Artist: Ellierex by Kathleen O’Neil That strip of cloth is mordant red. I’d wrestle it, but who wants to be alone? Such a deceptive slip of cloth laid out over velvet cream skin. My little amoret. Touches you lay over yourself say it all. It’s autonomous, a cryptex of brocade and cambric and tells me…Read More
Memories by Kathleen O’Neil
This translucent organza covers my skin like snow;
the innermost part of me is burning away. It just smolders. Oxygen, the air, it’s everywhere. The cold poison will seep down through soft delicate shoulder, under the left collarbone edge through bone and the shield of muscle.
Objects in the Overhead Bin May Shift During Travel by Alexandra Morean
Alexandra Morean is currently getting her BA in writing, editing, and publishing as well as music production. She was born in Venezuela and grew up in Miami, Florida, soaking in all kinds of culture and inspiration. Alexandra hopes to connect with her readers on a spiritual level and provide comfort and aid to those who relate with her work.Read More
The Burial by Ally Schwam
While I eat breakfast, a mourning dove
slams into my window,
trades her life for a crack in the glass.
Mourning by Stacey Z Lawrence
Yet deep within this dire stirring,
I still curl near you,
atop worn velvet couch, pull
piles of pillows below our feet
by Stacey Z Lawrence He is eleven, almost a man when the belt’s buckle catches under his skin. As usual he grips the kitchen sink stares at the faucet drip as she whips. He never cries, but this time bloody puddles stain his white socks, the canvas of his Converse, gore trickles down his leg.…Read More
Artist: Nicola Esposito by Ally Schwam I created the rain. It’s one of the first things I created. Two years ago I started as an assistant at the Creation Center and then a year later got promoted to junior programmer. The first task I got was to program what a higher-up called “rain.” Rain was…Read More
5 Ways to Support Women Facing Extreme Abortion Bans by Marina FloresRead More
source: canva by Fabrice B. Poussin Counting the drops, it is not always clear that a flood may be coming by way of the river. Walking on the tow path, mooing at the bovines, singing the melody familiar to the wild coyotes; no light seems to hold power over the new darkness; clouds thick as…Read More
The Dead by Maura O’Connor
I fled your deaths.
They happened anyway.
the missing witness.
I will miss you most.
The roses you gave me
the night you told me
you hated me.
The song you wrote
comparing my eyes