 Juliana Tattoli I read a Pima creation story that began, “In the beginning there was only darkness.” I saw a shooting star leap from one end of the Earth to the other, waving her long tadpole tail, her giant head leading the way to burn-out. So close, it could fall into my lap. I met a man named Garth with praying mantis eyes who lived off the land for thirty-eight years in a teepee. Large gemstone rings on every finger, he told me the secret to life is to ‘keep it simple.’ The Cholla cactus can produce new growth from any part of its ombre body. Luminescent light yellow tips caught the afternoon light, beam out amongst a cloudy deep gray sky. Spiked round stems taper off to red, then orange, then lower on its body become auburn, and finally at its base, completely black. The Yucca Moth works from sunset to midnight when Joshua Tree blooms spread open like summer windows receiving the warm night. She deposits a small amount of pollen collected onto the flower’s ovary so it produces the seeds she needs to feed her larvae. How will I bloom fruit from emptiness? “Keep it simple” he said. I descended from primal jelly ooze Jennifer Lothrigelis a poet and artist in the San Francisco Bay area. Her chapbook 'Pneuma' was published last year through Liquid Light Press. Her work has also been published in Arcturus, Deracine, Rag Queen Periodical, Peeking Cat Poetry, We'Moon and elsewhere.
 the rain droplets on the spider web looked like stars connected in a constellation. Delaney D.is a hobbyist photographer from southern Alabama. She remains inspired by the Gulf Coast’s rich flora, unpredictable weather, and diverse culture. Find her Instagram @dlaneym_ All of the women poets who committed suicide stab my chest like wheat spikes to my calves, like nails to the cross, like forget-me-not thorns if forget-me-nots grew thorns. My belly sleeps like snakes, which is to say, it is always on guard. My sides bleed the color of poppies and I’m wearing a corollary of half-lit Universes on my back. The fire burning you from within never lights up your footsteps at night – shadows, however, pounce on your pupils and devour what’s left of your iris. Madness that smells of musty rooms isn’t my kind of madness. My kind of madness are open rooms at a house nobody inhabits anymore air leaking through a broken window and pinning petals in vibrant colors to the knobs of doors nobody closed. The flight of the birds leaves a trace of daytime dreams. Flying is overrated – us, for once, we want our feet on the land and land somewhere else but on our eyelids.
One night I rode her through Los Angeles. There was an older Turkish woman seated behind me, gently humming, feverishly knitting a blue scarf with shaky hands. Seated next to her, a woman with her shirt pulled down under her left breast, was feeding a baby boy. An androgynous teenager swaying their hands back and forth like a river and following them with their neck sat beside me. Soon, the teen leaned their head on my shoulder, I leaned on their head, I joined my right hand to the back of their left hand, we flowed our hands back and forth as one invincible fish. The Turkish woman, fumbled the unfinished scarf around the mother and child, the loose threads resting in her lap. Jennifer Lothrigel is a poet and artist in the San Francisco Bay area. Her chapbook 'Pneuma' was published last year through Liquid Light Press. Her work has also been published in Arcturus, Deracine, Rag Queen Periodical, Peeking Cat Poetry, We'Moon and elsewhere. God   Lie Down Be Holy“Where are you going?” asks the angel, and I don’t normally stop walking and take a headphone out for just any street vendor but here we are/ “Home.” I say, and bring the headphone just a little closer to my ear as incentive for them to hurry up/ “That’s a long walk.” and I know I never told them where I live but sometimes angels say things you just have to move on from/ “Yup.” and I start to walk away without putting the headphone back in my ear (I consider myself merciful for this)/ “I have wings... and halos!” they shout but I don’t trust stolen holiness so I step back into the flow of bodies and continue walking, ignoring the twin scars on our backs// Kel Massey is a non-binary writer from Baltimore currently working on their bachelor's degree in English. They enjoy strong coffee, big jackets, and crying over actual play podcasts. You can find them @knife_orange on twitter. it gets harder to breathe with each passing day heart beating faster, flooding the veins that feed my brain, my blood wrapping its goddamn suffocating hands around my throat and reaching up over my face, a tender embrace i never asked for this never asked for all the heartbeats and the breathing never asked for the warmth of a pulse, see no one gave a thought to the cold when they made me when they reached in and reached out to find me and when they put a collar on my soul and handed the leash off to whatever still lurks behind me driving me they never thought they were doing a bad thing they thought they were helping they thought that when they took me from nowhere with nothing and put me somewhere with something they were working miracles because making something out of nothing is a miracle, right? is it a miracle or is it just blasphemy? they thought they were helping they thought they were god but to pluck me out of stars and cage me is no godly act life could’ve been so beautiful but i’m stuck here pulling at the leash fighting against the rope around my throat so hard that i can’t fucking breathe and i can barely see but i’ll stay on my feet because i won’t go back to nothing i’ll take this misery, this loneliness, this burning in my chest i’ll take this blasphemy and turn it into something freed because you must also know warmth to feel yourself freeze i’ll show them what a goddamn miracle is my miracle today is that thought it hurts to breathe i puff my chest out anyway. i may have never asked to be born but now that i’m here i refuse to step away. step down. no, i refuse to die.
don’t ever tattoo a name, names change you can get a drawing or a symbol or a phrase but never a name, names change don’t take my name, don’t make it yours, don’t make it say who i am or who i’ll be, that’s not my name what’s my name? you’ve never known it so don’t you dare tattoo my name hear my complaint, i’ll say it plain don’t ever tattoo a name, names change you can get a drawing or a symbol or a phrase but never a name, names change who you think i am is not the same as who i really am, in my brain reach down the sink and ask my heart, “what’s your name?” it’ll say “who are you to ask for such a thing? that’s my creation, my impersonation my identity to maintain i’ll never fake it, never tell you ‘til you promise not to take it nor mistake it for an open door, for conversations through the floor. don’t say my name.” so don’t you ever tattoo a name, names change you can get a drawing or a symbol or a phrase but never a name, names change
   I live along the Gulf Coast where hurricanes and tropical storms are frequent, and I took these the day a tropical storm was set to hit. Delaney D.is a hobbyist photographer from southern Alabama. She remains inspired by the Gulf Coast’s rich flora, unpredictable weather, and diverse culture. this is why we are still alive. why are you? the neverending and changeable beauty of the natural world. Singing, writing, and my kitty kat make me so happy to be alive! Being alive is in itself exclusive pleasure, and I feel it every day. No need for an extraneous reason to enjoy it. The people that I care about. my daughter, she keeps me going when I do not want to keep going. I would say it has to be music. Whether in the form of a childhood pastime, phrase of writing, or poignant pop song, it’s followed me throughout my entire life, giving me the motivation to keep going.
 Edward Lee'spoetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: 'Lying Down With The Dead' and 'There Is A Beauty In Broken Things'. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at here. Undellastare blankly towards the sea maybe remember how much beauty could divide you from your love hear waves wash ashore broken shells that its currents tore as you yearn for the home you have my love will find you but i don't know if my touch will for this monument that calls itself sea is a spiteful beauty and i will never know if i will be strong enough to swim its miles just to hold you but maybe just stare blankly towards the sea and remember how much you long for me before you know it my love will find you FanboyHold on, let me recollect myself
I'll gather up my clothes and words before I start Take it all along with breath and put it in a shelf Then I can finally pick myself apart Now I'll myself slip in a few words Try to hold on to a squeal and then to a thread Hold on, let me recollect myself Before I stand in front of you, trying not to be dead Since I've been waiting for so long, the hair has grown long too I guess now is the right time to say "It's so nice to finally meet you" 
unstoriedI would like to be divested of this idea of narrative, that the plot of my life has turns it should or will make, that I am arcing upwards as if toward a summit. Let me instead be as directionless as a tree, like pines flicking their feathery plumes outside my window, whose thoughts are so large and voices so long we cannot discern them, who move so slowly no one can tell, and move only to better taste of the sun. Story is a tyranny: this getting things done, how one event begets another, a logical sequence, how end & meaning & purpose are the same. Let me lose this word meaning. I desire obsolescence, or to have a purpose incidental, of which I am not aware; as a tree bends to wind & searches for sun, and soothes us, speedy beasts, with the blessing of being silent, and living, and emphatically there. THE RODIN EXHIBIT, Peabody Essex, Salem, MAHere we have, among folds of fabric, a single hand. In this glass case, an arm. Notice the natural articulation of fingers. My lover adds more than the placards tell, happy to use his first degree for something. I honestly think it would be nothing if I left. I rest my chin on my hand and pull a serious moue in front of The Thinker, one of who knows how many. Rodin made molds you know, and cast and recast every image. The materials could change-- bronze, marble, plaster-- but the fingers are the same, the relaxed gesture. I've no makeup, and my fat shorts on, a faded tee from the Film Festival, but he'll use this image as a screen saver for months. Camille cast this arm again and again; her lover fused it to her body, or another woman's. I'm replaceable, you see, a human of a certain form, and another of the same mold would do as nicely. Calves and feet. A repeatable head. I'm indistinguishable from another.
when i was five years old, i had a loose tooth. i pulled it out, my fingers shaking, mouth filling up with blood. i could barely see the baby tooth peeping out of all the blood and pulp and gum. it felt right. when i was older, i went to a dentist. she pulled it out swiftly but gently, soothed it with cotton gauze. and she asked me something important— do you want to keep it? i said yes. she gave me a plastic capsule and i kept my tooth in it. tiny thing, rootless if i had a moment to myself in this fleeting world, it would be the tease of tonguing at a loose tooth. the fear of pulling it out and the relief, the gum, the baby tooth and everything everything everything i was as a young girl. if i had a moment to myself, it would be poolside, swimming under the night sky, the isolation, the stars and water flowing over my outstretched hands. if i had a moment to myself, it would be alone, my bicycle and the gentle rumble of the trains moving by. the tracks and the shake of the earth. me on my knees and the moss and feeling like i’ve been cheated out of everything. i don’t have coherency these days. i just have books i haven’t read in three years, my heart feeling like a freshly squeezed kumquat (do people even know those). strings and strings. i keep everything i ever remember backed up on this 500GB hard drive. it’s never been enough honestly. i’m raw and i say that all the time, but i always mean it. i’m raw as bitter neem twigs, as unripe mango, like pineapples. (kadva) i feel like tunnel vision. i feel like grabbing words by their shoulders and beating them into submission, so they'd say what i mean, so they'd tell other people how wrong i am, everywhere. so they promise me a backbone, promise me scaffolding, a brace, all metal and steel. even in the afternoon daze, i feel alone. blazing bright suns but nothing nothing stays. i’m grasping at straws. if i look into the mirror i don't see myself. i see red and the visible silhouette of ache and loss. what do you want? is it my black heart, shrivelled and love-guzzling. or is it my tongue, too sharp for the cold morning. you never make a sound, i can’t tell when you sink your fingernails into the rungs of my ribs. the earth is too cruel. she snaps at my ankles and i let her. maybe i shouldn't dwell on the loneliness shrouding herself around my shoulders, squeezing my eyes shut but it's hard not to when it pressed at all the gaps in me. all i taste is the rush of faint ringing in this bright room, the sun illuminating how wrong i feel all the time. razamand, i wear sanata over me like a coat. but i’m flotsam. i’m the sound of calling out into an open field and hearing back your lonely voice in return. i’m the sound of waves cresting over rock formations, of earth shifting. the sound of white noise when you switch to that one channel on cable. i’m still rootless, after all these years. i can feel my wisdom teeth right under the surface, stupid sharp, painfully sharp. mean. i can feel them cutting into gums, hard right under the thin skin. maybe i’ll have to pull them loose, torrid and sweltering, malevolent and bloody. maybe i won’t. maybe they’ll still, and i’ll be still. kadva— bitter (hindi) razamand— will, agreement, consent (urdu) sanata— calm, tranquil silence, stillness (urdu/hindi) Vaish Peddapalliis a 17 year old student and occasional poet. Vaish has been writing poetry for nearly 4 years now, and infrequently dabbles in prose. She loves analyzing poetry and appreciating others' works. Vaish usually is found taking photos of the skyline or jotting poetry down on her Notes app. Her poetry collection, Teeth and Bone, debuted this month. Our little circular enclave stood out as one of the few places left in our university town where the college students lived in the small post-World War II Sears catalog style homes alongside some elderly couples and a few families with very young kids. For in spite of our college city being relatively small, urban sprawl was in vogue. And people were eagerly moving across the river to build bigger and grander homes or indulge in the amenities featured in the newly built apartment communities. With the fashion for the local residents being to complain about the drinking parties and wild nature of these football-crazed college students. In our own enclave, the main complaint we had about these collegiate neighbors of ours, was the one guy who would practice his loud drum routine every day right during the middle of the afternoon. Sometimes he was right on the beat, yet most of the time, his rhythm was atrociously off. With him living right beside the elderly couple who rarely left their home - but were somehow always in the know when it came to the happenings in our neighborhood - one day my mother and I stopped by to ask them about their drum beating neighbor. “What drum?” they asked us with blank looks coming out of their eyes. Leaving us to wonder if they were purposely being evasive out of some kind of neighborly loyalty. After all, this college boy’s drum routine had been reluctantly memorized by the entire neighborhood. But after prodding them some more, my mother and I realized that they weren’t being polite, they were actually that hard of hearing. Resulting in them not having a clue as to what drum we were referring to. On another afternoon, my mother and I went shopping for shoes. We ended up in one of the nicer retail stores in the mall and went through the usual hassle of trying on shoes, sorting through the boxes to make sure we hadn’t misplaced one of the pairs, and then grimacing at the prices of even the less expensive footwear we were selecting. Sensing our dismay over the prices of the shoes, our tall and well dressed shoe salesman starting ringing up the items. Quickly informing us that “I can give you the good neighbor discount.” Now it was our turn to feel blank looks overtake our eyes. For while we certainly appreciated his generous offer, we couldn’t fathom why he was referring to us as neighbors. Noticing our confusion, the friendly shoe salesman looked at my mother and me and said “Y’all live in the circle, right?” To which we nodded in affirmation. And our good neighbor discounts were applied, much to our unexpected delight. We soon learned that our shoe salesman neighbor was half-Brazilian, but wholly Southern. With a penchant for hunting and other outdoorsman activities. And possessed of an uncanny ability to convince even a 15,000 pound circus elephant to forego her monthly peanut allowance. All in order to purchase a pair of high-end patent leather stiletto heels that she would never be able to wear. But could have the pleasure of gazing upon fondly from afar. He had played college level baseball before transferring to the university and was very devoted to his majorette girlfriend. However, when he learned that I spoke Spanish, the prankster in him decided to play the part of matchmaker between his buddy who was majoring in Spanish and me. The problem with his cupid-like endeavors, was that he rarely let the truth interfere with his machinations. Resulting in me talking about my favorite Irish music groups to his friend, who spent the entire time trying to ascertain if I had confused him with an unknown twin or was in dire need of some serious medical attention. For contrary to what our shoe salesman neighbor had told me, his Spanish major friend wasn’t a connoisseur of “Celtic Woman”. However, unable to remain upset at him and his pals for very long, come Christmas Time we gave them a plate full of my mother’s tasty homemade oatmeal cookies. With our house being on the end of the cul-de-sac, right alongside one of the main thoroughfares from the main boulevard to the university campus, our lawn was a conspicuous one. And, most of the time, my mother and I didn’t worry about mowing the grass. Due to our neighbor behind us kindly mowing it while riding on his lawnmower and trimming his own yard. However, once the city began placing more restrictions on dog owners, his wife decided she preferred a life out in the country where she could have her furry friends at leisure. Leaving us with plenty of grass in the yard and me being too frightened to mow the lawn for fear it would fall back on me and chop off all of my fingers. Then one day, with the sun shining on a beautiful breezy afternoon, my mother and I decided to partake of the lovely climate by taking a long stroll around the block. In one of those rare moments where for some inexplicable reason everybody instantly gets along, we met two college boys who were eager to make acquaintances among their new neighbors. One had served in the military and the other would later be one of my mother’s Spanish students. Despite their youthful age, they had some insight into international affairs, which fascinated us. And after a while, they invited us to tour their home. Since we all were getting along so well, when my mother looked at me to see what I thought about their offer, I immediately agreed that we should take a look at their new environs. Their house was impressively large and after bidding our farewells at the conclusion of our tour, my mother came home a few days later with the news that she had met their girlfriends. Being very pleased by how nice they all seemed; when Halloween rolled around we stopped by to see their costumes and show them ours. With us stopping by to say hello and discuss world affairs with them periodically after that. Then all of a sudden I came home and I blinked my eyes. Something was different about our house and I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It was looking picturesque with the flowers blooming and everything appearing so neat and tidy. Almost too neat and tidy. And after mulling over it for a while, it dawned on me . . . the lawn. It was freshly mowed and looking superb. My mother noticed it too. However, there was no clue as to who had done this unexpected kindness. We looked around for a note, a bill, or anything that would give us a hint as to the identity of the persons who had so graciously mowed our lawn. Putting our two heads together, after some time, my mother and I finally realized it was the two college boys. Feeling so happy at their unexpected generosity, we took some of our caramel popcorn and other treats over to their house. Thanking the one who was there, as profusely as we could. After a couple of years, we moved to the bigger metropolis about an hour away. Where our upstairs newlywed neighbors managed to shake the entire apartment building like a giant thunder clap while serenading us with the strains of their honeymoon. It was a far cry from our World War II era Sears catalog homes. And we had to bite our tongues a few weeks later when they announced to us that they were expecting. Perhaps, we thought to ourselves, we were overdoing it in our college town back home. And the college boys were good neighbors, after all.
 Edward Lee'spoetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: 'Lying Down With The Dead' and 'There Is A Beauty In Broken Things'. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at here. 
Cold, under falling snow, the graves are unchallenged.
If I could, I think I should like to smile To dance among Draco and Cassiopeia To feel my tears leave to become stars themselves Dotting the sky with my memories With hues of white, yellow, and blue To have happiness as my eternal companion Would be a wonder I could never ask for. And yet I keep wondering how I turned back that day And anatomized the pain How I learned not to mourn a bed of dying ashes For it was something that once lived I wonder How I found myself How I found myself in you I wonder Why the jays follow me in song Why I curtsy to the flowers and dance in the rain And why I find that pain, Pain is something I can withstand I wonder at my luck That because of you Terra no longer means just earth Ebony is no longer just a color That my words hold meaning My kindling, My reason for living Because of you Because of you Je peux
 the following is about recovering from self harm. please read in a way that will keep you safe. this is how they got to March. I’m about 6 months clean!!!!!!! It’s been tough and there have been a few almost relapses but I haven’t, I’ve stayed strong and I’m so proud of myself! I never thought I could stay strong for this long! 🌱 After a traumatic event that occurred last December, I thought that it would never get better. I just want to say that I have been having more and more good days and I am so proud of myself for getting out of the darkest time I've gone through so far. And yes there are bad days but I know that the next day will usually be better. One of the sayings that really helped is that healing is not linear. You will have both good days and bad days. It will get better. It might not seem like it but it will 🌱 Going through a bit of a relapse but it’s ok because now I know that I am strong enough to get through it like I did last time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from struggling so much is that I am so strong and can absolutely beat this and recover. PSA to anyone else struggling: you are strong enough too! I believe in you and I know that you are strong enough to beat whatever you’re struggling with! 🌱 The past few years (last year especially) have been incredibly tough for me but the past few months have been such an incredible period of growth and recovery and I’m really proud of myself and how far I’ve come. I got away from all the toxic “friends” I was hanging around with and while that was incredibly hard, I’m doing so much better now. I have a job I love at a doggy day care and I’m even 8 months clean. For the first time in a very long time I can honestly say I’m happy. 🌱 At the end of this month (March) I will be one year clean. I do not know the exact date, because I thought knowing the exact date would just make it so much harder when I inevitably relapsed. But I didn’t. Out of the nearly 365 days, not once did I self harm. I had some real close calls sure but over time I realized that hurting myself wasn’t what I actually wanted to do. Most of the time I just needed to take a step back and be gentle with myself, practice a little self care. I no longer needed to hurt myself in order to find a release of express my emotions. I have learned so much about myself, especially about how strong I am. I have come such a long way on a very long bumpy road but I am so glad I did and I am so unbelievably proud of myself. I also just want to thank you for creating this safe space for me to share my struggles and thank you for always giving encouragement. I am forever grateful. Thank you. 🌱
 beautiful things can bloom in any season. Delaney D.is a hobbyist photographer from southern Alabama. She remains inspired by the Gulf Coast’s rich flora, unpredictable weather, and diverse culture. |
