Lysz Flo is an Afrolatinx, trilingual word artist, and poet, The Estuary Collective member, and a podcast host of Creatively Exposed, Grubstreet educator, and Voodoonauts Summer 2020 Fellow. She released her poetry novel Soliloquy of an Ice Queen, March 2020. Her work can be found in FIYAH & Hooligan Mag. Online Crystal and Spiritual wellness shop owner at Astrolyszics.com.
after Sarah Kay
the reward for living through every failed attempt
is stuttered breath, a stuttering chest, body growing
in the absence of death. i hate to lie, but i lie all the time.
my tongue is thick and useless but i use it so well.
i hardly know anything but i’m learning every day. i dig
myself into holes i can’t get out of; end up digging deeper.
at the center i’m sure there’s a prize waiting,
even if it’s just a tootsie pop. the real prize
would be you, reaching down to pull me out
but the end of that story is never told, have you
noticed? i asked for a promise and you gave it.
only somewhat unwillingly.
four years in and i’ve only just realized
you like me best when i’m least like me.
that’s fine. i don’t like me much either.
better when i’m anyone else.
i can make myself so big you have to look up
even as you’re looking down.
or did you forget? one of two people
who can really hurt;
you didn’t have to say who the other was.
maybe i knew or maybe
it’s my self-absorption, self-obsession, selfish brain
claiming everything for me. don’t worry. everything for me is really
for you, we know how this works by now. i’m dying
to hold your tongue between my fingers,
see how well you can talk
with your spit pooling in the palm of my hand.
something about shame excites me—
yours more than mine, but mine all the same.
that pool of guilt sloshing in my belly. that desperate drive
to be anyone better. if it’s all the same to you, i’ll go now.
hide between the blinds where even the sun can’t find me.
shine a light on my excitement,
trace the roots down to their core.
everything comes from somewhere.
i came from home. that little lie slipping through so early on,
a desperate attempt to keep me safe from the only one
who’d never hurt me. how was i supposed to know?
and now here we are, balanced on the head of a spinning top
round and round, we all fall down. we pop back up, good as new.
i was never good at dominoes, but i sure love chickenfoot.
less balance, more sense. i was better at hiding my tiles than lining.
knock one down, only one more falls.
all that effort wasted
the trail remaining upright and spent.
let’s switch to a new game,
i’m tired of failing.
if you can’t pull my truth from its place in my throat
maybe i can hook a lure, see what i catch in you.
your truth is better than mine anyway.
you’ve said it yourself, you would choose to live
exactly the life you were given at the start.
would you make all the same moves?
place all the safe bets?
maybe you’d be like me, fuck around
and find out. bet against the house, risk
comfort for the sake of happiness. lose it all
and wake up standing. just kidding, you
wouldn’t. get off the mat, the bell isn’t ringing.
you’d choose your little paper house strung up with string,
white picket fence and that same silver ring.
oh, i know. i know, i know, i know, you tried.
we’ll soothe all those wounds, wet with salve.
we’ll miss the mark and make a new one.
stick the dart in the wall and try again.
broken home begets broken home begets.
we’re all growing sick of this cyclical nonsense.
magnetic pull at the base of the track.
what if we flipped it so all we are
is repelled? backwards circle still a circle.
centering my universe around anyone
but me. keep finding my way back
to the center of gravity. the whole world
rushing around my ears.
the weight of it all dragging me down
falling down to the bottom of the hole
dirt under my nails as i climb back up.
BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a writer creating delicate connections. they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they have been published in FOLIO, Roanoke Review, Figure 1, and The Offing, among others. they are a poetry reader for Capsule Stories. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co and their workshops can be found at poetryasplay.carrd.co.
The day is space junk
Forgotten fragments floating
Drifting
Like gnats across my eye line
Swatting
Small welts
Washers and bolts
Trying to fill the space in you
Sensing the need for filler
Waiting for the screw
Flying
Relentless knocks
Indentations cigarette wide
Burning cold
Reminders to look
At the hole
Search
For the fix
Seek a mechanic
If the leak
Persists
Ashley Robles (she/they) is your average chronically ill Hispanic bisexual and the only person you know that still wears fingerless gloves. She studied English and Creative Writing at the University of Texas at Austin and has been catching up on sleep and video games at her home in San Antonio ever since. Her work has been published in The South Carolina Review, Grim & Gilded, the Amethyst Review, among others. She is a recipient of The Bermuda Triangle Prize and a part of Lighthouse Writers Workshop’s Poetry Collective. She can be found online https://www.ashleyrobles.me/ and @mzashleypie.
in our garden one spring, a palm-sized bird
built a nest in a house designed
for decoration. our kids named her drama
mama bird, calls so ear-splitting she
forced hyacinths to break through hard
soil, made bees swarm from the hive
into the clouds, made clouds clamor
with thunder, yet did not birth one
drop of rain. if you crossed the nebulous
border, she puffed up, fluffed her feathers
& chirped a warning—her gaze locked
on you more fiercely than any circling
raptor or cop. backed you far away
from the nest where her chicks hid
behind her badge of protection. some said
she was just hysterical but i heard
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ hysteria is something you inherit then inhabit
that misty morning i could hear her over
the sound of my screaming teapot, steam
spewing from its mouth. i watched mama
walk a long line of sorrow—solitary,
chalked, abysmal. she moaned from deep
caverns, as fright fueled into lungs & throat
burned with grief, forgot how to form
speech. sharp rocks in her mouth
entombed all learned language— then
with tongue loaded, cocked & steady,
she loosed scorching-hot-siren sound
rushing-rapids-over-memory sound,
the only sound left for a mama bird
to make. every spring this song sparrow
returns, inhabits her nest, keeps one eye fixed
on the blue jay, he still hungry for easy prey.
a. adenike phillips (she/her) is a Black, feminist poet, visual artist, and oral history practitioner based in New Jersey. In her work, she is committed to documenting and amplifying the stories of Black people with specific emphasis on Black women. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming The Amistad, Gulf Stream Magazine and Arts for The People Anthology. Her visual work was exhibited as part of the Community Scholars program at Rutgers Newark.
She’s there everyday
after her children leave for school.
Takes a silver-colored coffee maker from the shelf,
spins it around in one hand,
an ornament for a holiday
where people drink coffee on mornings
at dining tables with matching chairs.
Fine cups ka-klink on their teeth,
the sound of money.
Once, she was a girl in a hot bedroom
waiting for a boy’s parents and hers to reach a decision.
When the bargain was made for her hand,
her mother hugged the minister. Happy
because she and the boy would move to New York
to better work, family dinners, and morning coffee.
That week, she got a ring from the pawn shop,
the same white dress her mother had worn
and a promise:
Everything is going to be better there.
A. K. Herman was born in Tobago. A. K. writes fiction, non-fiction and poetry, and has been shortlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Competition and placed second in the Small Axe Literary Journal Contest. A. K. has published in Lolwe, Small Axe Journal, Aster(ix) Journal, Isele Magazine and others.
Abbie Howell is a poet who adores writing about the intersection between the body, the natural world, and the surreal. In her spare time you can find her playing her guitar and lounging on any nearby sofa. Previous publications include Madrigal Press, Journal of Erato and The Lickety Split. Follow her on Twitter: @abbiehowell_.
We forgot the old ways. Gran always said that was the problem with getting too comfortable.
Alyssum. Cornflower. Chamomile. Bay laurel.
The world relied too much on lightning contained in metal boxes. There was no use for the old ways. We had a phrase, then: too big to fail.
Chicory. Passionflower. Mugwort. Dandelion.
As children, we would complain that we had to learn, taken out to fields by those who still remembered. There were days a century ago, well before my time, when no coin could be spared for honey nor pills, and so they gathered what grew on the lands around them. We thought this old-fashioned; I only complied to stop complaints, or else I would have swam or climbed trees or done just about anything else on a summer’s day.
Meadow clover. Raccoonberry. Goat weed. Witch grass.
The lightning machines are gone now, of course. But some still remember the old ways. There are those who dismiss the land’s remedies, those who perhaps can afford to. But not everyone can afford to. Not everyone is so free from a body’s troubles. Pain comes for us all. My bones grew sore by middle age, and yours might do so, too. My sight is fading daily, and yours might do so too. Do not think your own skin impenetrable. We are not made of stone.
Mother’s-heart. Thoroughstem. Milkweed. Queen Anne’s Lace.
When you hear this old voice telling you the names and your young mind begins to wander, remember this is a gift, this knowledge. Those who thought all answers could be found later, are lost. We have found, and we must continue to find. As these names were given to me, I give them to you, and you will return the gesture someday. That is the heart of survival.
Mad apple. Bitter nightshade. Marsh marigold. Rattlesnake root.
This is how we pass down knowledge: repeat it, like a song. Books can burn. Minds can falter. But words continue, if enough tongues repeat them.
Audrey T. Carroll is the author of the What Blooms in the Dark (ELJ Editions, 2024) and Parts of Speech: A Disabled Dictionary (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). Her writing has appeared in Lost Balloon, CRAFT, JMWW, Bending Genres, and others. She is a bi/queer/genderqueer and disabled/chronically ill writer. She serves as a Diversity & Inclusion Editor for the Journal of Creative Writing Studies, and as a Fiction Editor for Chaotic Merge Magazine. She can be found at http://AudreyTCarrollWrites.weebly.com and @AudreyTCarroll on Twitter/Instagram.
nina jane drystek (she/her) is a poet, writer and performer based in Ottawa, unceded Algonquin Anishinaabe territory. she is author of a:of:in (Gapriot Press, 2021) and knewro suite (Simulacrum Press, 2019), received an honourable mention in the 2022 Priscilla Uppal Memorial Award for poetry and was shortlisted for the 2020 Bronwen Wallace Emerging Writers Award for Poetry. her poems have appeared in several online and print magazines, as well as in self-published chapbooks and broadsides and her sound poetry can be heard on Bandcamp and YouTube under the name textcurious. nina jane is one of the co-founders of Riverbed Reading Series, writes collaboratively with VII – authors of holy disorder of being (Gap Riot, 2022) and Towers (Collusion Books, 2021) – and performs sound poetry with a rotating group of collaborators. if you have ever lived in the same city as her you have likely seen her riding a red or blue bicycle.
*All artwork is featured with the permission of the artist. Please ask for permission before sharing any content.
White milk bubbling with fragrant white rice —
The aroma of tej pata1, elach2 and ghee
Curls sweetly through the air —
The ladle of nolen gur3 trembles in my hand —
Like that first time in your mother’s kitchen.
Dark brown disappears in the sea of whiteness —
I try to imagine the dudhe-alta4 I had left on white
The day I crossed the threshold of your life —
The sudden heat against my hand makes me start;
I stir furiously to break the monotony of the white
For the first time in years, it is perfect!
Just the way you like it —
Many happy returns, dear heart5!
Eagerly filled twin bowls, eagerly awaiting twin spoons,
Heart thudding in the magical foretaste of your delight —
How is it?
Silence answers.
Not even the clink of metal against glass.
My fingers twitch against my phone, against the instinct to call,
Against the hope of seeing the defunct device on your side
Light up, light up my illusions —
Against the habitual path my eyes take every day,
Sweeping over my bare wrists (no red-white6,
Only a hollow circle of tarnished gold) —
And to the pale-garbed reflection against glass panes —
Bare forehead, no red7, never red again.
The darkness of the cracked, dead phone drowns me,
And all I can see in the falling dusk
Is one bowl brimming white8.
Notes:
1. Bengali for bay leaf;
2. Bengali for cardamom;
3. Bengali for date-palm jaggery;
4. Colour obtained from mixing the crimson alta dye and milk, used for a ritual of welcoming the bride at the groom’s house after marriage;
5. Bengali tradition of offering rice kheer or a sweet dish made with rice, milk, bay leaf, ghee, cardamom, nuts, raisins, sweetened with sugar or nolen gur, on someone’s birthday;
6. Red coral and white conch-shell bangles worn by Bengali married women, given up during widowhood;
7. Vermillion mark on the forehead worn by Bengali married women, also given up during widowhood;
8. Despite mixing the dark brown nolen gur, the colour of the kheer remains mostly white.
Capricious little feet pitter-patter through woodlands
Sweet and wild — long, inky locks fan out
Behind — as if the balmy Night1 itself were giving chase —
Cacophonous laughter bubbles forth, boldly ringing
Through the silence — like the harsh twang of
Phoebus’s2 lute she struck in Stepmother’s3 gardens;
Discordia, they whisper in consternation —
And whispers follow — like insidious hydras,
Poisonous manticores, myrmekes, menacing drakons —
She collects them all to build herself a home —
For home, she knows not — dark amid fairest siblings —
Kore’s 4 flowery bounties tedious; Parthenos5 and Huntress6
Equally rigid — Father’s7 thunderous council tiring—
Insipid, uninspiring for the bloody stirrings in her soul —
Home is where things fall apart — like Despoina’s8 tapestries
Pulled down with one thread snapped — the clash of steel
Music for her ears — but only her warrior brother’s9 legacy!
And so she runs towards the sounds of war —
To stir up bloodthirsty sands, to unravel hateful yarns of
Peace — that only comes after the reign of strife —
To call upon her beasts of mischief — knowing not —
Knowing not beneath her feet the roads lead—
To golden apples, clans destroyed, love rebounding in envy —
Lined with crimson ashes, welcoming the heart of Erebus10!
Notes:
1. The Greek goddess Nyx, mother to Eris;
2. Apollo, the Greek god of the sun, music, poetry and healing, son of Zeus and Leto;
3. Hera, Queen of Olympus, wife and sister to Zeus, and the goddess of marriage;
4. Childhood name of Persephone, the Greek goddess of spring, daughter to Zeus and Demeter;
5. Athena, the Virgin, the Greek goddess of wisdom and war, daughter to Zeus and Metis;
6. Artemis, the Greek goddess of the moon, hunting, wild animals, chastity and childbirth, twin sister to Apollo, daughter to Zeus and Leto;
7. Zeus, King of Heaven, the Greek god of sky and thunder, Hesiod mentions Eris as a child as being raised by him and Nyx in Works and Days;
8. The Greek goddess of fertility, daughter to Poseidon and Demeter;
9. Ares, the Greek god of war, presumed to be accompanied by Eris in battle;
10. Erebus, one of the first primordials in Greek mythology, family to Eris and forms her dwelling place.
Pritikana Karmakar (she/her), bookworm, nature-lover, occasional artist and singer, and a huge foodie, is a doctoral fellow of English at IIT Roorkee, India, specialising in medical humanities. Formerly a writer and editor in the K–12 education technology sector, she is currently a prose editor and writer at the Cream Scene Carnival magazine. Her works are published/forthcoming at Cream Scene Carnival, miniMag, Setu (English), and The Hooghly review. She hails from Burdwan, West Bengal, India. Connect with her on LinkedIn, Instagram, and Twitter.
Mail is the old international
convention of breadth &
I’m only fluent in electronica:
I patron the virtual shitpost cafe
that I dreamt into existence,
I considered for way too long
how to address an envelope,
I can only be of my time.
Oh new generation, knows nothing
of yore, holding even floppy disk
by the corner, as if concerned
with infection (infected w/ concern).
So many old New’s
becoming old news,
what’s supposed to become
of tradition
The internet is a mysterious
charming little horror
my mirror in these pixels,
my history, fantasies,
confessions, and his—
I love to don my sexy low-res avatar
mysterious Marla
blowing smoke at her viewer.
Thank God
you can be anyone
online.
I want to be a shapeshifter
inhabiting others and cloning them
creating a connection
(both fictional and real)
that allows me to enter their dna code
and replicate it for myself to experience
over and over like
a video game.
I will settle for a new account,
instead.
Selena Cotte is a poet and technology scholar living in Chicago and online. Her work has been published in journals such as Sad Girl Review, Juked Online, and others. She’s @selenacotte wherever you think that may work.
