POETRY


They Named Me Diana

By Emmie Christie in Issue Fifteen, May 2024

They named me Diana,
they vilify me on their news reports,
they say that I’m insane, a category five
of wind and spinning rain, and they’re right


The Saint of Nothing at All

By Jess Gofton in Issue Fifteen, May 2024

I am a vertebra crowning
Sevilla’s ghoulish horde.
Ribs on a chandelier
in Prague. Ten fingers
twitching in ten churches.


Brushstrokes

By Elizabeth Shack in Issue Fifteen, May 2024

The swirling colors of space and time
float by the windows of the generation ship,
a whole city—planet—galaxy unto itself
soaring past aeons of stars


the rage of the old river

By Sofia Ezdina in Issue Fifteen, May 2024

She uncovered her voice from her bed,
loaded the verbs,
stirred up the interjections’ beehive;
she gathered the air in her lungs


no one can kiss you wrong if you're dead

By Temidayo Okun in Issue Fourteen, March 2024

i drew a smiley face on a blank page & gave it legs / there is no wind strong enough to destroy something that only exists on paper / there is no hurt powerful enough to tear

apart this cage I call a body / i have made this shell for you with my hands / & maybe death only comes when our souls outgrow our bodies / like hermit crabs — we drop


Soot

By Abdulkareem Abdulkareem in Issue Fourteen, March 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,


After they blasted your home planet to shrapnel

By P. H. Low in Issue Fourteen, March 2024

you could still pretend for a while. Perhaps it wasn’t even pretend—your body still remembered home as a pause between your third and fourth ribs; remembered an absence of walking across a bridge, in this city you’ve chosen as refuge, and keening the surface tension of water."


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.