i don’t wanna be pregnant but i want everyone to treat me like i’m pregnant i went to the far away coffee shop there were no cheddar jalapeno biscuits, disappointment. my dad wants a grandchild and i am settling for a chocolate croissant. everyone’s either got someone who’s their baby or once was a baby […]
Poetry
Two poems
HOMBRE NUEVO and piece of dead bird by Nicole Cecilia Delgado
translated from the Spanish by Sarah Pazen
lipsticked man
bitching bearded man
bearding bitched man
paper or latex man
boy no, man neither
The Wandering Life by Yves Bonnefoy
translated from the French by Hoyt Rogers
A wet canvas ragbag in the gutter: it’s the picture of grapes by Zeuxis, which enraged birds craved so much, picked apart so fiercely with their greedy beaks, that the clusters vanished, then the colors, then every trace of the image at this hour—the twilight of the world—when they dragged it across the flagstones.
Two Poems
by Tyler Raso
Watch Your Hellmouth you can come over and we can put our hellmouths together. i’ll light the candle that smells like virgins being burned alive, becoming virgin smoke, virgin light. i will brush my hellteeth before you arrive, because i still want you to think my hellbreath is baby blue like curiosity, my hellchest warming […]
Aubade
by Maya McOmie
Nocturnal life’s no more bone
chilling than pale ice cream
melting on a silver
pool.
Waiting is angular,
then smooth and rounded.
Two Poems
by antmen pimentel mendoza
More than liking / how it tasted I was just tickled to bear / witness.
Roost Profusion
by Karen George
O, to live in a greenhouse palace, a conservatory, stone walls broken with glass—massive multi-paned windows, ceiling dome open to dewy zephyrs—surrounded by conifers, mosses, ferns, angiosperms.
Speaks the Dark Lobe
by L. I. Henley
Speaks the Dark Lobe The dog is no use now that he’s dead. And here I am without porch light, without moonlight. […]
The Titan Arum
by Kevin Grauke
The seed of the flower of death, as small as a foxglove aphid, plants itself in the loam of birth to wind its roots and piercing stalk through the lattice of our organs until there’s no space left to burrow. It’s only then that the bud bursts our skin, to begin to unfurl its dark […]
Self-Portrait as an Aerial View of Vancouver Island
by Clara Otto
The mother was a woman who was a forest fire.