April 4, 1969

By Paige Wyatt My mother leans into my shoulderA towering force shielding me From the way the world has treated herHolding the sky up with her shouldersForced to kneel when she was queen to lesser men She is not diminished now Her strength has bled into meHer hands have worked me and shaped meShe has passed her

poetry

By Tiffany Shull Peterson described academically rhythmic, metaphoric, lyrical described artisticallya sunset, birth, justice formed organicallyfree verse, intuition framed intentionallysonnet, haiku, an ode academically, artisticallyorganically, intentionally the poet begets the poembut life begets poetry

Don’t Look

By Kaitlynn McShea Don’t lookat the dead animals on the crumbling concrete. They rest in between the blackened road and the untamed grass.  We’re not meant to witness this.  You will turn up the radio and stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel. And you will see a gaping maw out of the corners of your eyes, Reminding you of

a feast of women

CW: death By C. Cimmone Learn more about C. in her bio on the Featured Author page.

12/24

By Raegen Pietrucha My favorite ornaments distort me to an impossible glitter, frosted silver slivers. I still remember winter trees,how their snowmelt crackledas if somewhere, a fire already called. It hasn’t yet been a year. I don’t missMidwestern cold. But there was a boy in the place I left behind – he had always seemed imperviousin his thin

Three Lucky Limericks

CW: language By Tiffany Shull Peterson I once wrote a poem about luckBut I found myself feeling stuckThe words they would not flowThe deadline did loom thoughAnd that is why this poem will suck There once was a doggo named LuckWhose owner did not give a fuckIf he ran ‘round the townLifting his leg like

I Used To Be One Of Them and Look Where I Am Now

By Lynne Schmidt CW: Abortion They arrive before I do,signs plastered on the lawn,dressed for Sunday church and force fed sacrament. They tell each other their handsare cleaner than mine,but I used to drink that wine, too. We park our carand I forget how the handle works.My friend puts her arms around meas they scream at

Red

By Shiksha Dheda *Content Warning: This piece discusses menstruation, body image, mental illness, OCD, and blood. I hate the colour red. Loud, lively– promiscuous. The stains I tried to hide-warmth trickling down mythick trembling thighs- my body literallychewing itself-spitting itself out of my vagina. Like a thick phlegm ballwhen you have a nasty cold. The

From Root to Rhizome

By Angela Acosta Like a plant, I seek to be rooted,watered and nurtured in optimal soil,looking skyward in comfortable seventy-degree weather,I imagine a tulip bulb burrowing into its own possibility. Finding a place for all of me is a tough task,so I settle for parts, points of connections,looking for other Latinas, other multiethnic poets,the ones

Awakening, Again

By Becca Downs This is the room where I sleep,where I eat bread and butter,where I cry to God and myself. This is where I stare at the ceiling and direct films to replace horrorwith romance, comedy with comedy. This is the window where I watchsquirrels chase other squirrels.It’s new. Before there were no windows. This