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POETRY


The Frida Train (a golden shovel)

By Russell Nichols in Issue Thirteen, January 2024

“Pies, para qué los quiero si tengo alas para volar?”*
― Frida Kahlo (1907–1954)

The blueprint was hidden under Frida Kahlo's bed, where she rested her feet,
after the accident. Engineers puzzled over the design, knowing not what


To market, to market

By Anna Quercia-Thomas in Issue Thirteen, January 2024

do not forget to drag your feet, my darling,
for the road is long and the trees cannot protect you here
and though their hands may urge you forward
look behind,


Star Stitcher

By A.J. Van Belle in Issue Thirteen, January 2024

I sew behind time
and feel too much
in the dusty yard of the seamstresses’ house.
Space fighters scream across the dark dome of sky overhead.


Tell Me the Story of Something Ending

By Matthew Roy in Issue Thirteen, January 2024

Tell me the story of something ending, she said at the campfire,
The story of something that tastes like vinegar
And crunches like beetle shells between my teeth.


hu li jing 狐狸精

By Wen Yu Yang in Issue Twelve, December 2023

they’d tell me
how much a fox’s honour is worth
without weighing it so why not
steal a boy’s honour
braid it in as
another triumph
bask in this
demonic glory


Interstellar Catalog: Romantic Interlude

By Shana Ross in Issue Twelve, December 2023

On this world all the colors are named anew
with each child. I have a word for yellow &

a word for blue, but it will not help me talk
to another soul in this city. We point to


Ourasphaira giraldae Awakens

By H.V. Patterson in Issue Twelve, December 2023

Gods writ microscopic,
we are the children of extremes
chitin-clothed, long-dead spores enduring still,
ghosts of ghosts
a billion years dead


Elegy for the Wood Nymphs

By Goran Lowie in Issue Twelve, December 2023

it starts with screams in summer.
there have been signs beforehand—
the trees have started to refuse the rain.
the sky did not submit and coated the trees,
unceasing, in layers of water.


Made of Glass

By Anna Madden in Issue Twelve, December 2023

the air smells of brine and night spirits
of bare feet sinking into the orchard’s dark earth
where pink ladies dream standing upright
their old branches like my withered arms


The Princess and the Frog

By Archita Mittra in Issue Twelve, December 2023

is this how all things end?
with a croak, a hiss, broken glass—
some spilled wine, a sliver of blood
and slime, trailing ever after.