At the end of the path, just before the turn that would take her to the convent, she stood facing the hedge, running her hands along the bushes. “Here,” she muttered to herself, “here, here,” pushing a little at the dense green branches. And finally, her hand went in, a space big enough for a slender girl to push through.
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Nothing Bad Part 3: Opening the Door
Perigee
by Heather Bourbeau
“The rains have come just in time to try and wash us clean, but the moon does not care about our winters and our wretchedness.”
Coral Bracelets
by Umiyuri Katsuyama, translated from the Japanese by Toshiya Kamei
“We were arguing,” she said. Her eyes felt wide. Her palms were drenched in sweat.
“What?” Her boyfriend grabbed her elbow. He felt like fire. She pulled away. And he looked pale to her. Pale as bones. She smelled smoke. “When?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” The incense singed her nose. Everything was aflame. “Wedding invitations?”
And You Yourself Calliope:
A Conversation with Rosie Stockton
And of course, it’s always important to say that gender, like genre, is a racialized structure.
Being the Murdered Nanny
by Cathy Ulrich
The children were small and you were pretty and you were young and you kept your door locked at night and your journal under your pillow.
Welcome to World War Me
by Patrick Meeds
“We will / be setting all rivers on fire. You need to learn / to say goodbye in as many different languages / as possible.”
Off the Circuit
by Sara Saadlou, translated from the Persian by Siavash Saadlou
It was clear to me now that I was on a hospital bed, suspended in a coma that teetered between life and death.
Offerings to the Altar of St. Joseph
by J.E. Garrard
After the storm returned: We sat barefoot on the back porch, The water whipping itself into a frenzy, Us in our plastic red chairs. The oak tree leaned down to us, like God observing ants in a flood, Its shadow falling over your face, Making roots of your feet and branches of your hands. And […]
Fragmentary Pleasures
by Yasmine Eve Lucas
Before meeting Phil and Elizabeth, I’d hypothesized that longings for pity, care, or power might motivate or inform BIID desires.
Two Poems
by Leanne Ellul, translated from the Maltese by Albert Gatt
“Clam shells, your hands, / your hull’s flare in the palm hold. / Enshrouding bone on bone./ Curved like a whale. / Washed up.”
