art by Helen Hofling

by Becca Klaver

never
in my lucky
& luxurious
erased &
belittled
american life
have I ever
been so relieved
to be uterus-
less

though
who’s to say
it wasn’t
america
her waters
flush with
estrogen
& fertilizer
that fed the
fibroids
that made
the pain
that etherized me
upon the table

who’s to say
the house
america built
didn’t cast
my tissue
a-wandering
in the classic
pioneering
hysterical style

little slivers
of womb
pricking &

art by JJ Cromer

by AJ Bermudez

But of course I want your teeth in my pussy,
who wouldn’t?what idiot would not want
your papillae / nail beds / germ-junked saliva all over their holey-of-holies?
If an altar falls in the woods
and no one hears it,
[you know the rest].
But, Philosapphy 101:
Can’t a thing be ugly and splendid at once?
a riled-up mess of sex / longing / medicine
the way a brain looks on the ground
If not,

image curtesy of the MET Museum Archive

by Sophie Jefferies

I am a selfish girl to tell you the truth.
My blood flows inside my own body and nowhere else.
I am an indulgent gash on my left finger.
I am a Victorian maiden, seeping into the walls.

My blood flows inside my own body and nowhere else.
I am a chess pawn covered in lily pollen.
I am a Victorian maiden, seeping into the walls.
My white nightgown slips sexily off my shoulder.

image curtesy of The MET Museum Archives

by Lydia Downey

There was a perpetual
            residue on our hands.
                        Steamed milk stuck like tar

as my friend and I scrubbed
            down each closing shift
                        and stole our dinners

of half-stale, chipped pastries.
            We gave up trying
                        to leave early

and walked the long path
            to our apartment
                        somewhere

after ten, when only pheasants
           

image curtesy of The MET Museum Archives

by Linette Marie Allen

The snow, a canvas for branch-sprawl, brittle lines—

a quaking aria breaks them, shivering their bridal lines.

The year grows its teeth, gnashing at our stooped gardens,

gesturing the leaves we swore could defy bridal lines.

Newsprint burns in the hearth, its stories curling to ash,

photo by Alex Farber

by Luis Lopez-Maldonado

On a chilly spring morning,
chile still clinging to my lips,
I bit into you—warm, heavy, half-hearted—
a freckled tortilla wrapped in betrayal
and $8.79 worth of disappointment.
Where is your abuela, your sazón,
your carne that falls apart like old love letters?
Even your papas taste tired today,
like they miss the days when gas
was under three dollars
and classrooms were still full:
Another Friday… Another row of empty desks.