Nat Marshik 1. I took an heirloom sip in thick pine needles, feet sunk in forest hands cool around the blue bottle with its flip top and old timey label and tasted with my twelve years the sweetsap pioneer story—fascinated by that emaciated winter, death in the high snows the icy unsympathy...
Andrew Sarewitz Friendship comes easy for me. It always has. Love is a wholly different card game. When I finally met the man I felt was my life-long love in Stephen, I was sure and contented. At twenty-seven, it seemed like I’d searched an eternity to find the real thing. I had known who...
This article is part of the Queer Press Profiles series by DJ Fraser Arsenal Pulp Press—one of the most recognizable names in queer publishing today—emerged from a palpable surge of artistic activity in Vancouver at the debut of the seventies. At the time, the city was passing from rural Canadian...
Reviewed by Casey Plett “I never thought love was real. I didn’t. And now I think life isn’t real without it———that sounds like a really bad greeting card—” “—Don’t. Don’t make it a joke.” —Comet If I Was Your Girl by Meredith Russo is a great book, which is nice...
Shelley Marie Motz I have been dreaming of bread. Warm and round. Buttered. Dripping. Dreaming of braided bread Sweetened with honey. My Greek neighbour Maria’s kitchen Steaming with daughters and laughter. I prepare the dough: Water. Salt. Yeast. One bowl. Two hands. Desire. I pour and...
Reviewed by Malaika Alex Leslie’s The Things I Heard about You is an experiment in language, editing, and meaning. The book of poems is divided into thirteen sections. Each section begins with a prose piece that Leslie edits down into a single phrase and in one case, just one word: “Thumbprint.”...
Ambika Thompson [mks_dropcap style=”letter” size=”52″ bg_color=”#ffffff” txt_color=”#000000″]I[/mks_dropcap] was making an egg salad sandwich when Charlie called over. I told him, before he could get a word in edgewise, that I had lost a tooth...
Kayla Czaga Do you remember the baseball diamond beside which we ate naanwich, Liz? It tasted nothing like butter chicken. We’d wandered all morning without eating and hunger revealed to us the aggression in nearby seagulls. I loved your light lisp, how softly you smelled of vegetable broth. I...
by Kathleen Fraser Jia Qing Wilson-Yang is an author and musician whose writing has appeared in Bound to Struggle: Where Kink and Radical Politics Meet (ed. Simon Strikeback), Letters Lived: Radical Reflections, Revolutionary Paths (ed. Sheila Sampath), and Room magazine, and Metonymy Press...
