The voice to which I’m only half-listening sounds familiar, but something’s off, also. I look up blankly from the records I’m riffling through and realize that I’m hearing Elton John, one of his well-known hits from the early seventies, but I haven’t heard this version before.
Read More
Take a Ride in My Jag by Catherine Cort
Jags can be time-consuming. And then there is the problem of satisfying its animalistic nature. Especially since tonight is Friday night, and you are going out.
Read More
And Now That I Am 51 by Lisa Allen
The women who raised me were plain./ Devout./ Called whores if they rouged their cheeks/
Read More
A Come to Jesus Moment in the Gynecologist’s Office by Frederica Morgan Davis
Did so many women come in with babies growing inside them that Jesus acknowledged that plural? Or was it just a nice Southern thing? Like the French “vous,” used in singular formal to show respect to elders?
Read More
Two Poems by Sarah Hansen
my spine curved/ into a question mark, my pen sketching symptoms/ on an empty man's silhouette.
Read More
Diana's Chin by Taylor Arnette
You’d paid the fourteen dollars (plus tax and service fees), sure that it was going to be in the main theater with the red fabric seats and gold façades on the ceiling. It made you feel classic. Instead, you sat in what could have been someone’s at-home projector room with ten other people, all waiting to watch a biopic about Princess Diana.
Read More
Scrolls by Miles Liss
Our Breath./ They took what was theirs.
Read More
When I Couldn’t Look at Myself in the Mirror, My Friend Looked for Me by Shifra Sharlin and Carol Troen
On the other hand, I hated the port. It turned me into a cancer machine. It frightened me, too. I couldn’t look at it. So I asked Carol to make a portrait.
Read More
A Review of My Birth Control Methods by Victoria Buitron
I didn’t know there would be anesthesia. I didn’t know there would be blood. I didn’t know my arm would bruise Rorschach. I didn’t know the army greens and deep blues would last so long.
Read More
Friends Forever by Mairéad Kiernan
The point is, I could die at any moment with two living parents who would choose some tacky, pink, heart-shaped granite headstone for my grave and write Beloved Daughter on it with the emblem of a cross or some other religious symbol above my name, and that is not happening.
Read More
A Normal Interview with SJ Sindu by Nicholas Howard
I think it’s important for writers to rediscover wonder. Without wonder, writing becomes stagnant and preachy. If you haven’t found your place of wonder yet, think about the kinds of spaces that make you ask questions, that make you see in a new way.
Read More