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By Jasmine Reid
i spread at my touch & clit
contemplating my beauty this Monday i live
the pleasure of my fingers
how i am in-the-making by hand
by pill by needle i am the perfect girl
professor, in fact, Chemical X is my love
in gradients of acidity i am
milkless except by oats, by meal made of itself
By Gauri Awasthi
my friend is dying of an invisible darkness
it’s either depression or loneliness or plain facts:
a) Her cancer-smitten grandpa wants her to marry
b) We think she’s queer, but she can’t be sure
c) She has only two reasons to live and one of them
happens to be me.
By Simon Shieh
Speaking of History
I don’t want to say too much
[ ]
Your absence made the train car redolent of history
By Farrah Fang
In Houston they don’t really call it a laundromat
It’s a washateria or la lavandería
Today you go to the one on Airline and Tidwell
The chronic pain and weakness in your body
Makes it difficult to relocate canastos of clothes
From home to your car, to the washateria, to inside the machine
By Noʻu Revilla
We drink this and share the same taste with you.
We mixed the kava in the parking lot, face-to-face with you.
What becomes of children who drink war instead of water?
The rubble, a chronic obituary. I will never waste a name with you.
By Miller Oberman
Preposition, before location. An indeclinable
word or particle. Indeclinable. That which
cannot be turned aside or shunned. Inevitable,
un-deviating. I practice a kind
of time travel. Bringing beside me
ancestors I never knew existed before,
beneath, under, towards. This travel
unimpacted by time, space or death.
By S. J. Ghaus
Nearby a spring lamb wobbles
like a song on its first feet, while
somewhere in the same field a lamb dies
in its mother’s womb. This season is all
one choir, the geese on the roof, the ticks
in the grass, the shadowy black
of sunflower seeds oversleeping
in my pocket.
By Jaden Fields
It is the steadiest “I love you”
Until the moon loses their footing in the sky
Which is to say - never
Or
I love you beyond time
Or
I love me beyond time
By Subhaga Crystal Bacon
This is the anti-garden. It tends itself.
Its shine of blooms a blanket of sun.
It has its own water in hidden springs
bathing aspen, burdock and sage.
By féi hernandez
Simultaneously I am
alone and crowded, this…
the pulsing wound of being extinct,
whole
enough for a morning forage,
yet scant for the onlookers
of lineage,
of nation,
myths in the mulberry tree.