by Shanel Edwards Every femme i’ve ever danced with laces in between the gaps of my teeth. glazing hands with nervous loving down my sculpted back. pressing a memory stain into itlavender and full, moving together while Etta sings At Last each note, the breaths we take between our pelvis. This is a heaven without cis men. Femme sternum a stone house drowning outContinue reading “Slowdance”

My Mother Is a Metaphor for Leaving

by Trust Tonji a boy is playing his guitarhis mum is singing to its rhythmspretending she isn’t dying soon the cloud is eating up the sunswallowing the day off our lives& we call it sunset believe me love is perishableI know this because my motheris dead so here is a body with no flesha mouth withContinue reading “My Mother Is a Metaphor for Leaving”


by Gavin Yuan Gao All day, I’ve been trying to discern the nature of my relationship with silence Whether it’s romance, rescue or abduction Lovers, a plausible plot Savior & saved, sure But who’d want me as their hostage? Certainly not death, who appeared before me years ago that nightas the bouncer at Gigi’s: cross-armed, big & glossy withContinue reading “Convalescence”

The 80s Were the 50s

by Sean Hanrahan They wanted you to believe it was the ‘50sthose ‘80s purveyors of Teen Beat, Tiger Beat, Bop, and other idol mags replete with pinups of cherubic porn stars in popped up collars posed against the ubiquitous woodsy backdrop every mustachioed photographer knew and loved, or in front of perfectly manicured lawns with the perquisite white picket fences and blurryContinue reading “The 80s Were the 50s”


by Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick First thing’s first. I want your body. I imagine a door. You are in the room making jokes about how absurd you look in a plain t-shirt. We haven’t seen each other in over a decade. I want the Danube to part and reveal our bones, delicate curves of mollusks. I want the BlackContinue reading “IF I WROTE THIS IN THE BLACK FOREST, WOULD YOU READ IT?”

Daedalus’ Second Son

by Sarah ChristianScher I built your brother wings:wax and feather they were,white as cloud they were,and he flew away from me.Until, sun-scorched, he felltaken by the sea. For you, my son, I built a cage:wire and driftwood it is,white as bone it is,and you will remain with me.Until, time-withered, you falltaken by an endless sleep.Continue reading “Daedalus’ Second Son”