Roxanna Bennett My father sticks in my throat a black clot I won’t swallow a stone swan sycamore My father is a story I am stuck in to rot a weather worn red boat on a rough river My father stones the moat w lapis lazuli drowns my medicine Buddha in red river My father is a...
Rachael Jordan 1. She bleeds scents and shows me with a knife. She scrapes the blade down the inside of her arm, a single red line sprouting from the touch. After a moment, burnt orange surrounds, creeps into the pores of my body. Lifting her shirt, she takes the knife and draws a triangle...
Tiana Lavrova Intracortical robed gymnosperm’s with the pH balanced mereology of a lobular, meta-magical gardener snake flaring like a brazen-bull in a bleached, patternless (no arithmetic progression), Starry Night tuxedo with the fabric of a Granny Smith fruit pouring its xylem in...
C. E. Gatchalian In short, I woke up and began feeling, if not yet living, outside my head. That’s what happened when I first encountered A Streetcar Named Desire. May 5, 1987 Spent seven hours again today practising. After not a single first-place finish at the festival I must do everything to...
INTERVIEW BY BRETT JOSEF GRUBISIC When her wife encouraged her to take on a brand new kind of writing project, Rachel Rose felt real trepidation while sensing glimmers of possibility too. Five years (and countless hours of research, high speed chases, and nursing sore body parts) later, The...
Lindsay Miles One hundred percent recycled material. Conversations about purity. My god you are beautiful. A copy of a copy of a copy of a. Family receives a shipment of fruit and other things that have to happen now. Today is suitably warm. In the beginning there were multiple trees. It’s...
