Autumn buzzes around us, like the killing of bees.our youthful legs still adoring crop stains,stampeding the dense thickets, honey-sweet with cicada & fallen grapes. our ripest inheritance— the luscious sting of maple leaves.osmanthus, carpeting the undergrowth ofteff grain only our bare feet stomp. we braid a garland round our necks,having wishful thoughts of asphyxiation. the […]
Still-life with Shrubs, by Nnadi Samuel Keep Reading »
Fever Season In my life, I have rarely been on the cutting edge. Be it fashion, literary trends, or cell phones, I tend to run a bit behind the times. Little did I realize, when I began my first mortuary job in January of 2020, what a fascinating opportunity I was about to have. When
Ask a Necromancer, by Amanda Downum Keep Reading »
In the very back of Landsdelle Cemetery, beneath a windfall of vine maples, Adaranth White took respite between two sheltered rows of graves, overgrown with blackberry brambles and tufted with moss. He’d chosen this particular spot because of the gravestone he was leaning on, that of one Jonathan Pease. He didn’t believe he’d known Mr.
Beautiful Oaths, by Shanna Germain Keep Reading »
I’m handpicked by a misphrase to where my person lies:gash in a word pool of listlessness where grief & suture hold hands. I— bandage held towards gloom in the night of my waking.the blank page below, puddled with darkness.each margin, rarified into dusk. thumb, fondling a dead braille.ghosts tiptoeing my palm in worship,in actual hand
Deranged Sestina//or To outdress a Coffin & name it Self-harm, by Nnadi Samuel Keep Reading »
Light and life and rain and white noise and we are thrumming with the city’s breath and soaring through its veins, its streets, alive, so alive with the intoxicating knowledge that we are this savage city and the city is us and we are on the hunt, raw and starved, watching, watching watching watching— There.
This Residue Light, by Ewen Ma Keep Reading »
for Japheth Our deads cost a language to bring back.& in Taiwan, mother lavish her speaking-in-tongues on empty sky. not one deity movedto translate our grief into oblivion. a woman lifts a child,and the price becomes too much to bear.she empties her rib like a blank check.says: to sex is human, the gendering is
The Economics of Death, by Nnadi Samuel Keep Reading »
“Listen,” she says, and takes Hank’s hand—takes it because intimacy might soften the blow. “What do you think about meeting just the two of us next time?” On the end of his tether, Horatio stirs. She had thought to catch him sleeping. It is four in the afternoon, the perilous periphery of Sunday roast and
Sunday in the Park With Hank, by Leah Bobet Keep Reading »