Disaster

Written by Gabriella Troy
Art by Rizky Sabriansyah


I’m a disaster walking
down the street.

Too many pieces to hold together;
as I glitter in the sun
they slip
and I wait
to come crashing down after them.

My mind and my body and my mind
                             black
I’m a robber of my own future but
I can’t disguise in daylight
so I melt
                          a shadow
bruises under my eyes.

I see everything in a haze
                          see nothing
a lost wanderer
who won’t ask for directions.

Spinning in circles
                           my mind
down the gutter I’m fruit
once sweet but now
                           black
too far gone.

Just need to leave
                           taxi
away, anywhere.
I walk into the street
but don’t raise my hand
                           yellow car
light flashes.

Open my eyes
                           my mind
partially gone
partially whole
I can’t make a collage out of my ugly
                            disaster

A Midwest Spring

Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett


Unfurl my warranted design and point towards each pen stroke that never served you.
The snow in March was still of ice, freezing petals edging fall fast on their branches.
A death toll stamps the ears of young deer across the highway rather than the sirens you’d expect in late May.
The scientist’s love of lye stained into his cuticles and danced in the bubbles of the bath for the daughter whom he’d never bathe.
The snow in March was still of ice, though sinking through the dirt at first touch.
The church bells ring for union and burial, both still for love.

Sincerely, Where The lights do crash

Written by Callie Cheng
Art by Lena Glukhova


Send me seven
Moons and stars,
Where drunk are
Cats on white cigars.

Me, I like
The latter two,
Of cold the iris,
Pierced with blue.

Kissed by Summer’s
Burnt surmise,
And murmured softly,
Pink clouds rise.

Make me honey,
Make me sweet,
Of Eros winged,
Inebriate!

Flutter flutter,
Butter melt,
Then in your heart,
My name do smelt.

Sincerely, where
The lights do crash,
Might sparkle sparkle,
Hope I splash.

The Attic in The House of Soleil

Written by Callie Cheng
Art by Lany-Jade Mondou


Baby blues are skies anew that simmer
Swimming, oceanic, like those eyes,
Love you, love you, I do, I do, I tell her,
Myself, although I think I know, by next sunrise,

I’ll be an eagle, drifting, lullaby, beneath
The conquered, frameless, punctured shapes of souls,
Where girl, she died, taking full her breaths,
A woman scarred by time, scooped empty, empty, eaten bowl.

The wrinkles map your skin where life, she’ll touch,
And love her with your body you do, you do,
Making moans as at, her flowing locks you clutch,
But slips like water, burning bones, and shriveling you.

I think that we’d do best to die, but better yet,
We live, I live, and endless hurting hold it in,
Because I don’t think that I’ll have truly met
You, loved you, until I’ve killed you with my own two sins,

These hands that roll up a boulder to the skies
My shoulders strong beneath what heaven weighs,
I swear that I am Sisyphus, I swear I’m going to die.
I bleed here on the knife I picked, and choose to day by day.

I wonder where the rainbow ends and when he’ll sire with the sun,
An ending for my withering hands and aching flesh,
I wonder, wonder, when I’ll finally be done,
When I’ll be sorry to the body that my soul’s a-meshed,

With pain, with whips, and flaming tongues,
Lashed within by the silent tremors here made mine
By me, I’m sorry, sorry you were young,
And that I drank that youth up as I traced this line,

To the ocean that, we’ve drowned beneath,
A thousand seas, and mirths, and pains,
I think it’s funny how I choked you with a wreath
Of my own words, and for courting Nike, blood mine drained.

I think we try too far, too hard, to run along,
The hands of time, to race against with the golden king,
As Helios beckons us to dance his song,
To make upright our broken knees, and waltz around his solar ring.

I’m tired, you say, of the water seeping in my bones,
Of choking, drowing, flailing, screaming into gags and chains,
Aching like a muscle under the golden mountain of your throne,
And I’m sorry that I laugh at you and stab you more with pain.

But maybe one day we’ll make peace.
I think it lies there, someday where I suffocate,
In clouds and sleep and happy; where the lease
Is mine and ours alone, a silent fate,

Where there’s no need to rise again,
Where you won’t have to kneel and wake at day,
And heed the beckon of moon, sun, when
I’ve freed us from the attic in The House of Soleil.

LIMINAL space

Written by Callie Cheng
Art by Daria Nekipelova


So you’ll pass between a door and a door,
And lingering, you’ll stay; oddly looking,
Unpassing, and confused in the corridor.
But of what? You whisper, spine shivering.

For you’ve crept there too long, and fallen asleep,
Of mirth, you’ve forgotten, that lies the way out,
You’ve made it your home, permanence to keep,
But DEEP! Whispers the exit, by its commanding’dness shout.

Cracks, they disturb you, by the jagged surreality,
White walls, the uncanny, made mother your soothe,
Remembered, but ignored—the second door that must be,
But of now is trivial, white walls and thinned paint your truth.

THE JOURNEY, THE JOURNEY! Oh, what’s it to you?
LIMINAL, LIMINAL, I’m lost in it too.

Unseamed

Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett


Instrumental, we seem, to our own surmise.
And yet it is a blessing, a substantive reminder that we are also of our own falsities, when another adds a note to our chorus.
Here lies a place unseamed.
Untitled to rain, to crystalline flakes swept into known unknowns.
It is where Penelope lets loose her threads, and where Hestia pulls them into her hearth.
And where the Mother’s skin grows a porcellian familiar with the sun.

Not Sponsored or How to not have cancer while partaking in the bell

Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett


Ethereal was the only way to describe what sat in the pit of my stomach. The hydrocodone made me sleepy and hungry and all I had ever asked for was a Crunchwrap Supreme. The same, with extra sour cream and extra nacho cheese and extra lettuce, I had when I performed a monthly breast exam to find a lump about the size of two Fiesta Potatoes. There were tears and doctors appointments and bills and late nights waiting and draining and 2 am runs for the Cheesy Gordita Crunch Box. There were deep deep dreams after a box or a crunch, where everything seemed to level out. I cleaned and bandaged, took my first bath, and drove myself to Taco Bell for the very first time.

Nor the Spud

Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett


It wasn’t the senseless loss of my own daily routine that truly shocked me
nor the melt nor the wraps nor the cups nor the nights
I lost spending with my sister- waiting for a bag to sit on the counter-
nor the farmers nor the loss nor the spud nor the rights
I had a dollop of soured cream smeared across the counter
nor the sticky floors nor the spice nor the aftermath
Of a crunchwrap on the side of filled beans that truly shocked me

Pelle Sub Agnina

Written by Callie Cheng
Art by Engin Akyurt


I have worn your body
From morn to night
To adorn the ungodly;
I’m a mournful sight.

I have lost your pieces:
Marbles tossed to gutters,
Gas, exhaust, and faeces—
Lips embossed with mutters.

I am bones; a skeletal
Half-sewn fraction of
A loaned soul festival
That moans for above—

I am damned; I am hell,
A pentagram sits beneath
This Madame Unwell,
Who burns lambs ‘tween her teeth.

You are the devil; satanic
Figment that fills the body,
Container to spill with demonic
Desire, to eat, kill, and unsee.

You are, you are, you are,
So bizarre, the one I will not
Remove, voussoir, you are
By far, my worst—my plot!