by Erika Mailman

photo by Adrian Bancu on Pexels

It was from another century
It made her feel broken
it hissed of cows and ploughshares

Men who didn’t have time
to talk to their womenfolk
who were sick with shame

if they burned dinner for
no one ate and the cow
was dishonored.

The straw spoke
of how night would claim
them all if the woman

told her desire to make art,
of her dispute with the cast
iron stove,

by Michelle Hulan

photo by Tala Dursun Marko on Unsplash

When I was young, my future
was as sure as static on the screen.

There were backs arching. A woman’s hand
reaching past shadows. Torsos

tethered to no discernable plot. I felt my way
toward desire blindfolded in a hum

of bees. Sometimes I bang my fists against sheet metal
just to hear its sound hit walls and return as echo—

My past always has the last word,
but I never met a future I didn’t like.

By Philip Jason

photo by Adam Gonzales

Schrodinger said the cat exists in the space
between two states, but there is a third state
where you open the box and find only yourself
-Plato

The butterfly in October was not supposed to be there.
In October, the butterflies
live in our dreams. Nonetheless, I saw it
where it was, and decided I’d lost the taste
for whining about the human condition.