The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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Rose teaches us how to stomp!
Winner 2024 EROTIC Contest: Poetry On Miranda’s poem, judge Stephanie Cawley writes: “In the middle of ‘The Monster is God,’ the poet writes, ‘yes — no,’ the dash a stark bridge where
In 6th grade, a small group of boys started carrying around little, red laser beams on keyless keyrings. They were small enough to fit in the palm of the boys’ hands.
On the day I get junk mail addressed to youfor the first time since you moved out, I also find a clump of your hairin one of the cabinets, under the pots
I can’t understand why I persist to wander around / the tragic nature of my conception / why I can’t walk away / like one who boxes up the past / turns
After Arthur Sze Here, the first Ralph leaves his skin clinging to the cinder block wall. Here, Ralph hangs his ghost by the mouth from between the
after “In Which I am Already the Queer Igbo Elder I Needed” by Nnenna Loveth Nwafor I can tell you stories just like anybody else about this place. I ate the soft
Medellín There is no metaphor for the remainsof a bombed car in a basketnor for the Shepard lying beside thema roach writhing between his pawsnor for Rocío kicking hima cigarette between her
my dad and i spit the same blood. thunderstorms roll to the sound of our bodiescontracting television fevers. my family goes to church the same way, hair greasy, spines stooped, iphones frying
with lines from Sappho, Bishop, and Oliver Sometimes I forget my non-man hands—like can openers—cut circles in the air. If the silence in each fingertip is hereditary. If submersible. If for once /