Smart blonde in Bebe Rexha style texts her Albanian-Serbian boyfriend and promises the holy land to their overrated love. I have never been to Albania before. All Tirana witches will make me so hilarious just smiling while all chains are breaking.
Klaudia Rogowicz. Born in 1987 in Zabrze, Poland. Polish poet, drama, screen and playwriter, novelist. She had published many e-books and paperback books. She writes her poems both in English and Polish.
the women in my family have never been regular. blood comes out in heavy blankets or not at all. whenever i sleep with men, whenever i am fucked, my blood comes seeping through the blankets as if my femininity has been cracked open and it’s begging to nurture someone.
the women in my family have a habit of disappearing when they take names that don’t belong to them, they become wives.
i close my eyes and imagine a future in which i am alone in the woods, on my knees praying. i have eaten dirt for men. i have become like the women in my family, almost disappearing through a hole in the system.
the blood comes gushing out of me, heavy and it smells like death. down my thighs it slides, landing in the grass, i will leave this world as i came into it—silent.
Rumors Hint at Winter
Your spine curved inward like wind howling through the house. Watch how his limbs move, how my lips never quite say the words I want to scream. Doors I never want to shut will slam against me causing me to spiral. I eat your words like gold confetti falling from a ceiling. I crave a light that can be eaten and that weighs down the stomach like stones in the pocket of a river. I brand myself with fingers that open up my mouth and reach in to catch my tongue. I’m so silent I scare people. I scare lovers with my silence. I scared my mother when I was born with my silence. Nurses reassuring her that I was just looking around. Decay is the moth I watch fly closer to the light because I want to see it die. I read an article about women who date emotionally unavailable men. You subconsciously don’t want to be involved with anyone. I diagnosed myself this morning. I can remember how you pulled me up from the couch, gentle as the spider web wraps around me, sheets of white casting you as the savior. I remember that I am never the savior.
Stevie Lynn has previously been published on the Feminist Wire, “When you Renounced the Catholic Church (or sex with you)” and on the Fem Lit Mag, “Devil’s Tower.” She has also published poetry in the University of Vermont’s literary journal: Vantage Point. She is currently working at Tennessee State University.
My grandmother resurrects in flapping laundry, sheets
snapped to rectangles, then precisely folded. Her whites
a science of starch and bleach, she believed
in the household arts as daily practice, her love,
the perfect meeting of corners. Wherever she is now,
she knows I am apostate, all loads grey and hung
or shelved, once dry, still wrinkled. Bad as I am
at the task, I’m the best of my house.
At least for me, winter shirts open into caesura.
(after Laura Page “Winter Shirt”)
Devon Balwit teaches in Portland, OR. She has six chapbooks and two collections out or forthcoming. Her individual poems can be found here as well as in Cordite, The Ekphrastic Review, Poets Reading the News, Posit, and more.
Laura Page is a poet and artist from the Pacific Northwest. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust + Moth, Crab Creek Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal. The Rumpus, TINGE, and others. Her chapbook, epithalamium, was named the winner of Sundress Publications’ 2017 chapbook contest and is now available as an ebook. Her paintings have been featured recently in A-Minor Magazine, Long Exposure, and TheIndianapolis Review.
When you died, mom insisted we remove every photo from the walls. Not just the ones with you in them, but also of me and my children. And your children.
Next, she invited friends to take your belongings: a new set of dishes, your perfume, a book you inscribed with your name in high school, the little “a” at the end of “Julia,” still tender and intact.
Ancient Egyptians believed that to cross over into the Land of Two Fields, your heart must be light as a feather, and your name cast onto stone, for this means you were loved. I practice inscribing your name, leaving it anywhere that feels permanent. I press your handwriting into papyrus wings.
Mom motions toward me with outstretched hands, offering up a handful of your jewelry, as if to say, here take these before they break or are stolen from us. Hold them in your hands. Pretend that something, anything, other than her absence, can endure.
Joan Glass‘s poems have appeared in The Missing Slate, Rise Up Review, Vagabond City Lit, TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism, Literary Mama, Bone Parade, Easy Street, and Right Hand Pointing, among others. Her poem “Bathing Scene” was featured on the Saturday Poetry Series: Poetry as it Ought to Be. She lives in Milford, Connecticut.
In the cul-de-sac culture
snippets of vulnerability
mar the illusion of harmony
I’ve always preferred to leave
the snags in my sweaters
I’m not letting invisibility
lock me into listlessness
Someone has to tell the stories
Kathryn Knudson’s short fiction was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and featured in a 2017 podcast of Pushcart nominations. She works at a utility, writing poetry and fiction on her lunch hour, and lives in Minneapolis with her husband and their sheep dog.