Fox Rinne

PASIPHAË LIVES INSIDE THE MOON FOR TWENTY YEARS

The moon won’t look Ariadne in the eyes. Pasiphaë, meaning wide shining. She tells no one, not even her daughter, she’s immortal. But still the twenty years pass slowly. She watches guilt arrive like an angel to some below, but everyone is good at sending it away. Saying there is only so much we could’ve done. The angel of guilt lives on Crete all its brief life. Sometimes it flies to the moon when the moon is full. And on those nights, Pasiphaë cries well like she’s been waiting to and it feels good, like emptying, but the moon floods with an inch or two of salt water. It does not convince her to return to earth. Twenty years. On the worst nights, she can still feel the god’s spell. Everywhere, like it is her skin, her name. On the worst nights, she thinks there was no spell at all. And she tosses, turns, rolls the light of the moon to a thin silver hair, to nothing. The tide folds back on itself. She watches a man on Earth grow tired of being a father again. She watches a father want solitude more than anything. The angel has its brief stints in the labyrinth, in the palace, like a mirage on the sea bed, but it doesn’t leave Ariadne alone. It is a charm that hangs on her bed frame. It is an inexplicable pain in her legs. It is a kitchen knife in her hands. It is silence below sound, aching. She thinks the labyrinth was built for her, but really, it is a cellar for war debts and dissidents, really, it is an engine. She keeps busy. She doesn’t think about it. She sits at the spinning wheel and makes an escape ladder that never ends. It reaches and reaches. Pasiphaë sleeps with her eyes open, facing away from Earth, curled on her side, knowing her daughter is standing below, staring at her back.

 
 
**
 
 

ARIADNE WEAVES HERSELF A COCOON WITH WHAT IS LEFT

She sews herself a closet, a room only as large as her body, she sews herself a new body. She makes herself into a boy. A beautiful boy, the ideal of boy, a saint, the son of the century, something her mother deserves. She’s an artist, a silkworm, a red wolf spider. She is going to kill her brother. She is going to let her brother be killed. She’s the assassin’s promise, she kisses the angel of guilt and bandages his hands. She sews without stopping to eat. She curls inside the half-cast nest and becomes an arrow in its bed, a den of foxes, a hen who lays no eggs, a calf stillborn inside the womb, rain caught shining on the web. She’s a thousand insect eggs who hatch and eat the whole leaf. A fiancée forced to work the loom until she transforms to a crane on her wedding day and finally flees. An opera singer’s song circling the glass until it cracks. A doe surrounded by its own antlers. A woman sleeping inside the sun. She sews herself into a cave. There are echoes and wind. She is full of hibernation. She imagines herself stepping out of the crystalis just slightly and plenty new. Not a woman, but what a woman is supposed to be. Healed as if there were nothing to heal, holy as if nothing could quite touch the body. Skin thick as Caeneus’. She ties the end of the red string to the rafters in her bedroom and makes the shape of a cocoon. It is only natural the body inverts itself into a refuge. She is looking forward to liquifying. She wonders if she’ll dream and if it’ll be a good dream. She sleeps for three days and three nights. She wakes the same.

 

**
 
FOX RINNE is a poet and prison abolitionist based in New York City. They have facilitated poetry workshops through the Queer Detainee Empowerment Program and the Right-to-Write program at the Westchester County Jail. Their most recent work can be found in Baest, Jacobin, and Silent Auctions.

Brandan Griffin

 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 

ANIMALS LIVES IN PLANT

 
(it’s unconscious to make telepathy) in me looks at me)

(i’m what telepathic occurences say to each other in their
commons)

 

un
conscious leaves
on green yarn
the
yairn falls and floats up in
telepithy

 

(plant’s called pothos) never flowers) almost never)
propagates from cuttings)

 

plant on table in front of books
blooks on
tlable
in twowo clusters of leaves gathering up

twu upclusters of leefeafing
turn faces
w their yellow streaks to me
next to me, to

winsundowlight

 

(same as what it’s cut from) repeats) clones)

(cloning) yet it grows and different twists and its stems
tangle like nonce) nude shades)

(have to find new word for aware)

(meaning’s in text) aware as animals)

 

breign is
brain
is two squirrels is squarrels
eels
in skull bone

yarn stems
splittitting n strengthingening

plalalant eating scaling noting

 

(text makes clone from me) text has clone in it) me in
water) grows having life)

(any word has to misused if to make point) more’s alive)
life’s not right word) animal) misuse that one)

 

upfromdirt steemms
stems
eels from dirt go up greenly swimming, stilly
stems eels up
slowly

leaves on their necks

head on yarn neck

 

(easy to see my own telepathy) write it down) make
cutting clip stem) ease in water)

(each place that’s a here is telepathy) locality) also living)

(endure is animal) response animal) take) touch)
innerness) is here) here) here)

 

eel swims up out
out of flitter
out of filter feeders
in
their motes
of food like stars in qwtrkghmv

 

(animal’s a bouquet of animals) assembled genetically)
being together) saying i here) wanting to survive)

(looks with field of vision that’s commons) that’s
collection of telepathies)

(am stalks gathering) kneels)

(to lower telepathies towards what i see)

(bunching of here) here) bunching of heres says i)

 

bookspines are white slat forest behind plant
bhooks
in tall verticles facing away
flash spines
spyines on outerside
are faces, straight
barks
are flashed planes

speyeine
faces plant, faces windoawe,
spflashes

 

(animal’s everywhere) now it’s word flapping in each
place) every here) is)

(am full of animals) look to smallest places and that’s
animals seeing) pebbles and soil) packed rooting together)

(animal aware) conscious) plant)

 

plant’s bigger than last looked,

just now loocking

holding plant under
wawter
in syinck
cold fauceting water eel lengthinning
through it
every two weeks

 

(animal replaces word for everything)

(between us)

(stalks under water)

 

plant grows two thckckcknesses of stems
bunchnching
over rim of pot

youplant in stalks,
reread at me brooking yarning forward
tstalking
up severally
talk up and ribs spells a lettrwave

 

(text’s not me) but at edge) it’s me kneeling) with content
but not identical to it) peels through)

(text held under cold water pouring) stream through text)
textopathy)

 

cutting
clipt from main stem roots
into water vase
from phvase in cleer water to soil

plant is animeels crawling
up, over, very
slwolowll

eddies in the space you swim in
meek you
making you heare

 

(does plant read) does plant read text for it to work)
does text have plant in it reading it)

(text) textus) woven tissue of) physical tissue of)
meaning’s tissue of) telepathy’s tissue of)

(has skin) is skin) has skin)

(weaves bark)

 

plant on table
in frontof books scoops up with leaves

scoops the rair the air and an eel
in white wall
eel a long green flag
through books it flags forward in long grayeen

eats
like filter
straining motes in sea sky
in soil
in caption in nutrienst, bemeanth

part of you you
aren’t
hearfeelseenthesizing you as plant

 

(instead of text) a commons) then go past that) tele-
porting)

(a common limb) nerves i don’t live in) but i sense them)
distantly)

(a limb) face) skin)

(a not me)

(an awake on other side)

 

plant clipping
into jar of
water
growwing, spreads out

a cutting, plant reruns through it
becomes twwo

skin comes betweneen

stems that waswere one
now tw, twowo, severall

stem’s now spbinding,
spine

transparent streek on leaf

 

(text wakes animals that grow in me) telepathy because
not me) but i receive them)

(if i write text i give telepathy to myself) but i write it
anyone could have written it) could plant have)

(let’s have plant in here) says plant)

 

saw how this was waeaeaving
over to me
on it
like face of unconscious as typelathy
telepothos

eel swims forward ahs face

flows over to me like sheet front
over me
from wheare it’s at a distance, stays
here

plant’s leaves up on yarn green and floating

 

(let plant in here being still)

(let no more water yet for plant) leaves stay with sun)

(out of soil let plant have stems) open spines like plant’s
leaves) with sun on them)

(in soil)

(under water)

 
 

**


BRANDAN GRIFFIN lives in Queens. His first book IMPASTORAL will be published by Omnidawn in 2022.

Jack Felice

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 
 

**
JACK FELICE is a graduate of Florida State University, where he earned a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing and a minor in Art History. He currently lives in Tallahassee, Florida. His artwork has appeared in The Florida Review, 14 Hills, Northridge Review, Five2One, Meridian, and The Weird Show.

Shira Dentz

Subterranean Fires

 
 

When We Carousel to the Rhythm of She-Bang

We muster courage for the good. Resentment gets
the upper lip, corseting flames.

 
 

Does a Cat Have Your Tongue this New Year’s?

A cab revolves like a gumdrop, fancy masks for a
dance of limbs dressed as confetti, what an
explosion.

 
 

Look Back at a Skeleton Torso Frame for Dresses

Eyes on silver strips accentuating the hollowness
lit from within, in imitation of a body in hiding,
cousin to the wig.

 
 


**

SHIRA DENTZ is the author of five books including SISYPHUSINA (PANK, 2020), and two chapbooks. Her writing appears in many venues including Poetry, American Poetry Review, Cincinnati Review, Iowa Review, Gulf Coast, New American Writing, jubilat, Denver Quarterly, Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day Series (Poets.org), and NPR. Interviews with her about her writing appear in journals such as Rain Taxi, Ploughshares, and Kenyon Review. She’s a recipient of awards including an Academy of American Poets’ Prize, Poetry Society of America’s Lyric Poem Award, and Poetry Society of America’s Cecil Hemley Memorial Award. Currently, she is Special Features Editor at Tarpaulin Sky and lives in New York. More about her can be found at www.shiradentz.com

Lucy Zhang


The baby has to wait until after the apocalypse


 
 

**

LUCY ZHANG writes, codes, and watches anime. Her work has appeared in Contrary, Lost Balloon, New Delta Review, Hypertext, EX/POST, Jellyfish Review and elsewhere. She is an editor for Heavy Feather Review and assistant fiction editor for Pithead Chapel. Find her at https://kowaretasekai.wordpress.com/ or on Twitter @Dango_Ramen.

Isabel Boutiette

heaven or hieronymus
 

too many people ride one horse
the organs of the landscape:
acid water and rose quartz
teething towers
strawberries
gems of desire + death
red / blue fruit now red / blue pills
even when it doesn’t look like hell
it is

body wears two cherries

like a crown

a giant duck feeds body

a cranberry

the earth is singing
in the gardens in the mud in pools
reflecting light like pupils do

sinners of the world
hear me
in this frame the world is finally an oyster
our bodies its pearls
free and by default completely insane
I don’t care if we look crazy
I just want to be losing it completely
with my friends
on this festering fault line
the owls surveilling us
through our phone jacks
right next to the heat of our breath
and still unable to compute

our very own chaos triptych
fortune

 
 
**
 
 

SEMI-CONSCIOUS IN KIEV
 

blithing wet
with light
honey
leaving
the wand
the milkmaid
the czar
the tailor
the general
an epoch
spent
picking
sunflower seeds
now my name
glittering
on an official
document
my time
separated
for me
in Ukraine
the churches
have no clocks
only bells
never hands
no tenderness
of touch

 
 
**
 
 

 
 
 
**

ISABEL BOUTIETTE is a poet, artist, curator, editor, and occasional book-maker living in Seattle, WA. She works at Wave Books and is an editor at The Quarterless Review.

Molly Schaeffer


index

 

 
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**

MOLLY SCHAEFFER grew up in New Jersey, and has spent large amounts of time in the Hudson Valley, coastal Massachusetts, and the Pacific Northwest. Her work has appeared in the Poetry Project Newsletter, the anthology Text Means Tissue, and several small press publications. A writer and visual artist, and a recent graduate of the Brown University MFA in poetry, she is a founding editor of the journal Big Big Wednesday. She currently lives in Tacoma, WA.

Marie López

Self-Evident
 

I was reading about a woman’s mental demise when the phone rang.
Smudging halts erosion.

You descend from the stairway,
I remarked, “you are not nude.”

I don’t hear you while your socks are on.
You could be at the last ditch behind the horizon–
You could be next to me.

I cling to the rules of domes,
A plastic sheen enclosing our world.

A straw basket or a cage for small mammals hangs outside the shuttered business.

 
 
 
**
 
 
 

Who gets to have a redemption arc
 

Not even to avenge
Or betrayal of indifference

Intimacy, a silo of smoke
Tunnel, lulls

Try translating
A gun into a color.

Found trinkets, fresh lawns sealed:
Brooklyn in May is the O in June.

Yielding after a jaunt
& the skyline with no guests for the first time.

A dive into wreaths, pollen, twins,
Misguided heat re-enters.

Inscribed or stolen?
I like this better, don’t you?

There’s two options to be had:
Bricks or accountability.

Rocked by a flux of never exhausted thought.
I have no wish–

To a circle of polished headstones.
Almost in reverse.

Is that what a gun looks like?
Against the veneer,

Witness,
So far, it’s the door’s adornment.


 
 
**

MARIE LÓPEZ is finishing her poetry MFA at The New School. She has published work with Bodega Magazine, Newest York Co., Another Gaze Film Journal and Shit Wonder amongst others. She is originally from Miami, Florida and currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Liam O’Brien

Rest Lawless
(fragments from The Complete Home, Julia McNair Wright, 1879)

I don’t know about all these wonders. Dozens of cheap
little husbands, their severance from society—if they set about
being companions and friends, making companions

for themselves—in the back of the hall, wonderful
curiosities. With him, a relief. Great pleasure also to satisfy
his growing thoughts. Come in, trust me. Invent and contrive:

what a house it would be. A place for such work: a corner
of the wood. A place curtained off somewhere. No separate
room. A small room, a kitchen; a room with a stove

running through it. A boy like a girl. The boy is yours.
I remember one day: his new high silk. He had taken
the crown. He tried to straighten it: getting ready.

Setting the shoes in rows, observing. Making buttons, mischief.
Believe me, we must never weary. We must build them:
honesty, unselfishness, kindness. Rest lawless, become lawless.
Never grow up into citizens.

 
 
 
**
 
 
 

She Serves Variety
(fragmented from The Complete Home, Julia McNair Wright, 1879)

Not always of one kind: the kind a prelude. Here she serves variety,
nicely cut. The beginning is generally
of bones. A stone, the bones, trimmed closely out of the salt.
A cloth kept very cool. Almost every day, a few bones, and variety.

Clear, the spoonful, the few slices. The remnant shall not be cast out:
all these fragments are to go therein. They do follow, that nothing
be lost
. In one, a cup of milk. A slice, a saucer. Drink it up.
To have, to wash. The cake is given. The cup of milk, with an egg,

thickening. The cake is cut and laid. It goes. The white
of an egg, a little cream, a little wine. We eat it. Delicious! What dainty
people, thrown away, provided for. Not half so wholesome. Refuse
very little. The nourishing and richest lies closest to the skin.

Even a summer can be scraped, the skin pulled off with a knife:
this saves. The knife is sharp, the peel is very thin. The eyes are all.
How long the meat should last: made to reach that requirement.
A very small vessel will hold the waste. It is turned to further use.

Far less than we do, he prefers. The scraps kept for the purpose.
A handful serves, to be repaid. Less cost. Expect what is needed,
and nothing to be wasted. So many people live, made in that way.
I feel heart-sick when I see the mighty trunks and branches

rotting on the ground. The possible ruin, standing cedar. Waiting.
They call this a line. Swamps and barrens, fortune, fuel. Burned over,
in the burning. Every particle that will burn. Cord-wood, small branches,
twigs and slender bundles. A blaze, tied up. The mullen and thistle,

the bramble, carried into the city. The olive trees, the roots of dead
olives and vines, the vine and olive roots are gathered up.
To keep a fire, you wish. Go out: from the pine woods on the hills
are gathered resinous wagon-loads from the dark. Here living,

our waste. Trouble and sorrow bring in these kingdoms, bearing,
renewing themselves. By famines, plagues, by armies shameless,
they have been turned to use. The land cannot endure the drain.
An effort, a thrift and thriving, sacrificing time. In all our lives,

the duty on hand: its proper uses. It takes more time. Many things
kept to be useful. One must save ice. A close cover, every fragment,
scalded and scoured. A growth by seeds, the germs of decay. Like ice,
the bones. Keep that wet. A wet cloth, or a stone. A piece of meat.

All this is very nice to know. Far better, the spring-house. The freer air
and shade, closets and store-rooms. The need of keeping. Some people
will wonder why they taint so fast. Other people do not give
enough air. Too much light. Careful, our lower halves. The boys make

latticed shutters, bowed all day, in these places. Wire covers.
Things in deep basins of cheap red earthenware, carefully tied.
Some people did themselves more damage, and were not careful. Take
a stout cloth before the last end. Set into the ground, to rest.

I think any one is wasted, your hand left to rot, making hard and soft.
Wood ashes, always. Old bones do not lie around. No weeds
overgrow. The earliest are raised here. Saving, escaping, saving,
three times a day. The bridge which carried in little things.

There is a fire, left clinging. Scattering all the scrapings. Your life
is made of trifles. It costs me. The walls, the hard ones, doing
this work. A knife blade, broken, fasten. China, glass, and earthen.
Well enough to come: such things I keep. One must work quickly.

Fit for nothing else. I need it, always keeping muscle besides. Kept
corked, clam or muscle, ten times as good. I don’t send them,
I mend them. I mentioned a city. Nothing is like it. Looking
for black silk, your best, your house-plants. A little ammonia,

glass and silver, weaker for flowers. We clean them stiff. A half-pint
of warm water for our heads. Nicer, in a bath when one is very warm,
engaged in dirty work. Indeed, a hundred times. House-cleaning,
it saves soap, brushes, wood-work, windows. It is a grand thing,

after the dust has settled. It destroys.


 
 
**


LIAM O’BRIEN grew up on a small island. Some of his work can be found in the Denver Quarterly, New Delta Review, Hobart Pulp, and Nightboat Books’ forthcoming We Want It All: An Anthology of Radical Trans Poetics. He received his MFA at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and lives in New York.

Lyric Hunter


CRUSH THEORIES

 

The first line of Crush Index by Anne Boyer, from her book of essays A Handbook of Disappointed Fate, I understand as an assignment: “1. Notes Toward a Theory of the Crush, Crush Discourse, Ma Vie en Crush.”

 

*

 

In Like Someone in Love, a lyric-essay addendum to her film-essay, Love Dog, Masha Tupitsyn writes of fatedness, of destinal qualities. Moments are fraught with philosophy, singled out for significance. Love never materializes, or rather, relations with romantic potential never shift into the romantic. “I am waiting,” she says.

I have waited/wasted time for so many crushes. The duration of the crush is a larger waiting, and in the waiting, a wanting and, sometimes, an approach, a hope. Tupitsyn writes of agency in her quest for love. We are our own protagonists. Straight white men have written our books about love and have disseminated the narrative of the often-feminized passive lover. It is a myth.

I am haunted by the image of Tupitsyn’s Marnay moon at the blue hour; it is familiar, I have lived it, it is a mirror, this moon hanging over the fields at a writing residency. Loving and crushing and wanting and desiring is ancillary to creation, a necessary by-product of the writing, which is procreative; desire energy is creation energy.

 

*

 

It is possible to love in a dozen different simultaneous ways, so that you alone are responsible for your love. What is a crush? It is not (only) romantic or sexual, it is astrological, interpersonal, friend-ish. It can be kind, gentle, a reaching across space.

There is pleasure in enjoying the company of a person you are attracted to. In listening to the rumble of the bass in their voice, of watching the muscles move under their freckled skin, in watching their faces change as they talk, as they listen, as they laugh. To see them live in real time does something to you. What is the thing? According to Roland Barthes’s A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, fascination is “the end of language.” At the end of language is the beginning of the haptic, the tangible, the “common characteristics” of the other: their hair, their teeth, their freckles, their knees, the shape of their lips, their smile, their height. What is desired in the other’s body speaks to something about the self, in other words, one is reflected in the crush, twinned.

 

*

 

A pattern of preoccupation that I have: L’s wide curls framing his angular jaw, the way J’s haloes his ears, the thickness of T’s dark mop, A’s dark, contiguous eyebrow, M’s singularly black scruff, D’s tight, springy black coils fingered into twists.

The city as crush pulls together Boyer’s theory of longing as cosmopolitanism. “The way all the people of past longing combine with those of the present longing.” Barthes finds in the notion of Paris as adorable the notion of the adorableness of the other, as a Whole. The city: its architectures and the movements of its populations (they enliven the city) contain my affect. The city is my crush. The city, or a particular building or stretch of street or apartment.

The stone steps of the Foundation Building in the sun
rue Monge between rue Censier and Rue de Mirbel
the ateliers of l’Ecole des Beaux-Arts
the sloping architectural space of the Glassell School of Art
the branches of live oak arching over North Boulevard

These cities have gently held my desire, their architecture absorbing my affect: New York, Paris, Houston.

Cities hold other cities, and their affects: Houston’s light rail contains something of Paris’s tram. Paris’s elevated metro contains Queens’s elevated 7 line. These liminal spaces have all contained my feelings, train cars full of feelings. The breathlessness of standing electrifyingly close to L on the line 13 as it pulled into the Gare de Lyon, a kiss imminent. Climbing the stairs out of station Censier Daubenton, glancing up at the lit window where friends and crushes gathered. The heat in the face as my knee pressed hotly against D’s knee, before we part at Museum District. A city inside a city, affect within affect, continuously retracing, and finding more, more.

 

*

 

In writing my crushes, I participate in Jonathan Flateley’s “antidepressive melancholia,” avoiding, in my case, and by way of interrogation, feelings of melancholy. A distancing. A coping strategy. Tupitsyn on embarking for the residency at Marnay, pulling the four of swords: intellect in retreat.

As Barthes illuminates, the crush (an amorous exercise) and melancholia are inseparable. Boyer’s line from her essay Erotology: “You hold their face in your face.” Geminal, the Lover’s card is an echo.

“We are citizens of longing for the world.”

If the lover’s discourse is one of solitude, or of one and one, the crush is the common: many of us find community by confessing our crush. Germinal, the crush is a seed: for later love, for friendship, and for revolution.

 

*

 


Texts referenced include:

Barthes, Roland, and Richard Howard. A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, 1978.

Boyer, Anne. A Handbook of Disappointed Fate, Ugly Duckling Presse, 2018.

Flatley, Jonathan. Affective Mapping, Harvard University Press, 2008.

Tupitsyn, Masha. Like Someone In Love: An Addendum to Love Dog, Penny-Ante Editions, 2013.


 
 
 
 
 
**

LYRIC HUNTER’s poetry and prose can be found online at Counter, Cordella, and Organism for Poetic Research. She is the author of two chapbooks, Motherwort (Guillotine, 2017), and Swallower (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2014). She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Pratt Institute. She currently lives in New York.