ISSUE FOUR
Jenna says that he typically goes for redheads, so I run to Target and buy a box of hair dye.
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
I run with a pack of older boys from our neighborhood, the only girl.
I know you shouldn’t keep wild animals as pets, but I’ve had the same spider in my bathroom sink for over two weeks.
I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.
I point my camera towards B. Lovely and she is sitting on the curb.
the search for a wayward self
The sin is existing.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
“The woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
I have an axe
with hearts gashed
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors
we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
Live the rest of your life
from one worst case to another.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…
The hamantaschen have followed us from apartment to apartment, all of the kitchens dark, cramped, cluttered.
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house
Through the dusty window in my parent’s bedroom, I watched the neighbor’s cattle graze.
ONLY THROUGH PAIN,
CAN WE TRULY FEEL ALIVE
I myself should never have been born
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
It was an engagement of secrets in sunlit spaces.
How do you even know when you’re there—at the epicenter?
Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”
Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.
She said I would find my perfect love when on the brink of death.
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
I have observed, the theorist
I am
I create images that are narrative, featuring visual schematics, relying on juxtaposition for contrast or disjuncture.
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
my father holds
his favorite drink
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.
To be encased, Clint had always thought, was foolishness. Why allow yourself to be open to such sorrow?
Taking photographs of my hometown has given me a chance to reflect on people whom I have not valued.
Shadows and psychological metaphors are favored photographic subjects for me.
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
The new octopus at the children’s aquarium was named Athena, and as we waited for her to emerge, I thought of the almost-too-faint second line on the pregnancy test three days before.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt