and their victims deal with the aftermath.

I see him draped in black robes himself,
the priest with that holy light
beneath the skin, a radiant sorrow.
What’s he in for?
In seminary and prisons
we must never ask. Most do time
for a crime he can’t remember.



The 23 Helping Verbs


I am eight, standing halfway down the stairs when I learn she’s dead.
I go blind with the shock of loss
               is be been am are
               was were has have had
knowing her broad lap and cushioned arms will never hold me again.

I am eleven and his white smooth hands touch me in the pool house.
His half-naked and trembling body presses against my belly
               do does did
               may can might
me wishing I’d never learned to swim.

I am fourteen and her father washes her mouth out with soap.
He slaps her once for each piece of clothing she left on the floor
               could must shall will
               should would being
sending her away to clean herself before grabbing between my legs.

I am eighteen and my mother pummels me, pounding my head.
Like a fetus I curl on the floor
               do does did
               may can might
giving up my future, an unwed pregnant teen.

And now you, receding into dementia,
fading quickly so that I will not catch you.
I lean against the closed door,
fists clenched, sucking in my rage
               could must shall will
               should would being
reciting my helping verbs when no one else can.





Zoë Christopher is a photographer and writer who published her first poem at 16. Soon after she was sidetracked, putting food on the table as an ice-cream truck driver, waitress, medical assistant, addictions counselor, astrologer, art installer, bookseller, Holotropic breathworker, and trainer of psychospiritual crisis support. (She didn’t get paid for milking goats, teaching photography, or raising her son!) She holds a Masters in transpersonal psychology and spent 20+ years working in adolescent and adult crises intervention. Her poems have been published by great weather for MEDIA and WordsDance.




by Anastasia Jill


He graduated with a bachelor’s
in aquatic education.
They took his shirt,
hairy toes,
tan synonyms.

Rainbow strips give his lap a dance,
of tourmaline wands
and star topped

He is adult swim,
whistle reality.

out of the





Come titanium quartz,
turn into libertine water;
charm the bubbles
off the hips
of a holly blue tide.

There are light bulbs
behind her thighs,
lifting her skirt,
collecting arms.

She likes mushrooms,
she likes ants,
she is carved
from your rib of Adam.

Fight for her well.





I have always wanted to swim at night with the moon’s kept eyes on my shoulders. She watches
us both you know. Addresses us as a we. She’s twitching, snags. Gets stuck
at the bottom of our show.

It’s pretty; it’s fuchsite clouds and leaf smocks. It’s pink, and since when is a sunset pink?
The moon is a grin in the sky, holding my hair off my neck. I am soft and warm.
I don’t care that he’s abeam.
I kiss him.





No diving, he says,
shoving his spit into my mouth,
using my eyes to illuminate the
chlorinated tops of trees.

My bubbles wax neon blue
and gasps when he jumps

Small price to pay
for purple hands
and an ocean made





I don’t have to share him.
I don’t have to share him
with anyone except my mouth,
linked to him by air hunger.
His words grit against my teeth –
he’s mine, I’m not his –
because I want to talk the way
a 90s bathing suit fits:

pink and blue heat lightning
on a white, nylon backdrop
giving me ample room to stretch
my apple red belly button.

He is mine and I keep him
under eight feet of rope.
These are owlish waters
holding his yellow message:

staff access only
after hours.





I have pilgrim green hair
and renegade tits,
that can hold their breath
for a minute.

I dig my knees into bath lights,
hold tight,
to chlorinated nights.

He can’t make me get out of the pool.
I’m too pretty to leave.





Anastasia Jill (Anna Keeler) is a queer poet and fiction writer living in the southern United States. She is a current editor for the Smaeralit Anthology. Her work has been published or is upcoming with Poets.org, Lunch Ticket, FIVE:2:ONE, Ambit Magazine, apt, Into the Void Magazine, 2River, and more.






Baby Fever

by Pascale Potvin


“We need an ambulance! My friend’s been stabbed and she’s pregnant! Uh … uh … four months!” someone’s cry pierced through my dizzy fog. That’s when I noticed everyone in the kitchen and that they were staring at me. Overwhelmed, I looked down, still clutching my burning belly. My hands were red. Oh.



“How far along are you?” asked Trish, looking up again from across the table. Her gaze pushed into me like a bulldozer. I leaned back into my chair, insecure about my answer.

“Eight weeks,” I said.

The three women attacked their notepads with their pencils.

Their names were Olive, and Kate (I think), and, in the middle, leading the interview, sat Trish Barton. That woman was all I’d heard her to be. She was blonde, with great skin, and so petite; you could have never guessed that she’d had two children. Nor that they’d been home births. Her kids (a boy and a girl) would probably grow up to be as small as her, too, since she was raising them vegetarian. Basically, she was everything that every Elk Creek mother wanted to be. Already she intimidated me, and she was five years my junior.

“And you’re married?” she asked, with a smile as perfectly tight as the rest of her face.
I’d been expecting to be asked a lot about my living situation.

“Yes,” I answered. “As of recently, uh, his name is James.”

“Oh, congrats. How did you meet?”

“Four years ago,” I said. “He… was at a bar where we were having a company party. I didn’t- uh, I don’t usually go out, and he could tell. He stole me away”. I thought of it, of that image of James in his striped button-up. He’d pulled his sleeves up as he’d approached me, as if telling me he was determined to seduce me–though he’d probably just wanted to show off his arms. I still couldn’t believe I’d fallen for that overgrown frat boy. I chuckled to myself, thinking about it. When I looked back at Trish, though, her face hadn’t moved.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“Uh, I was an accountant for a car company,” I said. “I’m looking for a replacement.”

“And your husband?”

“Yes. He got a job at a hospital in the city, um-”

“Oh. Nice.”

“He’s a doctor.”

Her mouth opened the tiniest bit before she went back to her notepad. I tried to peek.

“And where are you living now?” she smiled up at me.

“It’s a house on Collingwood Street,” I said.

“Oh, so you’re the new owner,” Her high-pitched voice flapped its wings excitedly. Her face had opened up now. A little weird. “Well, lovely, lovely. Will you have transportation?”

“Yes, we have a car.”

“Okay. And how are you liking Elk Creek?”

“We love it,” I said. “We wanted to go somewhere family-oriented. And this was worth leaving, like, everything behind in Michigan.”

“So you understand the purpose of Elk Creek Mothers’ Association?”

I nodded. “Keep the community safe and organize events for moms and kids,” I said.

“And what will you contribute, if you’re chosen?”

I paused, massaging my hands together. Secretly, I hated questions like this; the job hunt was going to be a pain.

“Well, I love children more than-” I started. I was about to say anyone, then I realized that that might not be the best idea, considering who was interviewing me, “-anything. More than anything, I’ve always known I’ve wanted to be a mom, and…” I realized that I probably shouldn’t focus on myself, but on the benefits for the kids.

Trish and her vice-presidents wrote as I spoke. I couldn’t, despite trying, read their notes or their faces.

I told James all about it over dinner. We sat across the width of the dining room table, as the other way might have required us to cup our mouths and yell. I didn’t know why he’d gotten us such a big table, but I supposed that the room allowed for it.

“I’m not gonna get it,” I said, twirling my spaghetti on my fork, then sticking a load into my mouth.

“Of course you are,” he said. “It’s a volunteer position.” He stabbed into a meatball.

“One that everyone wants,” I mumbled, covering my chewing with my hand. “Why do you think I had to do an interview?”

“Is it really this elite thing?” he asked, chuckling and looking up at me. James had blue/green eyes; their color shifted like the tides. In this light, now, they looked a pale, consuming green. He was still so handsome to me with his short, curly brown hair; his thick eyelashes; the quirky asymmetrical-ness of his rectangle face. “But it’s called Ec-ma. Ec-ma,” he continued. “They couldn’t have a prettier name? Makes me think of eczema.”

I laughed until my phone started vibrating on the kitchen counter. I jumped upward, gulped down my noodles and jogged to it.

“Pregnant,” James reminded me.

I ignored him. “Hello?” I answered, in a semi-strangled voice.

“Hi. Lillian? This is Trish, from ECMA,” she said. “I’m calling to offer you membership to our group.”

“No way! Oh, my gosh. Thank you so much!” I exclaimed, looking back at James. He did a double thumbs-up.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Do you accept?”

“Yes, for sure.”

“Great. Are you available this Thursday at 7:30 PM for our monthly public safety meeting?”

James would be back from work by then. I’d have the car in time.

“Yes, that’s fine,” I told her.

“It’s at the police station. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” I lied. I’d figure it out.

“Perfect. See you then,” she said. “Bring a notebook.” And she hung up.

“Told you you’d get it,” James said as I put the phone down. “They loved you.”

I strode back toward him, grinning.

“I admit, I got you something to celebrate,” he said, opening the glass door to the liquor cabinet. I squinted at him as he took out a bottle. “Non-alcoholic cider.” He pointed at the label.

I came closer and kissed him. He kissed me back, grabbing at my arm. He tasted like tomato sauce, and his stubble scratched at my face, but the moment was still nice.

We each had a glass and then we had sex.

When I got up the next morning for the bathroom, I found some blood in my underwear, which James had said was normal for pregnant women after sex. I filled the sink to soak them and then also drew myself a bath. I was nervous for my meeting that evening and I wanted to relax (also, the big tub, with jets, was one of my favourite features of the new house). I sat for a while in the hot, bubbling water and thought of baby name ideas. I’d been thinking of suggesting Madeline if it was a girl, which I was sort of hoping would be the case. Madeline sounded like a girl who’d laugh fervently, who’d love hugs and who would have her father’s eyes.

The meeting went fine, though I was exhausted by the time it ended. I wasn’t surprised; wanting to impress the group was probably piling onto my recent moving stress and crushing me. I went to bed before James that night, but still woke up late the next morning. When I went to the bathroom, I found more blood. Bleeding was normal at this stage, I assured myself. So was the pain in my abdomen. It had happened before.

Unfortunately, both symptoms continued sporadically for the next week, and pretty much non-stop the week after that. The exhaustion was the same.

“Would you be able to get me an ultrasound? For, like, as soon as possible?” I called James on his break the day I decided this was a problem. We hadn’t yet managed to procure a new family doctor, so he would have to play that role for now. I was grateful to have him.

“Of course. How you feeling today?” he asked. I could hear him close a door.

“The same,” I said. I hadn’t left the bed. “I officially think I’m gonna miscarry.” I was going to cry. Neither of us had yet said that word.

“Please don’t worry yet,” he told me in his most caressing voice. “It’s probably stress.”

“It hasn’t been that bad,” I argued, turning onto my side and sliding further under the covers.

“Yeah, but this started as soon as you joined the group,” he said. “That can’t be a coincidence. And…”


“I don’t know. Something about that group just kinda weirds me out,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… come on. Everyone here just worships those women. Plus, they’re making you do their bidding, for free, just for the honour of it?” I tried to intervene, but he continued, “You sure you haven’t accidentally joined some sort of cult?”

“In small-town Wisconsin?” I scoffed. Fuck, it hurt to do that. I rolled onto my back, holding myself. “Everything’s normal. Come on. It’s for the community.”

“The way you describe them, they just sound creepy. Are they not?”

“It’s not that bad,” I repeated.

“Really? You sure you’re not hurting and bleeding ‘cause they turned our baby into a demon baby or something? Rosemary’s Babied you up-”

“Stop,” I held back my laugher by the belly. Laughing wasn’t a good idea, either.

“Okay, but admit it. You’re taken by the elitism,” he said, his voice now dipping a little, like a frown. “And that’s what’s weird to me, ‘cause you’ve never seemed to care about that kind of thing.”

“I’m just trying to make new friends here, James. Mom friends. I’m bored and I’m lonely.”

“I get it. But you can do that without this Trish woman, can’t you? How old is she, again?”


“Right,” he said. I realized that she was a full decade under him.

“I guess I want my kid to have a good social standing,” I finally admitted. “You know I was bullied.”

James took in a harsh breath. “I understand,” he said. “And I think that’s great that you’re trying to give that to our children, but I think maybe you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. On top of looking for a job-”

My insides fell. “Are you asking me to quit the group?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, quickly. “Actually… eh, I was wondering…”

They hit the ground. “If I shouldn’t get a job?”

“You’ll be on mat leave soon enough, anyway,” he finally said. “And you know I can support us both.”

I didn’t answer. I only swivelled my jaw.

“Then, maybe later, we can reconsider if you wanna work or not,” he said. “I don’t know. Think about it?”

“Fine,” I said. “But, please, get me that ultrasound.”

James was able to schedule me one for five days later–a Saturday. Unfortunately, I felt exponentially worse by the day. By Friday morning, it was like I had a hole tearing through me. The demon baby theory didn’t seem so implausible anymore.

I wept on the bed, leaving phone messages for James. I took my usual (maximum) dose of Tylenol, and then upped it a bit, but still, not much changed. When I finally struggled my way out of bed, I noticed that I’d left a bloodstain. I went to the bathroom and took off my clothes. I felt so weak and vulnerable, even nauseous, so it took a while. I ripped the pad off of my underwear–which, along with my pajama pants, had been stained, nonetheless–and threw it out. At least none of the blood seemed clotted.

I managed to make myself a hot bath, with jets. Once I got in, it helped the pain, a bit, but it worsened the nausea and the exhaustion. When I got out and checked my phone, it was still only nine o’clock. I had no idea if James would get my messages before his break.

I went back to the bed, in my bathrobe, to sit and try to think of what to do. If we’d been back home, I would have called a cab to the hospital, but there were none in this puny town. I could call an ambulance, as it’d come faster than a cab would from the city, but that seemed excessive. I would just have to make it a few hours. There was no way I was contacting ECMA, either; they couldn’t know that this was happening. I had just been accepted. I’d already forced a smile and gone to the last two meetings.

I changed into new underwear with a new pad, and new pajamas, then lay back down. Just a few hours.

It was easier thought than done, though. I held myself on the bed and cried for about thirty minutes until I gave in and lugged myself to the dining room.

“Forgive me,” I rasped, pulling out a bottle of scotch and a glass from the liquor cabinet. But she was probably already dead. I poured myself a glass then the contents down my throat. The burning it caused distracted from the burning in my abdomen. I poured another.

I was disoriented when I heard James yell, “What the fuck is this?!”

I lugged my head up from my arms, wiping my mouth. I looked at my hand. My saliva was brown. I looked to my right. James was standing next to me. I was still sitting at the dining table. I’d fallen asleep. I’d never fallen asleep at a table like this.

“Is this why this is happening? Is this what you’ve been doing during the day?!” he continued. I looked up at him. He was sneering, his eyes burning hell into me. I’d thought that I’d already seen him at his angriest, but apparently I hadn’t even seen him close. “What kind of mother are you?!”

“No,” I groaned. “Have… you found me like this before?”

“Well, I don’t know,” he said, leaning down further into me. “You’ve been really emotional-”

“Because I’m in fucking pain and I’m fucking losing my baby,” I said. I strained myself up straighter, but my head was spinning. “I need the hospital.”

He stared into me for a few seconds. His eyes had gone paler, colder. “No,” he said.

My heart jump-started. “What the f-” I tried.

“You’re not going anywhere. They can’t see you like this. Even if you’re not a drunk, they’ll think you are.”

“It’s… not… optional.”

“Sure it is,” he said. “Didn’t you want a home birth so bad? Like what’s-her-face? Have a home miscarriage.”

Then, he passed me for the kitchen. I put my head back on the table and cried again.

The pain woke me up before James the next morning. I heaved myself over to the bathroom–a ritual now–and the usual blood was there. I started to undress when I was taken by nausea.

I sensed James walk in behind me puking.

“Hungover?” he snarked.

“Please,” I whimpered.

I got changed, and he drove me, in silence, to the hospital. It was in the car seat that I started to really feel the bleeding. Feel it get thicker.

After the painfully long drive, I was given away to a Dr. Schuster, a middle-aged black woman with black ponytailed braids. She helped me put on a hospital gown, and she set me down on the plastic bed. I was shivering. I covered my eyes as she checked me. I felt her clean me. It was cold. But there was no colder feeling than the one in my belly–and, though I knew that it was just fear, it also felt an awful lot like a dead baby.

“I’m so sorry. You did have a miscarriage,” she said, standing over me, dropping each word down gentler than the last.

But it doesn’t matter how gently you drop a child’s corpse onto her mother’s face.

She might as well have dropped a boulder on me, I thought. And, in that moment, I wondered what my daughter looked like. She’d probably resembled red, thick lava when she’d been ejected from the center of my core–but now I was a volcano with no purpose left, and now both of us were cold.

“I’m gonna give you an ultrasound to make sure there are no further complications and that you’re safe,” Dr. Schuster said, and I grimaced. I was grateful, at least, to have her instead of James.

“It still hurts,” I grumbled, lips dry.

She had me open the front of my gown. She put the ultrasound gel on my belly then felt across it with the stick.

“Is it all out?” I muttered.

“Actually…” she said, her voice shaking now, “I’m going to have to put you into surgery.”

“Why?” I rasped, sitting up quickly and wincing.

“You’ve had an ectopic pregnancy.”

I hadn’t heard of that before, which wasn’t a good sign.

“Your egg failed to travel through your fallopian tube,” she explained. “Your foetus has been growing in there, and now it’s burst it. You’re bleeding internally and… your other tube might have been damaged, too. I’m going to have to go in to try to save it.”

Everything, then, felt like it was spinning and shifting. Probably because everything was. I erupted, again, this time with tears.

When I woke up in a hospital bed, I tried to shoot up straight. My abdomen cried out in pain, and so did I. I remembered that I’d had surgery. A nurse called for Dr. Schuster, who entered shortly after.

“Can I have kids?” I mumbled.

“I’m so sorry, Lillian,” she said, her face struggling to stay adrift. “It’s not likely you’ll be able to conceive. Your tube was badly ruptured, and your other one was…”

I tuned her out, then. I retreated all the way under the covers and closed my eyes.

When I was more awake, she gave me and James the instructions for my care.

“No working for eight weeks,” she said. “And absolutely no sex.” Her expression had finally given up and died now. So had mine. It had gone down with my baby.

My baby had died and taken the rest of my insides with her.

James took my hand in his. It was stiff. I looked up at him. He was pale and frozen over. Definitely also dead.

“Again, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Dr. Schuster said to us. “Take your time to grieve, but remember that-”

“Thank you,” James snapped, which made me cringe a little.

And the drive home felt like the one there.

“I called Trish,” he said, breaking the silence, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead. “Begged her to keep you in the group.”

“Of course she’s not gonna keep me in the group,” I grimaced, picking at a cuticle. “It’s a mothers’ association, and I’m no longer a mother.”

“Well, she said they’d discuss it.”

“I could have done it myself,” I argued, pausing to clamp my teeth together. “It could’ve waited.”

“I thought you might be embarrassed.”

Something about that rubbed me the wrong way. It even struck me.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” I asked, then, in a weakened voice. “…Because it’s my fault?”

He didn’t answer.

“For drinking?” I pushed. “Or for putting too much stress on myself? Daring to look for a job?”

James let out a dense exhale. “I didn’t say that, Lil,” he muttered.

It wasn’t a denial that he believed it, though.

“I can’t believe you think that.” My voice was shaking. “You did this to me, not me.”

At that, he pulled the car over and turned to look into my eyes. But he kept his grip on the wheel. “Excuse me?” he growled.

“You’re a doctor. You know what an ectopic pregnancy is, James. You know it was failed from the beginning. When your sperm entered me and ripped me up slowly from the inside.”

I watched the anger bubble up inside him, then. “You don’t mean that,” it finally escaped as a chuckle. “You still have those hormones going.”

“Hormones?! I just lost my purpose in life.”

“So did I!”

“But you’re not the one who had to just go through that,” I screamed, the hairs on my arms rising with my voice. “Have some humanity! I just want my husband to comfort me right now, not fucking attack me!”

But all he did was turn back toward the wheel. He stared again at the black nothingness ahead, and it reflected in his eyes. We sat there, listening to our own hard breaths, until he finally spoke again.

“Humanity is defined by the ability to reproduce, isn’t it?” he said, and he turned the car back into the road.

I was too stunned to even respond. Had he just implied what I thought? Had my husband just diagnosed me with not being human anymore?

I was taken by rage. He had done this to me.

The continuing, torturous silence was shaken, thankfully, when my phone vibrated at my feet. I struggled, aching in every sense of the word, to pick up my purse and retrieve it.

“Hello?” I groaned.

“Lillian? This is Trish,” came Trish’s glossy voice from the other side. But she also sounded a bit more genuine, more normal now. “I wanted to say that I’m so, so sorry to hear about what happened. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

I know you can’t, I thought.

“Thank you, Trish,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

“Do you need some time to yourself or do you have it in you-”

“Just lay it on me.”

“Okay. Well… we talked about it for a long time. It was difficult. Because we could really feel how passionate you are about the association, and we’ve appreciated having you so far. So… we actually came up with a possible compromise, if you’ll accept it.”

I felt the littlest fragment of life return to me.

“What kind?” I asked, leaning against the window.

“So, we have an official Facebook page, you might know. I like to keep it active, to attract attention. Like, post some content a couple times a day. But I wouldn’t mind that job being taken off me, if you want it,” she said. “It seems perfect for your… situation. You’re homebound, correct?”


“Well, since it’s online,” she said, “You won’t have to leave home to do it. And… since you’ll be behind a computer, and no one can tell who’s posting, anyway, no one will tell that you’re…”

“Not pregnant,” I said. It was such a pity offer, but I still appreciated it. I couldn’t believe that Head Mom Trish Barton was being more forgiving than my husband. “So… I just have to post as if I were pregnant? Or a mom?”

“Uh, exactly.”

“Well, okay,” I said, and then took in a cold breath. “Thank you… so much.”

“No problem. I’ll e-mail you more details in the morning, and you can let me know when you’re ready to start. For now, get some rest and feel better.”


The next morning, I went to the office computer and indeed found an email from her.

Hi Lillian, it said,

If you go to Facebook you’ll see I made you an admin for our page. That means you’ll be able to post to it under our name. Take a look at the past content, if you haven’t already, to get an idea of what kind of stuff is good. Articles about parenting are great, as long as it’s not ‘disciplining’ tips or anything too aggressive like that. Also please look for funny ‘memes’ about motherhood. Basically just fun, light-hearted stuff. Oh, and add appropriate captions, please.

Posts should go up once every morning and once every afternoon. You can start whenever you feel ready. Just let me know when that is and I’ll leave it to you 🙂

Take care,


I can start today, I wrote her, or I may die of boredom.

I went on Google and looked up ‘parenting article’. I clicked on a page titled What to Expect When Your Child Starts Kindergarten.

It opened with an image of a mother and daughter smiling together.

Oh … god.

  1. You’ll want to keep track of all of the school activities and meetings and help out when you can, it said.
  2. Making friends with other parents will be a huge stress-saver.
  3. Your child may cry because they’re scared or because they miss you, but that doesn’t always mean that they don’t want to be at school.
  4. Your child will be a lot more tired than before. They may start to fall asleep in weird places. It will be cute.

As I read, the pain where my baby used to be flared up like a phantom limb. I couldn’t do this. I hadn’t realized how difficult this would be.

ECMA definitely didn’t realize it, either, though. They had been so kind to find this job for me. If I didn’t do it, I had nothing left.

I decided to just try a different route. I exited the article and Googled, ‘Mom memes’.

The first image was a simple illustration of a woman, accompanied by the text, That moment when you’re checking on your sleeping baby and their eyes open so you run before you make direct eye contact.

My eyes swelled and my hands contorted. Just hurry up and post it, I told myself, then you can go wallow under your covers again. I saved the image and put it up on the Facebook with the caption, Haha, I hate when this happens!

Pressing every key was like stabbing myself over and over.

I was still under the covers that afternoon when I heard James unlock the door. Thankfully, he fussed around cooking in the kitchen for a while before approaching the room.

“Lil?” he mumbled. “I made dinner.”

My brain foggy, I forced myself to get up and follow him to the dining room. He helped me sit down at the table. He’d set out steak and potatoes for us. Plus, a bottle of wine, with wine glasses. He offered me one.

“Thank you, the food looks amazing,” I said, “But not right now.”

“Why not?” he asked, uncorking the bottle. “You can drink it now.”

I stared into my lap and ran my tongue between my teeth. “What is this?” I finally asked, my voice sharp.

He sighed. “I wanted to make it up to you, after last night,” he admitted. “You were right. I shouldn’t have been fighting with you.”

I sighed, too, nodding. I was still hurt by what he’d said, but I didn’t want to bring it up. Clearly, he didn’t either. So we made dull conversation about his day as we ate. I avoided talking about mine.

When we finished, he took away the dishes and I went to the living room couch.

“What are you up to tonight?” he asked, entering from the kitchen behind me. “Want to see what’s on TV?”

“Could you get me my book?” I countered. “In the bedroom?”

“Sure,” he said. Then, “Why don’t you read in there? You’ll be warmer.”

“I guess, but I’ve been lying there all day.”

“I could help entertain you,” he said. He came up behind me and rubbed my shoulder.

I turned, looking up at him with a grimace. “You know I can’t have sex, James.”

He chuckled. “I mean, it’s actually not that big of a deal-”

“Except I’m really not up for it. In any capacity.”

He paused. “Okay, okay, just trying to be close with you,” he grumbled, before walking away.

Of course, I was going by what Dr. Schuster had told me–and James, as her peer, should have known better–but, in truth, I was most resistant for my own reasons. I just could not get that image of James’s invasive, destructive sperm out of my mind. I did not want his semen anywhere near me anymore, after what it had done to me. I was disgusted by it, by the very idea of sex with him.

Unfortunately, throughout the next few weeks, James continued to try to initiate it with me. And, as I continued to say no, he continued to get grumpier. Funnily enough, I couldn’t remember him ever being this horny before. It was interesting that he wanted to fuck me the most now that he didn’t consider me human.

Eventually, he got the message and he stopped pushing. In one sense of the word, that is. Instead, he began to push himself, sometimes, onto my healing abdomen while we were cuddling… to even, some nights, knee it in his sleep. But I suspected that he wasn’t asleep.

When I would go to the computer to post for ECMA, in the morning, I also started to find paused porn videos left open on the computer. I understood that James needed to get his urges out, somehow, but, like the kneeing, it happened just a little too often to seem truly accidental. This was another expression of frustration at me, then. James was rubbing in my face that I wasn’t satisfying him. He was showing me exactly who all of the younger, hotter women were that were getting him off.

I only really started to become afraid when the porn started to get violent. I would go to the computer to find images of women–though that wasn’t what they were being called, in these video titles–being stepped on, hit with things, choked. Their faces always showed distress or discomfort, and when they didn’t, it was because they were being shoved into a bag, trashcan, or toilet. At that point, I shouldn’t have been surprised that this was the kind of thing that James was into. But I felt that this porn might have become more than just a taunting… had it also become a threat?

I cried a lot during those weeks. Fearing for myself, what he might do to me in my sleep, I locked myself in the bathroom at night and slept in the tub. Weirdly, he never challenged me for it. He acted like everything was normal. He’d ask me how I was feeling. I would tell him everything was great, and he’d smile.

When I went in for my first check-up with Dr. Schuster (Aileen, she said to call her), she told me that I was behind in my healing. It was most definitely the kneeing, I knew. But I realized what I had to say.

“We had sex,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. I felt a heavy shame for disappointing her, even though it had been a lie.

“I understand you want to try again,” she said, sitting down at her chair across from me. “It’s common for couples in this situation to have trouble dealing with it, at first.”

I wrung my fingers.

“I hope this isn’t intrusive for me to say, but… your husband has seemed depressed lately,” she continued, her wide face dipping a little. “He’d mentioned how many kids you two wanted… so I wanted to ask you how you’re doing, mentally.”

I looked back into her eyes. James and I had never actually talked numbers. Both of us adored kids, of course, but it had made sense to me to just take it one at a time.

I almost said nothing. “How many kids did we want?” I decided to ask. It came out grumbly.

“Pardon me?” asked Aileen.

“How many did he say we wanted?”

“Well… he’d said at least eight.”

I felt so heavily confused and disturbed, in that moment, like I could fall over–like she’d reached out and slapped me. Eight kids? Eight? Where the heck had he gotten that idea? My personal limit would probably have been half that number; why did he go around saying something so outrageous, when we’d never even discussed it?

I had an itch of a thought, and so when I got home, I did my own personal Googling. One of the results included a page in a women’s health blog, What is Reproductive Coercion?. I dismissed it at first, but the title kept chipping at me until I went back and clicked on it.

Have you ever heard of men obsessed with getting and keeping their partners pregnant?, the author wrote. Chances are that you haven’t. However, new studies have found that this form of domestic abuse is almost as common as are bruises and broken bones. Whether subtle or forceful, it is just another form of power and control that a man can exert over a woman’s body and life. He may be performing reproductive coercion if he:

  1. Sabotages your birth control. Maybe he’s lied about having had a vasectomy, or he ‘accidentally’ keeps ripping the condom, or he tells you that your birth control is making you fat. He might even escalate to doing something like rip out your contraceptive ring.
  2. Isolates you–limits your access to money and transportation. It may also be a strategy to prevent you from acquiring birth control. Or maybe he wants you to quit your job so that you can focus on being a mother (and be totally dependant on him). Isolating you can also prevent you from getting refuge from your family or friends.
  3. Verbally, psychologically and/or emotionally pressures you into having sex and/or getting pregnant.
  4. Uses violence or threats of violence to pressure into having sex and/or getting pregnant.
  5. Wants you continuously pregnant. He may attempt to make another baby either directly after you give birth (or miscarry), or as soon as your previous child begins kindergarten (and your schedule opens up).

A stinging, tingly feeling surfaced in my limbs as I read. It gradually got stronger, then moved to my core.

I sat, paralyzed, thinking back to the beginnings of my relationship with James. He’d been upfront about his traditional leanings, his need to get married and to have kids. I’d found it endearing, romantic—as I had his eventual suggestion that we run away together. Men with a passion for children are attractive to many women, including myself. And, because I’d shared his passion, I suppose that I had never had to face his wrath. Until now.

As Aileen had suggested, he was probably refusing to accept that I was now infertile. His obsession with sex was probably a desperate, delusional attempt to get me pregnant again. Either that, or he was panicking and trying to control me in other ways.

I almost scoffed at the predictability when I came to the computer, one morning, and found ‘pregnant woman porn’. Of course James had this fetish. And of course he was going to go down this road; this was the ultimate taunt, the ultimate display of what I could never be for him.

I should have grimaced and closed the tab as quickly as possible, of course. That was what I usually did. This time, though, something different happened. I stared at the image. Really stared at it.

The woman was leaning on all fours, her eyes jammed shut and her mouth agape, her inflated belly dangling pathetically. Her hair, a mess, fell partially in her face and was pulled partially back by the man fucking her from behind. I hit play on the video. The words suffer, you pregnant bitch clotted together in my mind.

When I finally did close the tab to get to my Facebook responsibilities, my bitterness lived on. It always did, when I did this work. This time, though, it was even more intense. It filled the room, now. Plus, now that it knew what revenge felt like, it wanted more of it.

I had a few notifications from comments on my latest pregnancy meme–one that had especially made me feel like killing myself. They were idiotic, tart messages like ‘sooo truuueee’ and laughing faces; god, I pitied these women’s children. Rage spiralled in my stomach, flashed underneath my skin as I stared down their profile photos in the same way I had the woman in the video. Their big bellies and smiling husbands made me wish upon them the same fate. I wanted, so horribly, for them to feel that humiliation for being pregnant. That trauma.

I realized that maybe I could get them close.

I logged out of Facebook and created a new account under the pseudonym Joe Coen. I then went back to the ECMA page and to the profiles of frequent commenters. I composed a message, which I sent to all of them:

Here’s where I’d like to see you soon 🙂

And I attached the porn link.

A few hours later, I received a call from Trish. When she said we needed to talk, my inner sanctum–the satisfaction I’d made for myself–imploded on itself. She knew that it had been me. Somehow. How? It made no sense how she would. Yes, I controlled the Facebook page, but it was also accessible to everyone. And the world was not short of misogynistic men who sent messages like that.

It was probably a coincidence, then. This was about something else. Still, the worry would keep me up all night if I didn’t talk to her today. I asked her to come over, preferably before my husband came home.

The low look on her face, when I opened the door, made my worry flare up worse. I invited her over to the kitchen. Her steps were careful. I was definitely in trouble. My mind ran in zig-zags, debating what to do.

I offered her a seat at the counter, and, when she denied a drink, sat across from her. I forced a smile. I decided that unless I was offered undeniable proof that she’d tracked me down, I would do just that–deny.

“So,” she said. She was still avoiding eye contact. She rested her French-tipped hand on the counter and cleared her throat. “I don’t know if you heard, but a lot of women from our Facebook received a really nasty message this morning.”

I widened my eyes and gasped. “Oh no,” I said. “Did you want me to do something?”

“That’s not why I came, no,” she said, and she finally looked back at me. “I’m here to ask you to tell me, completely honestly, if it was you.”

Her eyes pressed into me like a drill, making me shake.

“W-why would you think it was me?” I responded. Acting had never been a thing of mine.

“Because I had a miscarriage once,” she said.

My shock, then, was real.

“Surprise,” she chuckled, baring teeth. “Yes. I was pregnant once before Noah, and no one knows except my husband.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t. I’m just trying to make a point,” she said, resting both arms on the counter now. She was shaking, too. “I had become such a mess, y’know. I hid it well, but I was super depressed for about six months, and… angry. Like, I hated pregnant women… moms in general. I had thoughts that… and, my therapist–yup, I have one of those, too–told me that that can happen when you miscarry.”

I swallowed, gripping my shirt.

“And so I can’t imagine how much worse it might be, for you, because…” she continued, pursing her lips and speeding up her blinking. “I thought about it today, and maybe having you do the Facebook may not have been the best idea. Right?”

I put my head down and nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “If it was too much-”

“Because… I need… “ I struggled, putting my face into my hands.

“Do you have a support system?” she asked, quieter now. “Your husb-”

“Is that a line from your therapist?” I retorted.

“Maybe,” she said. Do you want his number?”

I looked back up at her. Chuckled. “Maybe,” I said, crossing my arms. “Now that I’m out of the mommy group. Now that everyone’s gonna hate me.”

She shifted in her seat.

“How about this?” she said. “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

I found myself leaning back toward her. The heavy look in her blue eyes was filling me with some hope.

“And… I understand that you need friends right now. So, even though I’m gonna have to kick you out of the group…” she continued, “You can still come to our social events.”

“…Do I have to pretend to still be pregnant?”

She paused. “No,” she said. “That would be cruel. And… weird. And people would figure it out. Besides, they’ll understand. I’ll just warn them about your situation, if that’s okay, so that they don’t say anything… uncomfortable. But we’re capable of socializing with people other than mothers. We could even use it.”

I thought about it. “I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it, honestly,” I said.

“Well, you can leave if you really need to. But I really think that if you get to know them, you’ll hate them less.”

“Is that what worked for you?”

She nodded. “We’re having bake sale Sunday afternoon,” she said, then. “I could use some extra hands. Would you be able to help, or are you still out of commission?”

“I should be, but I really need to get out of the house.”

“Great.” She actually smiled. “Most of the women you sent those messages to will be there. I hope that you can make friends.”

That hot, sunny Sunday afternoon, I drove up to Trish’s place early. It was tall, multi-sectioned, with lots of big windows and a fancy BMW parked out front. As soon as I saw it, I sped up and drove down a couple of blocks to park. Then I remembered that I was also driving a BMW. I took several deep breaths.

Once parked (closer, now), I reached, with some pain, for the pan of date tarts in the passenger seat. I strained my way with it to her door. I had been expecting to see a table or two on her lawn for the bake sale, but there were already several rows of tables propped up, ready to be used. This might as well have been a baked goods convention.

The door was partially open, but I knocked anyway, and soon heard the approaching clacking of what sounded like wedges.

“Lillian! You came,” she exclaimed, with her IKEA-white smile. She was wearing a purply sundress and had done herself up all nicely. “You’re the first one here. Come in!”

I handed her the pan and she thanked me and led me to her kitchen. “I’m about to start putting things out,” she told me. I walked behind her through her large, wood-and-stone living room; her little boy and girl were playing quietly in front of the fireplace. Seeing them gave me a flash of cold.

The kitchen was more modest and cozy. The floor was yellow tile. To my left was a wooden table cluttered with baking supplies. Trish went around it to the counter against the wall. A multi-colored curtain hung on the window next to her.

“Oh, good, Rick put in the muffins,” she said, peering into the oven. My body tensed.

I got worse as more mothers arrived. Trish figured that I should be sitting down, because of my healing, so she set me up at one of the tables to sell things. That meant that I was approached by all of the moms wanting to offer something and those wanting to buy.

I tried to make conversation, and get to know them, like Trish had suggested–I really did. Unfortunately, my anger rattled so loud in my brain that I could barely hear anything that they said. When I tried to talk about myself, my jaw remained so tense that it barely even worked. It was pathetic, trying to speak. The woman across from me would always end up walking away in silence. That made me more irritated, though. Trish had told them what I was going through.

So, like the nauseating smell of the melting icing, every new addition to the party further constricted my throat. Every new belly, every new child on that lawn took more air out of me. The sights became too much. The conversations–about the school, about bedtime routines, breastfeeding–circled around me like hyenas. The laughter–fuck, especially when it came from a child–sounded like the ugliest cackling.

I found myself wishing agony on the pregnant women, especially. Stretch marks, saggy breasts, vaginal stretching–things that could lead their husbands to cheat on them. That cheating would mess up their children so bad that they’d become drug addicts and criminals. Yes. That would make me feel better.

The baby in my belly had, at this point, been officially replaced by a solid mass of pure fury. And, unlike my baby, this fury had a heartbeat, which I felt pulsing hard through my body. Unlike my baby, it was twisting, crying, and kicking.

“Are you doing okay?” Trish’s voice came floating above me. Suddenly I was back in the world. Self-conscious again.

“Yeah,” I managed, looking up at her.

“You don’t look it. No offense.”

That’s when I realized how sweaty I was. And also that I was shivering. Like a sick woman.

“This may have been too much too fast. I’m sorry,” she said. She waved me up and then led me back into the house. “Eliza, can you take over for Lillian?” she yelled. Once we were out of the sunlight, and away from all of the bodies and voices, I found myself gasping for breath.

“Do you need to lie down?” she asked me.

“No. Let me do something else,” I pleaded, heaving. I was still holding onto a stupid slice of hope that I could make it back into the group, one day. I needed to prove that I was still mother material–not just another child to be taken care of.

“Okay… well. I just made another cake. Maybe you can help me decorate it.”

I nodded, but cringed a little when we found Kate in the kitchen. I knew her from the group and from Facebook. She was young, Italian looking. Thick eyebrows, small belly.

“Hey! Glad you could make it,” Trish said to her.

Kate nodded. “I was just looking for you,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Right. How dare you have an ultrasound?” Trish giggled. Her smile then left and she got quiet.

Keep cool, Lillian, I thought. Please.

Kate looked at me. “Is everything okay?” she asked. “You two kinda rushed in here.”

“Uh-huh,” said Trish. “Lillian was just overheating.” In a sense, not a lie.

Kate and I smiled at one another, but as her eyes dug into me, my embarrassment deepened. She was definitely wondering if this had something to do with my miscarriage. There was nothing I could do to stop her from wondering it. I looked away and focused hard on the wall above the stove.

Trish walked to the oven, then, to take out the cake. She moved it from its pan onto an embroidered plate and then placed it on the table.

“It’s strawberry shortcake,” she said. “Just needs some whipped cream and strawberries.”

“Do you need any more help with anything?” asked Kate.

“Don’t worry,” said Trish. “Unless you want to help me clean up.”

Kate did. The women cleaned, chatting, as I sat silently decorating and trying to recover. Now that I felt like I had some breath back in me, my inner fire had, thankfully, blown out. The foundation to it was still there–a gaslight that could easily ignite another flame–but, for now, I was sane enough to question all of those horrible thoughts I’d been having. I held back tears.

“Lillian?” Trish ended up saying. Fuck, she’d noticed. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I tried to say.

“Do you want to call your husband?”

“No,” I demanded. Too quickly. A tear finally escaped. Child. I was a child. “He’s busy,” I said, in a diluted voice.

“Is that why you didn’t invite him today?” she asked, taking the seat next to me.

“Yes,” I managed, standing up. The cake looked good enough now, but I needed something else to give me an excuse not to look her in the face. I grabbed a knife from the other side of the table and started to cut it up.

“Lillian,” Trish protested, placing a hand on my arm. “If something was going on at home, you could tell me. That’s something we do for women here. We help. You know that.”

I stopped moving but the knife shook hard in my hand. Hers felt like soft tissue. I found myself turning towards her.

“Is it okay if Kate stays?” she asked me, slowly.

I nodded, swallowing some tears and snot. I had to accept it. I was still that sad little girl who just needed some friends.

Kate approached me with softened eyes.

“Sit back down, love,” she told me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

I nodded again. Sniffing, shaking, I started to sit, and I reached to put down the knife.

“Have a piece of cake,” Trish told me.

“Yeah!” said Kate. “Or- I brought madeleines.”






Pascale Potvin is from Toronto, Canada, and has been writing since childhood. She is currently working on a budding book trilogy. She has also just received her BAH in Stage & Screen Studies from Queen’s University, where she has written a few award-winning short films. Some of her blog pieces can be found at onelitplace.com, where she works as an assistant.







Elegy at the Nursing Home for the Demented

for my grandmother

by Domenic Scopa


Let the condensation blind the window.
Let the bulb burn out.

Let the darkness believe
whatever it wants.

There is nothing, says the darkness,
I can do about it:

Where we go
is where we came from.

So let me spoon you, please.
Kiss the back of your shoulder.

Let come together
our brief shadows.

Let the starlings sing, like life,
until they tire.

Let me lie beside you—




“Fire is the thunderbolt that stirs all things”—Heraclitus


Out of habit you begin to sense the whisper
of fall leaves scraping streets: Burn the past,

and mysteries of loneliness will not concern you,
even as the family congregates for warmth,

and you might dream about the dryness
of the daughter’s down coat and wool socks.

Weigh the worth of bloody deeds impressed on newsprint
resurrecting into ash, their taste and smell,

the lives of lives you wipe out through the night.
I can’t count all the universes that disintegrate

when you lick the air—tongue-strikes quick as lightning—
but eventually your perseverance will be tested by the wind,

the wind that knows sometime you’ll come undone.





Snowflakes punctuate the darkness, punctuate
the run-on sentence of an early morning,

when sunrise insinuates itself on the horizon
like a Polaroid developing.

Somewhere, a driver slams the brakes,
skidding, who knows how far,

and workers, one with salt and sand,
the wind discovering their upturned faces,

continue shoveling the storefronts,
the moment snuffed like a match.

There’s so much noise—the neighbor’s beagle
has already started barking.

And we still wake up to each other,
sleepy, thankful,

perhaps a little button-pushy,
but with age, we get more playful.

Roll over, queen, and tell me
if you think this is a heart murmur.





Domenic Scopa is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. He holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His poetry and translations have been featured in The Adirondack Review, Reed Magazine, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Belleville Park Pages, and many others. He is currently a Lecturer at Plymouth State University and a Writing Center Specialist at New Hampshire Technical Institute. His first collection, The Apathy of Clouds (FutureCycle Press), is forthcoming in 2018. He currently reads manuscripts for Hunger Mountain and is an Associate Editor at Ink Brush Publications.




Truce Poem

by Anthony Isaac Bradley


doggone goddamn
this sundown is yours

right now I want to study my shoestrings
all the way back
to the campfire we pushed together

with YouTube instructions while on
pills and Coca-Cola

dirty from the ingredients
you said we couldn’t agree on anything
but look at us

in a behaved moment
we built something
who cares if it’s temporary





Crush is what to do with girls and other boys. Crush before
taking someone home for a few tragedies, press down
until their bones make room.

Crush is what to trust.
Is the name of a book, the name
of a poem. Realistically, Crush is the name of two, possibly more.

This poem is named Blueprint. Crush,
follow the steps and make diamonds, make like hell-bent teenagers
and Crush close enough to listen,

close enough to hear every muscle pop and Crush
for glitter from a high-rise, confetti
on the ground. Crush on Jessica Glover,
on D. Gilson, on Natalie Byers for days.

Crush talk into rhythm. Crush open mouth into armpit.
Crush but stay on point, now relieve

the pressure. After the excitement comes strawberry jam—lift
for sunlight. Begin Crush where you stand. On the drive
home from St. Louis, Minnesota,

San Francisco. Sketch a life
like one could prepare. Crush a house
on Weller Street, Crush a family pet with a back yard.

A fountain in the driveway. Crush bliss
with impatience but keep safe, because Crush
is the word to drop when there is a need to fall in love but no chance

for a boy with smarts, or a girl with a mean streak. Crush this temporary body
and leave no instructions for the left-behind, the coming lonely.





I never wore my mother’s lingerie
I stole from the neighbor’s wife instead
Plucked a red velvet brazier
I was a boy
Soft from long baths
Pretending the hands weren’t mine
What could happen in another man’s grip
I heard what happened
How a fag was beat to death
Near our busiest highway
Heard he deserved it
I hid my red velvet under the sink
Under the rubber plunger
I kept living
Took a lover
I said no kissing but yes
To the rest
I asked if he liked dress-up
And he said No fems
I fucked him
Pretended his hands were mine
I was delicious
I said I
Said I love you
I wrote for him and about
Made his bed
I was his red velvet
Ruby stockings rolled up and rolled down
Flung myself over him
I hid from all of you
Bred then bored him
I don’t blame him
I knew who I was



Three Extra Dry Martinis in Boston

—with Sexton & Plath


I will say this: I’ve worked to outgrow the kind of boy
who knows every gory detail,
even if their nonsense makes me
feel young. Boys who will lead anyone interested

to the body. On empty farmland, or rolled somewhere
in a ditch—a favorite hangout

for your boy, Death. Anne, would you believe
avoiding this romanticism
gets easier with every man-made wonder?

Hot take: your boy, like the rest of us, same
as an afternoon table for two on the coast,

was a bore. Guilty of legend-building
and conspiring with gods. Butting into every narrative
with a tired agenda and need

for attention. Perhaps you knew, felt sorry
for him and offered a cuddle, like Sylvia did. Does she
know I can take Google for a drive,

find the child’s body
of work? There are no secrets left
since your boy’s CV is public access: Automobile,
alcohol, gravity. Yes, love. Overexposed

on Subreddits, Dark Web. Nothing new
and all the blood looks staged. Your boy is no good
at realism, and I’m hard to convince.

I mean I want to outgrow a boy who lies about dignity

when there’s no evidence. Yet, like you two,
I’m desperately in the entourage.

Memorizing keywords
for every mood that falls, just to remind myself
how going all the way on a livestream

might not garner enough upvotes to make it
worth the trouble. Search Doorknob

plus Tie, Plastic Bag plus
Garden Hose plus the voyeurism
of your goddamn boy.

Choices that either age with me
or against. I don’t look good in purple. I don’t
want to be filling skinny jeans at forty, holding
my ticket for youth’s great closer.

Look, it’s late, and I’m pretend drunk.
Your boy is—again, predictable—out all night,
past my bedtime. Maybe I’m just jealous.
If I could afford a martini in Boston
I would surely order three, throw

my head back for a good pipe cleanse. Honestly,

I’m over it. I went to meet our boy
once, but grew tired on the long walk there.





Anthony Isaac Bradley is an MFA candidate at Texas State University. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Gargoyle, Cimarron Review, and other journals. He lives with his cat and the ghost of another.




Life Rising

by Colleen M. Farrelly


Half-dead plants grasping
through a broken,
wood-checked screen
to the basic-build
church chair strangled
by fingers
and leaves,
fallen cold and dead,
to the dirt caked
over knotted roots
of the lumbering tree like
the clackity-clack of the track
and catching bridge joints
beyond the sleepless hollow.

Dawn drowns
the split snow.
A lone lily
pokes through
the thistles.



Wildlife Haiku


iguana lazing
in summer sun—a shadow
and a sudden splash

a green flock squawking
soaring chasing and settling
swiftly on phone wires

speckled lizard
scurrying across afternoon
parking lot rivers

ibis creeping low
in spring’s oasis
before jaws snap shut



Art Walk Past


than I had expected,
no pool
reflecting rolling moonlight
as we sit atop the roof
after the resounding
bass readied itself for bed,
the last revelers
drinking in Warhol-esque sketches
and scrambled Mondrian cityscapes—
or the urban Kandi Kids’
lining the siding—
like a childhood chalkscape’s
older cousin—
and slinking into the shadows.

Darkness veils
the pinks and purples,
towards the fence,
a fog furled
over a lone two figures
staring at the sliver of silver
beyond the horizon.



Grandma’s Porch


Bare feet
across grandma’s front porch
with an urgency unique to
abandoning toys and cool-aid
to catch this new play-thing—
green, croaking—on
her porch.





Colleen M. Farrelly is a freelance writer from Miami, FL, whose works have recently appeared in Spank the Carp, The Recusant, and KDNuggets, among others. She is the author of the chapbook, Places and Faces. When she isn’t writing, she is a mathematics researcher and avid swimmer.