• Two Poems

    Two Poems

    by Alan Parry Pallbeareri’ll always be grateful todad for allowing me the freedomto say no, i’m not comfortable with that Last Wishi yearn to die in the dark unseen until mornin’. Alan Parry Alan Parry is a poet and playwright from Merseyside, England. He is an English Literature graduate and will train to teach high…

  • I Write To Tell You

    I Write To Tell You

    by Salam Wosu I write to tell you that my bones are made of contention And my skin black with discord I write to tell you that I come from the dust And I am situated between desires that threaten to break or mould me I write to tell you how I yearn to learn…

  • Pop Rocks Like Delicate Stars

    Pop Rocks Like Delicate Stars

    by Mateo Lara Splintering from under the hot water worry sizzling off the tongue Pulsed and popped vessel of iron, swelling crimson Packet of rawness, light burst A sinew of purified perfection Imperfection of the body Holy Spirit vomited up, after-birth A womb cut open for a queer boy Unhappy mother Unpraised sun Ungodly mouth…

  • The Church Bells

    The Church Bells

    by Chris Graves the church bells, temple bells, dinner bells, and funeral bells all sermon the wind, river psalm the cracked clavicle and clarinet of voice never networking. the world follows the drip drip drip of stars, dreams into porous pull, and iconic phases of the clanging moon. the moon dangles its light into the…

  • Possessive


    by Kathleen O’Neil That strip of cloth is mordant red. I’d wrestle it, but who wants to be alone? Such a deceptive slip of cloth laid out over velvet cream skin. My little amoret. Touches you lay over yourself say it all. It’s autonomous, a cryptex of brocade and cambric and tells me your fears.…

  • The Burial

    The Burial

    Ally Schwam is a poet, artist, and professional UX/UI Designer. Her poetry has previously appeared in Tupelo Press’ 30/30 Project, UMD’s Literary Magazine Stylus, and Poetry WTF?! She lives in Bethesda, MD.

  • Belt


    by Stacey Z. Lawrence  He is eleven, almost a manwhen the belt’s buckle catchesunder his skin.As usual hegrips the kitchen sinkstares at the faucet dripas she whips.He never cries, but this timebloody puddles stainhis white socks, the canvasof his Converse,gore trickles down his leg.She places it on the counter,bits of his ass impaledupon sharp metal…