Andrew Binks Mom always said I was a trophy hunter, “like your Aunt Evelyn,” she’d add, under her breath. I’d bring home an abandoned wren’s nest, an antler or some old chipped piece of stone off the prairie, and she’d swivel away from The Price is Right, lean forward in her Lazy-Boy, raise her...
Matthew Walsh’s debut collection of These are not the potatoes of my youth takes a long, hard look at what queer means to them and how the world has shaped them, set against the backdrop of their grandfather’s potato garden. Walsh’s poems talk one moment of coming out to their mother in a...
Daniel Karasik I think a lot of straight people don’t realize how closets work. They picture you malingering in a darkened chamber, clarities about yourself wrapped round your skin like leopard print, self-knowledge self-available, your only real deficiency the courage to— deep breath...
Congratulations to all finalists announced by the Lambda Literary Foundation this past Thursday, and especially to all the authors who are past contributors to Plenitude. Emilia Nielsen’s work was published in our very first issue and her current poetry collection, Body Work, is nominated in...
Nisa Malli Everyone tells me it’s not hard. The processes are material sciences done in the correct order of operations. Cooking is just heat, water, salt, sugar and the naming of things. Still there are days when I forget anything but the most shorthand of meals. Daunted by the impossible magic of...
Brett Josef Grubisic Using a plastic tool, Mother had demonstrated the art of peeling a navel orange four breakfasts in a row. I’d understood in about a second. Slice, slice, slice, slice. “There’s a technique to it too,” she told me. “From north pole to south in one precision movement. Then...
