Two Poems by tripp j crouse

Swamp Witch

You’re a destination
I’m trying to reach
but more and more 
distance pushes me away

to the vanishing point,
when I don’t know
where or who I am.

It’s become painfully transparent
that I’m invisible,
a forest sprit without body,
hands to hold
or soul to crush.

Left to wander the woods
like abandoned animals.
I thought love would be the light
that guides me home.

But I chase will-o-wisps,
bioluminescence and moon tricks
until I fall in the marsh, 
trapped in a bog that
the more I fight against
the tighter gravity pulls. 

I call for you, for help,
anyone that will listen. 

But I’m done crying over you.
Over us.
And when someone finally
arrives
I urge them to go on
without me
as I’m called home
to return to the earth.

 

Road to Deadhorse

Blind burst of a setting sun,
driving one-way
through an alley, 
an asphalt afterlife,
boulevard of dead-end dreams.
Dangle from the stars
a tempting target
for anyone aiming
toward the moon.
The dark side—dangers
of an unknown,
fears we face, names we hear
We’ll get there, 
I swear
but it’s a long road 
to haul 
and no gas stops for several hours
and miles of heartbreak 
to guide us.

 

tripp j crouse is niizh manidoowag (Two-Spirit) Ojibwe, and also a 20-plus-year recovering journalist. tripp currently works with a non-profit that specializes in community and economic development in Southeast Alaska. They also perform spoken word, write poetry, fiction, paint, draw, bead, and advocate for the visibility and representation of Indigenous people in media. tripp has poetry published or forthcoming in The Yellow Medicine Review, oddball magazine, Grassroots, and Zygote in My Coffee, Words & Whispers, and beestung. They are currently working on a poetry collection called “Marginalia.” Originally from the Midwest, tripp now calls Dzantik’i Heeni (Juneau, Alaska) home.

Three Poems by P.H. Low

Cyborg Sonnet #1

If just my body mirrored your circuitry
I’d tear this monthly wound straight from my skin
from scalpeled mouth/crossed wires I’d drag it free 
baptize steel-plated fingers fresh crimson.

Oh love, I know you say it’ll hurt like hell
and every time my mind veers close, I flinch
but on my thirteenth birthday fire fell
and I’ve been breathing ashes ever since. 

Dear one, don’t fret for me, I’m not afraid—
when steel-edge parts my skin, bares pearl-arched ribs
my inner darkness will with light be flayed
and purified with lightning/wire/grit.

Love, wait for me on that door’s other side—
I’ll meet you again with nothing left to hide.

 

Cyborg Sonnet #2

I’ve surpassed our dear Doctor Frankenstein
for I, already monstrous, cobbled you 
from spare found parts and waking circuit lines,
tools poised to fix heart-pumps I may have bruised. 

Repository for my loneliness,
O wake—we’ll sing this tale sans vanity,
hike hand in hand ‘cross snow-blazed Alpine crests
figure and shade, mirrored inflection. See,

I’ve sliced out half my flesh for your design—
one lung, kidney, clenched fist a spattered song.
My left hand shakes; my white coat’s soaked carmine
to carve a place your body can belong. 

Love, don’t despair of roots and origins
when I, wheat-kern, for you have broken open—

 

Cyborg Sonnet #3

I promised you in sickness and in health
through bugged code and failed syntax to stay true
vow consummated the first breath it fell
that you’d belong to me, and I to you.

Love, look, we’ve done it—gathered on the lawn
below are androids, hybrids, paying respects
you’ve fought for us and, dare I say it, won
so fly, my bird, your welcome’s up ahead.

I’ll hold your resined hand as gears wind down 
as filamental neurons spark their last
breathe synchrony, our siliconal lungs’
grand symphony, your flesh-husk’s final rasps.

I long to follow you, love, close behind
but for your whisper: darling, stay and fight.

 

P. H. Low is a Rhysling- and Locus-nominated Malaysian American writer and poet whose debut novel, These Deathless Shores, is forthcoming in 2024 from Orbit Books. Their shorter work has been published in Strange Horizons, Tor.com, Fantasy Magazine, and Diabolical Plots, among others, and they can be found online @_lowpH on Twitter and Instagram or at ph-low.com

One Poem by Peach Delphine

local bitch

nothingness came to feed 
                                                     between spoon and mouth
burning authenticity for fragrance odd light licking
ceiling 
              burning memory the better to taste each word 
new again 
                    argent flowering in the eye crushed by cyan
diffused litanies in voices of forgotten mangoes
unpicked avocados plummeting from treetop 
splattering on galvanized roof 
                                                              down alley a woman sings of sugar 
mornings someone is always speaking for me
telling me what is actually rolling around the noggin 
mildly reassuring with all these other voices
                                                                                              chorus 
in echelon gliding wave top into early am 

“a real poet buys books, not weed” so we fired another 
bowl 
          distance management combines space and time
loaded word ever ready 
                                                sleeping with one foot against the door 
template peeled mouthworn wind 
                                                                       tourist trash
this colonial enterprise
                                               condos vacation rentals built on so many restless sleepers
we don’t dress for such
                                                brittle as bleached coral 
we dress for the sun burning through horizon relentless 
flowering moon we dress for each other
                                                                                   faces pollen shimmering
 
mouth stuffed with ache of cloudless sky 
you can cry need be as the eye drowns in mirroring
 wave action
                         if we are not of salt water we are nothing 
flyway zebra longwings, Gulf fritillaries, yellow sulfur, red admirals,  
garden flowering
                                   pastels on your lips tendrilled wind hair tangled
burnished drifts of shell 
                                                  mullet slapping grass flats
sudden 
              as when you pushed me against the railing 
 tongue twined 
                              hands containing all 
                                                                        unfolding tide of breath 
sweeter than guava blood thick abraded sand scoured
deeper than when you own my mouth 
                                                                              ever so malleable flesh
 
tongue and lips palate word torn angular
  spilling breath  
                                days stunned by skillet heat unbearable blue sky
  birds unfolding from sandbar reclaiming wind
we love like beings spawned in fire
                                                                        interlocked in our jaggedness
 we hold to that bright flowering
     each day as incandescent as last
                                                                       each waking flame a prayer
                                                       when we speak of moon and sea
 it is to arm ourselves to bind ourselves 
                                                                          to something beyond faith 
to tether ourselves to something not human 
to what lives within
   blade 
              when we speak it is the slur of kerosene
 flame blossoming tongue 
                                                      driving rhythm of hammer and nail
  relentless relentless relentless relentless just this 
and one step more 

 

Peach  Delphine is a trans poet from Tampa, Florida.

One Poem by Keisha Cassel

Compassion Study #2

“What are you doing with your hair?”

My priorities are:
-my job
-tuition
-French (I am failing, je suis fatigue)

 

“Sit down I’ll braid it for you.”

It is shorter—
buzzed with my friends’ clippers in a hallway.

“You have hair like my mother’s, your great mother. When she got cancer and started chemo treatments, she’s the only person I know that didn’t lose her hair.”

I am letting it grow.
The tight curls from my girlhood are returning
accumulating in the corners of shower stalls.

 

“I don’t know what the school is doing to you, but you can always come home.”

 

Keisha is grappling with the mortifying idea of being known and sometimes writes poems.

Two Poems by Nora Hikari

THE MOST HOLY DAY OF THE TRANSSEXUAL CALENDAR

EVERY DAY MORE OF THE PEOPLE I LOVE TELL ME THEY DON’T KNOW HOW TO KEEP STAYING ALIVE.

I TELL THEM THAT IT IS POSSIBLE. 

SOMETIMES IT IS KINDEST TO LIE TO THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE.

I PLAY PRETEND WITH THE PEOPLE I LOVE. WE SIT IN A CIRCLE AND CAST A SPELL CALLED A HOPE.

THE HOPE SAYS “ONE DAY THE SUN WILL SET FOREVER AND IT WILL BE QUIET.”

THE HOPE SAYS “ONE DAY WE WILL RUN OUT OF TEARS AND OUR EYES WILL DRY UP AND FALL OUT OF OUR HEADS AND WE WILL NEVER CRY AGAIN.”

THE HOPE SAYS “ONE DAY WE WILL BE ALLOWED TO EXIST.”

THE CIRCLE DISSOLVES AND THE HOPE BREAKS LIKE A VOICE THAT IS BEGGING POINTLESSLY.

SOMEWHERE THERE IS A WORLD THAT WILL HEAR OUR HOPE AND IT WILL BE REAL IN A KIND OF WAY.

MY BELOVED ASKS IF SHE CAN BE THE DOLL TODAY. I SAY OK. SHE CLATTERS TO THE FLOOR. THESE ARE THE KIND OF FANTASIES WE CAN AFFORD.

LISTEN TO ME: THIS WORLD HAS A TONGUE PINK AS THE DAWN AND TEETH WHITE AS THE FACE OF A MURDERER. LISTEN TO ME: EVERY DAY MY PEOPLE MARCH UP AND DOWN THE CASTLE WALLS BEGGING NOT TO BE KILLED.

LISTEN TO ME: THE MOST HOLY DAY OF OUR CALENDAR IS THE DAY WE READ OFF THE LIST OF NAMES.

THE DAY WE NAME THE PEOPLE WHO CAN NO LONGER NAME THEMSELVES.

LISTEN TO ME: THE MOST HOLY DAY OF THE TRANSSEXUAL CALENDAR IS A MASS FUNERAL.

I HOPE THAT ONE DAY I CAN BE A PERSON. I HOPE THAT ONE DAY THE STARS BLINK OUT OF EXISTENCE AND DROWN THE WHOLE WORLD IN LUSCIOUS BLACKNESS AND NO SHAPE WILL EVER MATTER AGAIN. I HOPE THE SEAS RISE AND THE SKY SPLINTERS AND THE LAND ITSELF RUMBLES WITH HATRED AND ONE BY ONE EVERY REAL HUMAN WHO MADE THE WORLD THIS WAY IS MADE MORTAL LIKE THE REST OF US.

I HOPE ONE DAY I CAN SEND THE PEOPLE I LOVE HOME AND NOT KEEP CHECKING THE NEWS WHEN THEY DON’T ANSWER THEIR TEXTS.

I HOPE THAT WHEN WE ARE GONE YOU WILL MISS US AND I HOPE THAT WHILE WE ARE HERE YOU WILL CALL US BY OUR NAMES AND I HOPE THAT WHEN WE HAVE BEEN LED DOWN THE LONG ROAD TO HELL YOU WILL REMEMBER THAT WE WEPT THE WHOLE WAY DOWN.

 

GREED

AND I WANT A WHOLE FULL LIFE I WANT EIGHTY GODDAMN YEARS AND I WANT ARMFULS OF LOVE AND FISTFULS OF GAY TRANNY SEX AND A HOCKING THROATFUL OF MY MORNING ASPHALT VOICE AND I WANT A KEEN EDGE FOR THE KITCHEN AND A KEENER EDGE FOR THE ROAD AND I WANT SHOTGUN AND I WANT YOU IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT WITH GERARD WAY SCREAMING THAT THIS AIN’T A ROOM FULL A SUICIDES AND I WANT A HUG AND I WANT A HOME AND I WANT TO ROAM THIS WORLD WITHOUT FEAR I WANT THE TERROR TO NEVER FIND ME AGAIN AND I WANT TO WATCH THE TOWERS TURN AND I WANT TO WATCH THE CASTLES QUAKE IN THE BREEZE LIKE A MINNOW IN THE GRAY MOUTH OF SAND LAKE AND I WANT SOMETHING VICIOUS AND SOMETHING RED AND SOMETHING CRUEL AND SOMETHING DEAD I WANT THE FUTURE WE WERE OWED I WANT TO KNOW MY FATHER HURTS I WANT THE POUND OF A STORM OVER THE CAPITOL AND I WANT HOT BUTTERY PISS ON THE AMERICAN FLAG AND I WANT A BODY THAT LOVES ME BACK AND I WANT A WORLD MADE FOR US AND I WANT EVERY KING SLAUGHTERED AND EVERY DAUGHTER RAISED AND I WANT THE CONQUEST OF RATS AND THE VICTORY OF MICE I WANT THE JUSTICE OF ROACHES AND A KINGDOM OF DOGS I WANT A WAR WITH HEAVEN AND A BLESSING FROM HELL I WANT A BLACKOUT CURTAIN AND A FALLOUT CURSE I WANT SOMETHING GOOD AND I WANT SOMETHING WORSE AND FUCK I WANT US ALL TO SURVIVE I WANT TO BE ALIVE I WANT TO LIVE I WANT TO BE ALIVE HERE WITH YOU

 

Nora Hikari is a transgender poet and artist based in Philadelphia. Her work has been published in such venues as Ploughshares, The Mass Review, The Journal, ANMLY, The Washington Square Review, and others. She was a 2022 Lambda Lit Fellow and a reader at the 2022 Dodge Poetry Festival. Her first full-length collection, STILL MY FATHER’S SON, is forthcoming from Sundress Publications in 2025. Her second full-length collection, THE MOST HOLY DAY OF THE TRANSSEXUAL CALENDAR, is forthcoming from Game Over Books in 2025. She can be found on Twitter and IG at @system_wires.

One Story by Emma Briard

Love

Emma stepped off her porch. She was surprised to feel the cool grass beneath her feet, perhaps because she had expected to be wearing shoes, or at least slippers. She didn’t really know how any of this worked. Wasn’t she the one who should be visited, not the other way around? Emma couldn’t complain about her bare feet too much, however, as the grass felt nice, and with each step she took, she focused on the grass more and more. It was soft, cool, slightly damp with midnight dew and altogether lovely. After seventy-eight years of wearing some type of footwear, the feeling of this grass sent a shock of emotion over her as a much younger, spryer little Emma ran out the front door of her mind. The two embraced, and Emma, still a bit dumbstruck, couldn’t help but squeeze the little one back.

“You didn’t wait for me. You’re supposed to wait,” little Emma muffled into older Emma’s belly. She looked up with a sigh. “Then again, nobody is really given a rule book or anything, so I forgive you.”

“Are you really me?” Emma said, still clutching at her younger self. She stroked little Emma’s hair, tied up in the back in a simple ponytail. 

Little Emma pulled away gingerly. She scrunched up her face the way children are wont to do when confronted with a silly question. “I am. Same as you are me.”

“But how?” Emma began to ask, before she was cut off by little Emma grasping her hand and pulling her onward. Best not to ask any more silly questions.

“Come on, then,” little Emma tugged at the much older, much harder hand. “We technically don’t need to rush, but I can’t stand just standing here. Oh wait.”

Emma was pulled back into another hug, deeper, and quieter this time. She stood as statues, each breathing the other in. Emma, who had hugged many, many people in her life as it was a favorite of hers, never felt this kind of feeling before. A whole-hearted affection, an adoration and deep respect infused them both. Whereas she had felt similar emotions towards loved ones in her life, she never had felt herself all at once, and she basked in it. 

“All right then, let’s go,” said little Emma, taking a step back.

Emma wiped a tear from her eye. “That felt wonderful.”

Little Emma had already half-danced half-walked her way to the end of the driveway and onto the sidewalk. Emma followed after, deciding to keep a walking pace. She had a strange intuition of the direction she needed to go, and an image appeared in her mind. A gazebo? 

“Hey, um, Emma?” Emma called after her younger self. “Are you taking me to a gazebo by chance?”

“Mm-hmm.”

She continued down the sidewalk, little Emma always two steps ahead.

“Is there something there for me?”

Little Emma tilted her head upward, thinking. “No,” she finally said. “Why would there be?”

“Oh, well, I guess… well I just thought there might have been a reason for us to visit the gazebo, that’s all.”

“No, no reason really. I just like that gazebo quite a lot. I thought you’d like to join me is all.”

Emma thought for a moment. The image of the gazebo became clearer. Plainly sculpted hedges surrounded it, cream-white painted wood gave way to a dark brown shingled roof, moss and lichen grown over a third of its surface. Inside, the wooden floor, once painted crimson, is now faded to a pale pink. A footpath through the paint ended in a central faded circle. Two cream white benches sat on opposite ends of the gazebo, one facing the passing river, the other facing the entrance. Emma knew it well.

“Remember we used to go to the gazebo all the time? To do our homework, to read a book.” Little Emma’s voice trailed off.

“To get away from Mom and Dad,” Emma finished.

“Yeah, that too.” Little Emma turned and began to walk backwards, her arms pumping back and forth in mock exertion. “Remember the time we climbed up on the roof?”

Older Emma replied, “There was a sign just outside the gazebo that said, ‘no fishing inside the gazebo’, so we got up there and cast our line. I think we caught a fish that day, maybe a sunfish though, I remember being a bit disappointed at that.”

“Yeah, but how disappointed can we be when we’re fishing from the roof of a gazebo?”

Emma chortled, “that’s true. We must have been your age when we did that.” 

Brush strokes of moonlight shone through breaks in the clouds. As she walked, Emma looked about her, taking in the familiar town. Dark trees lined the road as she made her way towards the center of town. Neighboring houses, nestled far back from the road, silhouetted as woodland sentinels, exuded a leering authority. 

The first streetlamp on the main road loomed ahead, illuminating a lone bench situated on a bend in the road. Someone was sitting there, the only distinguishing feature being an amber glow near their face. The familiar bench came into focus, and Emma realized the individual sitting there was her mother. 

“Emma, hold up. Is that our mother?”

Little Emma replied, “it is.”

“I think I need to speak with her. Do you mind waiting for me?”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

The woman on the bench looked to be in their mid-forties, golden-red hair highlighted with streaks of gray.

“You weren’t supposed to find me here,” said Emma’s mother. “I’m not putting it out.”

Smoke trailed up from a trash can a few feet from the bench. The smell was sickening and brought forth a wave of memories Emma had no use for. The memories swirled and coalesced into a singular image, that of her mother sitting in her reclining chair, legs tucked up under her and a blanket coving her from the waist down. A cigarette dangling from her fingers, the smoke rising to a pronounced yellow stain on the ceiling. The only source of light was the dim grey-blue glow of the television, some game show or other flashing bright primary colors and promises of riches into her mother brain.

“You don’t need to put it out,” Emma said. “Can I sit?”

Her mother scooched over, allowing a place for Emma to sit. Neither said anything for a long while.

Emma’s mother flicked the tip of her cigarette against her knee. “What are you doing out?” 

Emma said, “I don’t know, just thought I’d go for a walk. You?”

“Wanted to smell the outdoors,” she sighed.

“I don’t know how you can smell anything over that.” Emma said.

“Is this what we’re doing now? We just gonna be sarcastic and short?” She took a drag and blew it out the side of her mouth. “Come on, you’re, what, seventy, seventy-five? You should be better at this than me by now.”

“I know. You’re right.”

Emma’s mother scoffed, “I’m what? Oh my, I can die happy now, someone told me I’m right.”

Emma closed her eyes flinchingly. “I’m sorry, mom”

“Oh, now you’re sorry? Sorry for what? For telling me I’m right?”

Emma remained silent.

Emma’s mother looked to the road, took another drag from her cigarette, “I’m not putting it out.”

Emma opened her eyes. “You don’t have to.”

“Well there’s something new.”

“I’m sorry.” Those two words held all the meaning they needed, and they both felt their impact. After all the hardship her mother endured from her own father; kicked out multiple times for the smallest offence, each time wandering the streets of Manchester, in search of a payphone for her aunt to pick her up. The last time ended with two men finding her, dragging her into an ally. Then she married dad, had two kids, and gave up on her dream of becoming a hairdresser, for the kids she never wanted. All those hollow nights waiting for Dad to come home from work. Home from the bar. Home from his self-medication. Just home. She craved an intimate connection with the person she fell in love with, but never was able to see the chained up box that was his emotions. Both of Emma’s parents did the best they could with what they were taught. But what they were taught was caustic. All parents like this can only bleed on their children. The criticisms and condescension, mockery and conceit, constraint and belittling. These were her mother’s to endure from her father. Always never enough. Always silenced. Always numb. Emma stood and opened her arms wide. “Come on, Mom.”

Her mother tapped her cigarette and peered up at her daughter, maybe thirty years her senior. She stood and embraced her.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, sweet.”

Emma pulled away, and the face she beheld was no longer that of her mother. The face was now her own. But not the child; an older Emma, that of when she was a teenager.

“She’s slowly killing herself and you just make nice with that?” Younger Emma tore away from her older counterpart and backed onto the street. “She can’t put those fucking things down, Emma! Her fingers are turning yellow, she hacks up a lung every morning, the house reeks of smoke, and she never moves from that chair!

“That’s not her fault.”

“How do you figure that one?” Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “How is this not her fault?”

“She did only what she knew. Those gave her a comfort she couldn’t get elsewhere.”

“Maybe if she focused more on her family instead of those cigarettes, she’d have found that comfort.”

The telephone wires above the road reflected an oncoming light.

“What family, Emma? Our father was gone most of the time, and when he was home, he was drinking, playing some game, or sleeping. He denied her that comfort. He hated her smoking as well, shamed her for it every chance he got, because that’s what he thought teaching was, because that’s how he was taught. She cried every night on the couch because of him. And we took his side.”

The traffic lines on the road began to brighten.

“We knew how bad cigarettes were, we knew how deadly they were, so we saw what he said to her as coming from a place of love. We were so caught up in the idea of losing her to lung cancer that we ignored the cancer in her marriage.” Emma reached a hand out to her younger self, “Now please, get out of the road.”

Younger Emma remained still. “Dad was too busy working his ass off, keeping a roof over our heads, too tired all the time to do much else about it. All Mom had to do was make dinner. She barely even had to clean because we did most of that!” Deep lines cracked her face as tears flowed through them. “How dare you take the side of that lazy bitch!”

Headlights appeared, cresting over the horizon of the road. 

“Emma, please get out of the road!”

“Remember when we were four and she tied us down to our bed to make sure we wouldn’t get up? What fucking excuse does Mom have for being so cold?”

“She didn’t want kids. She didn’t want us. Motherhood was hoisted upon her, she did only what she knew. Come here, Emma, I love you, just please! I forgive you!”

“I don’t want your forgiveness.” The car took her.

The car halted, its red brake lights flaring and then fading back as the white back up lights turned on. 

“Come on in, Emma.” Her father shouted out the driver’s window.

Emma stepped around to the passenger side and got in. 

“I heard you were walking to the gazebo barefoot, and I thought I’d give you a lift.” Her father, appearing in his late forties set the car in drive and sped away. “I can’t really say you’d catch your death of cold or anything, but I thought you’d enjoy the ride anyway.”

“You know you just hit me?” Emma said.

“What? No, I just picked you up. Look in the back.”

Emma twisted in her seat and found herself staring back. She was older, early twenties, perhaps.

“I don’t know why he bothered. I was just walking down the street, and I never asked to be picked up, but here I am. Just like everything else in life, I don’t have a choice in the matter. Not like it matters much anyway.” 

Emma’s father gave her a tight-lipped smile, said, “I’m glad you grew up.”

“Thanks dad, love you too,” she said from the back seat.

“All I’m saying is that you were a bit much to handle back then. You never stopped thinking, which is good, don’t me wrong, but, you never stopped thinking about the negative. You’d think and think and think on one topic for days, and then just stop once you found what you were looking for, which was always negative. I’m just glad you eventually started to see the positive.”

Back seat Emma was silent. They were all quiet for a while. The muffled roar of the engine was the only sound she heard. Older Emma flicked her attention to the rear-view mirror every few seconds just to make sure she was still in back. Each time she glanced, she was met with a hard stare.

“You’re dead, Emma,” her younger self said.

“Emma!” yelled her father. 

“I already knew that,” she interjected.

“Still, I was hoping to keep this ride nice and positive.”

“Death sounds pretty positive to me,” mumbled younger Emma.

They all lurched forward as her father slammed on the breaks. A station wagon cut in front of them with a screech, but merely crept forward, going maybe 10 or 15 miles per hour. Emma’s father rolled down his window, leaned out fist first, yelled, “fucking whore, go home and die on your own time!” 

Emma knew from years of experience that this is what he would have finished saying, had he not caught a glimpse of the driver. Emma saw only after she noticed the sick grimace of fear in her father’s expression. She could see, from the reflection of the station wagon’s side mirror, that this asshole was in fact much worse than any ordinary traffic jerk. This was her grandfather. 

He died before Emma could ever know him, but he appeared just as she had always seen him in the portrait left on her father’s desk. All she knew of him was the psychological tragedy he left behind in her father. A monster of a man, her grandmother told her of the many women he would molest and rape while working as a city bus driver in Manchester. He’d wait till his shift was nearly done, and if there happened to be a young woman still in the bus, unattended, he would park the bus somewhere in the darkness of the city. After he got home, he would ignore his wife, if she were even home from her job at the hospital, find his son and beat him. It didn’t take much provocation. Emma’s father once told her, while cutting grass with the push mower, he had stopped to take a break from the summer heat. His father saw this, grabbed a shovel, and slammed his son to the ground, kept on pounding him on the back as his son went fetal. On the best of days, Emma’s grandfather would only demand his son clean his feet.

After returning from his station overseas, Emma’s father came home to see his family for the first time in over eight years, only for his father to try the same old tricks. This time, he was the one who was beaten. He never interacted with his father ever again, until he died on Emma’s fourth birthday. But from her own broken upbringing, Emma never thought the revenge her father reaped against his own father amounted to anything close to closure. 

The door slammed shut before Emma could register her father’s absence. Young Emma left as well, leaving Older Emma alone in the car. She watched as her father yanked open the driver’s side door of the station wagon, struggling with the driver as he attempted to pull his father out. Young Emma ran to her father shouting and pulling the back of his shirt. He swatted her back, Young Emma stumbling back a few steps, granting him enough time to pull his father free and slam him to the ground. 

Emma’s father straddled her grandfather, old but not elderly, and gripped his throat. Her father screamed, letting loose all the things he wanted to say to his father, but never had the chance to; never chose to in living years. It all came out with a lurch of sound, berating the older man incoherently, her father’s anger poisoning his ability to speak.

Young Emma regained her footing and launched herself at her father, wrapping her arms around his neck to pry him off. Releasing one hand from his father’s throat, he reared back and wrestled Young Emma’s arms off him and tried pushing her back once more, but Young Emma was better prepared this time. Her fist connected heavily, knocking her father onto his side, freeing her grandfather. 

Older Emma’s head snapped back in time with the hit. It was happening again, all over again. In an instant, the memory of her father pinning her mother onto the bed, shouting, her mother pleading that it hurt, Emma wrestling her father off, punching him across the jaw, being thrown to the ground and pummeled in return. Older Emma, still in her seat, looked beyond the fight in front of her and saw, one after the other, station wagon after station wagon pulled onto the road, as if on cue, her grandfather at the wheel. This would never end, unless she did something. 

Older Emma stepped out of the car, shouted, “Emma! He can’t stop himself!”

Younger Emma looked back towards the car just as her father stood, reached down and grasped Emma on both arms, shoving her backward. She stumbled and crashed to the ground. Emma’s father turned back to her prone grandfather, red-faced and whimpering. 

Older Emma ran to Younger Emma, knelt next to her. “Don’t try to stop him. He never regretted this all his life. He never changed. He never knew how.”

“But what about him?” Younger Emma cried. “He’s gonna beat him to death!”

Older Emma looked on as her father beat his. There wasn’t much of a face left on her grandfather. Most of it was blood covered, and the rest was swollen purple. She heard a snap, and idly wondered if that was her grandfather’s cheek bone shattering, or her father’s knuckles. 

“Would that be so bad?”

Young Emma drew in a sharp breath and exhaled a clipped, “yes.”

“You’ve been told by now who that man is. I hear each punch as justice for each of those women on his bus. Each grunt as a rhythmed apology uttered in equal cadence to what he did to his son. There is one other thing he’s done that you don’t know yet. This father, our father you see here, knows what else his father did. And that is why he’ll kill his father, and each one after this.”

Younger Emma finally saw the other station wagons. None has moved, all just idling in the street, going on for as long as the street. 

“Let’s go for a walk. There’s somewhere I need to be anyway.”

Emma helped herself up and embraced shortly before moving onto the sidewalk to continue her journey to the gazebo.

“Don’t look back,” said Older Emma. “It’ll never stop. And for what it’s worth, I don’t like this any more than you do. While I don’t feel much empathy for our grandfather, I do for our father. This is detrimental to his mental health. He shouldn’t be doing it, even if his father deserves it. And as much as it hurts to see this, know this is not your fight. It is not your responsibility to heal our father, or save him from this behavior. It’s not your responsibility to fix him. Understand where he’s coming from, why he became the person that he is, and use that knowledge to engender a sense of empathy towards him. Then you can choose to forgive him or not. That’s up to you.”

“Did you forgive him?” 

Older Emma walked in silence for a time, and it was only once she spoke did she realize she was holding her younger’s hand. “I did. But that doesn’t mean I condone or excuse his behavior. I simply understand why he acts this way. That understanding allows me to move on with my own life, eliminates the “why mes?” and the “if onlys”. And it also allows me to see our father’s growth. Being raised by a man like that, attending a military academy and later serving eight years overseas, it’s honestly remarkable how he turned out. He’s certainly better than his own father. And then that in turn grants me the perspective to see that we can learn just as much from the people who abuse us as the people who don’t. I learned quite a lot from our father. Mostly how not to act.”

Younger Emma squeezed Older Emma’s hand tightly, then let go, and was gone.

Emma moved through the town as if pushed by the wind. It directed her, kept up her pace, and in doing so relieved her anxiety over moving forward. The night sky had gradually clouded over, and a light snow had begun to descend. The wind whipped up and the snow, faster, fell. Soon the sidewalk was covered in heavy globs of snow. It built up around the streetlamps, a halo emerging from the light. Below one such halo, seemingly blown in from some incorporeal somewhere, stood Emma’s brother.

“Hey, little bro.” 

Emma stopped, head churning, heart pounding. She knew, somewhere deep inside she’d have to come across him at some point in this… place. It was a matter of time. Process of elimination. Diminishing returns. Long dead memories pierced Emma’s skull, as a ghastly silver mist erupt from beneath the crack. Lightening shot through her mind and struck Emma to her knees. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. A single sight of him laid her to waste.

“Jesus, you’re a mess. Fuck, all I said was hi. You really can’t stand a ‘hi’ from your older brother now? I was hoping we could at least talk, but I guess not.” 

An icy wind blew in, tossing fat flecks of snow into Emma’s face. The mist over her head coalesced into a dark burdening cloud, swirling, quicker than the wind. A shape emerged from within the cloud, that of an older, wiser person than the one who birthed it. The shape grew larger inside the cloud, pushing and straining against it, it’s movement akin to a fetus, until the grey smear could no longer contain it. The figure stepped out, pushing the cloud aside like a curtain. A cane clacked on the sidewalk. Emma crouched next to herself, laid her hands over her head where the crack was still open and hissing, and kissed her temple. Suddenly, the Emma brought low by her brother was gone. Only herself remained.

“You haven’t been my brother for many years, nor am I your ‘bro’.” Emma crooned 

“So you’ve said, but I don’t need your melodrama. I just want to talk.”

Emma said nothing.

“Okay, I guess I’ll start.” There was a long pause of defining silence. A feeling of superiority grew within him, like a rising tide and Emma wondered if she would be taken back with it. “Mom and dad divorced after you moved away. They hated what you did to yourself, everyone did honestly, but they didn’t agree on why they hated you. Mom had her religion and Dad was just… Dad. You broke them. Do you realize how it felt to be stuck in the middle of that? Do you understand just how much damage you caused and people you hurt? All for,” he gestured vaguely at Emma, “this?”

“I do understand.”

“Then why the fuck did you do it? Just because you feel a bit sensitive doesn’t mean you can just abandon your family.”

“All I did was become who I always was. All you and our parents had to do was change your minds, accept me as their daughter. I set a boundary for my own safety and mental health. I did nothing wrong.”

“Fuck you. Tell that to mom and dad, but you’ll have to explain yourself twice, because they live about two hours from each other.”

“Good. They should have divorced long before this.”

He shifted. He was now the age at which they had last spoken. This James was different from the previous one; vulnerable, pitiable. Purposefully so. Emma had seen this side of him many times. It was the line he would cast to always get another girl. The lure, like a name painted on the side of a bullet, read “fix me.”

“I’m having a hard time right now. I’m sorry for what I said about her. Honestly I don’t know where I’d be without you both. I love you both. I’m sorry bro.”

Emma heard, without speaking, “if you’re having a hard time, then go see a therapist.”

“Yeah. I’m going to. But I also just wanted to talk to you because I do wanna talk things over and smooth everything out. Mom told me about your back too. I’m sorry to hear about that. Just know I love you.”

“We can talk if you want me to explain my reasoning to you, just know that our situation won’t change.”

He grimaced, “For you to be that cold. Na, I’m good then. It won’t matter because I apparently still won’t have a brother.”

Emma said nothing. 

“So is that what you’re saying? You’ll explain how you feel but I’m not going to see you or basically have a brother?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Fuck you, bye.”

But he remained. Emma realized this conversation was a text chain. The last they had together. 

“Hey, little bro.” 

And it began again.

He never did let go. He never stopped trying to ease back into Emma’s life. He used their parents against her, appearing to them as the good son, reinforcing their doubts and anxieties about Emma’s choices. Joyful to talk with, easy to forget his nature. Emma never forgot what he did though. Who he was. She knew this was an act, an attempt at persuasion, with intent to manipulate. He gaslit those close to him; a necessity to maintain the fragile image he wished to project. All Emma’s attempts to explain what he did and who he was to their parents was thus moot. No amount of words could convince them, and so, Emma distanced herself from her family, as her brother became the gatekeeper. 

Emma did what she knew. She continued to walk. She had nothing more to say to him. In another age, in a younger self, James consumed her thoughts and dreams. Fear and anxiety, along with the occasional panic attack remained for years after she broke contact with him. Daydreaming, fantasizing arguments with James and sometimes their parents crowded her mind, and none of them ended the way she wanted them to. All they did was cause her more anxiety, catastrophizing every family gathering, every potential interaction. His presence, his very existence became a miasmic cloud, following her even into her dreams. He maintained his power over her, despite the boundaries she set and the distance between.

She realized much later, in order to break his hold, she had to let go. Her parents, she could understand, empathize with and forgive. There was very little she understood about her brother at his core. That unknown gnawed on her brain, till she realized it wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth the effort. Of course, knowing and feeling are two different things. It took time, as things always do. Recovery is a process, sometimes a lifelong endeavor. But in time, he gradually faded from her mind, like a gentle breeze scattering his cloud across the earth. The things he did to her and to others she saw would never leave her memory, but he no longer had control over those memories.

With each step, Emma heard a crack, like an ice cube dunked in warm water. She never heard him shatter, but she could feel it. 

Ahead, a light loomed. Atop a hill, the gazebo stood. And inside the gazebo, Tyler stood also. Emma had not expected to see him, but in her old age, even a surprise was mundane. Her old bones may be brittle, her muscles may be strings, but her resolve was iron.

Emma’s cane made a resounding tap against the wood steps of the gazebo, and she relished every movement. She finally felt at ease, her mind matched her body, and her age matched her mind.

“Hello,” Emma crooned. “What’s all this then?” She waved her cane in the air, knocking the noose hanging from the center of the roof.

Tyler looked bemused. “Well, it’s what we wanted right?”

Emma laughed, a drawn-out rasp. “Oh no, no. This is what you wanted. Not I. I’m perfectly content, thank you.”

“But we’re not happy. We hate ourselves. We can’t get away from ourselves. We’re always with ourselves.” Tyler took hold of the noose, framed his face with it. “This works.”

“You may hate yourself, but not me. I found who I am long ago, and who that is isn’t you.”

Emma looked past Tyler, to where a little girl, maybe six or seven, sat on one of the two benches of the gazebo. She sat there, bare feet planted to the cool wood floor, her elbows locked at her sides, a gentle smile playing across her lips. 

“You do what you think is best. I can’t tell you what to do with your life.” She trained her eyes on Tyler’s once more. “But I’d rather you didn’t. I have quite a few fond memories of you, you know.” She smiled that same gentle smile. “There’s something I need to do now. Maybe you could accompany me?” Emma weaved her arm through his. Little Emma stood and held her elder’s other hand.

“Ready?” Asked little Emma.

“I am,” older Emma replied, pulling Tyler in closer, shoulder to shoulder. “We both are.” 

 

Emma Briard is a nature lover at heart, who pulls inspiration for their writing while reflecting on life and the world around her from the solemnity offered by a walk in the forest. Working as a custodian also has its perks, mainly solitude, allowing ample time for thought. She has published three other stories in the Monadnock UndergroundKnocking,Dear Internet, and What Ends May Bring. Emma lives in northern Massachusetts with their queer spouse, their normal cat, Addy, and their maddening dog, Cooper. 

Three Poems by Thomas Hobohm

Stop Calling Me Smart and Have Sex with Me Right Now

I like running I like scissors I like blood I like it everywhere I like lying I like a good story I like my hair I like inhaling it I like choking I like to gag I like to yank I like the strands I like my esophagus I like self-control I like a soft pillow I like a warm bed I like hard literary drugs I like the rain I like the disgusting sun I like a clear sky I like lightning I like the public toilet I like Market St. I like the cage I like my body I like to beat the shit out of it I like coke I like a black toilet I like discovering new techniques I like torture I like the third floor window I like jumping I like two broken legs I like to choose my own adventure I like to strut around shirtless I like it rough I like you Now when are you going to break my heart I like you When are you going to I like you When I like When are you going to break I like you to break my heart When I like you are you going to break my heart When I like When

 

I Did It All for Love

Seriously, I bought reference books
on flowers, birds, and cacti,
because I wanted to write poetry
that felt real, like the greats,

those disgusting men.
When I read Rimbaud,
I googled each awful plant
and tried to draw it in the margins.

God, it’s a beautiful world,
but nobody taught me
how to name it, as a child
without vocal cords

I admired everything and
didn’t care for symbols.
Now, the same lukewarm words,
always the green trees, pretty flowers,

white snow, bright sun, tall shadows,
love, death, grief, joy,
and I, I wish it all
added up

to something.
I wish you, reader,
saw your reflection here
and found it unrecognizable,

how I felt the first time
I read Natalie Diaz
with a dry mouth and
geckos all over.

 

New Year’s Eve, 2022-2023

It’s a grimy elevator. Quick,
get in. You’re serving so much cunt
I’m scared, it’s terrifying, I’m shaking
in my black leather boots, genuine 4-inch heels,
half my size, but who’s counting? Now
gay men of a certain age take sports
seriously, too seriously for me,
I just lift weights and shower
with a bottle of muscle milk, brown chocolate
running down my chin, cutting the steam. I walked
backwards into all my deepest desires,
that’s how I ended up here, lost
in a nightclub so unfathomable
it even has an elevator! A godsend, can’t take
the stairs in these platforms,
you know how it is. I’m dancing so hard
that all my limbs, but especially my right instep,
hurt like hell. If I can do this, couldn’t I
play tennis, too? He’s obsessed with it,
I’m obsessed with him; it just makes sense.
But he likes older guys. He likes older
guys. I could take tennis classes, I could
go to a camp, it wouldn’t matter.
I’m so far gone. This DJ is great. I’m
getting stronger every day.

 

Thomas Hobohm (they/them) lives in San Francisco but grew up in Texas. They never learned how to drive. They like playing volleyball and watching old movies. They have work published or forthcoming in So to Speak, just femme & dandy, and Stone of Madness.

Memory Holds by Kwame Sound Daniels

in conversation with Makshya Tolbert’s Becoming Water in Emergence Magazine

Water was always something I was immersed in. Water held me. Water was me. A bathtub the shape of the human body. In the body, a small ocean.. 

Water holds memory. I know that. I can feel it in the automatic way my muscles expand and contract when I dice garlic, when, even after becoming disabled, I know instinctively how much coriander goes into lentil soup. Water knows. I know. It’s in my mouth, my veins, my eyes.

Brains are elastic because they are water. Water holds memory. The brain cradles that memory. The brain tends to it. Sometimes, if the memory is too much for the water to hold, the brain does not hold it. The brain cannot contain it. But my brain has always held too much. There hasn’t been enough room for me to be. The memory is all that there is.

I am memory because I am water. I am a composite being of reactions. That is all knowledge is: memory and reaction. Water is flexible. The brain is elastic. If you set your finger upon the surface of a pond, it will ripple until the water remembers the shape of your finger, and then it is like it has always known your finger, it has always been that your finger was there. That is because water knows itself. /

Water is flexible. It settles where it must. It finds places to fill naturally. It has a course. Toni Morrison spoke about the way the Mississippi river flooded. Water remembered where it always was, and so naturally tried to return. My people are made of water. We are always trying to return. In Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon, the protagonist flies. That is because he is made of water. He rises with the clouds. Despite how he fucked up, he belonged in the firmament where the ancestors escaped. My people belong in the atmosphere, refracting light through our water droplets, melding together and coming apart and floating and being carried —-weightless. We deserve to not have to carry this weight. But water holds memory. So it will always be with us no matter how much the wind carries us.

Sometimes, our hurt is like a pressure-cooker. The water boils and builds until the memory is locked inside us, until we are bursting with the heat, until we cook and cook and only find release in outbursts. That is how my water was. My water would boil. I would burst. I would scream. My heat was hurtful. I burned to touch. Others burned me when I was touched. That is how it feels to be held, even now. Because my water remembers the heat.

My people drowned in the Atlantic. The Atlantic carried my people. The Atlantic remembers us. We are in the water until the end of the earth. We are carried in the ocean’s denizens, and the ocean’s denizens are consumed. How many of my ancestors have I eaten? How much does my body remember of their pain? Water holds memory. My people know me. My body knows my people. Maybe this is why I feel bugs in my skin: my water remembers their infestations. I am being haunted by my ancestors’ water. I no longer eat fish.

I feel not-quite-here. I feel empty. I feel full. My water holds too much. My water doesn’t have room for me. I keep thinking of the way I can’t think when I’m like this. Like I’m out of my body. Like I am a cloud and my skin is transvective. When my hands touch something it’s like an intrusion, and they have to adjust before they remember what touch is. My hands on my own skin burn. That is because my water remembers the heat. 

Sometimes, the water gets to be too much. The dragging of my own nails across my skin burns. But I itch. Because my skin won’t retain the water. Because the water gets to be too much. Because the water holds memory and my brain won’t forget. I remember everything except sound. I cannot retain sounds. Water doesn’t hold sound well. To remember a song I have to listen to it over and over again until the ripples in my water remember the rippling. I remember everything else. Everything.

I remember what it was like to be in love. I had never felt anything like it before. It was like being at the bottom of the ocean and knowing the water around me would protect me just as easily as it could crush me. It was like all the sound in the world was muted. My feelings ran deep. Undisturbed. They ran warm and cold. And then they didn’t run at all. My feelings sat there, inside my depths, until the water dissolved them. Because my water remembered all the hurts that came with feeling. And there was more hurt that my water could hold than love. It fell out of me, that love. It drained away. And I was left feeling like I had awoken from a dream. But I remember what it was like, to be in love. I’m not sure my water will ever have room to carry that feeling again.

But I love my people. My people-in-the-water. My lost family. I can’t not love them. Because my water knows their water — listen! Do you hear that? My water is moving. It’s too full to slosh. But you can hear the vibrations, can’t you? Can’t you?

Water holds memory. Water holds me. I never drink enough water. I think that’s because I have too much. I salivate so easily. If I hold my mouth open it drips. It falls from me. No matter how little water I’ve drank. I think I am an endless well of water. It’s all the memory I can’t talk about trying to escape.

Listen. I know what you’re thinking. How can you remember everything? But I can. I remember my birth mother’s arms around me. I remember the first night I had robitussin. I remember when another child irrevocably changed the course of my life, made too much memory for my water to hold, even then. I remember the floor was damp. It was a grimy bathroom. I remember. My water knows it. My body knows it. That’s why I am a cloud in a shirt. That’s why I float away. Because I am trying to return. And I want the wind to carry me.

 

Kwame Sound Daniels is a traditional and fiber artist based out of Maryland. Xe are an Anaphora Arts Residency Fellow and an MFA candidate for Vermont College of Fine Arts. Xir first collection of poetry, Light Spun, was published in 2022 with Perennial Press. Xir second book, the pause and the breath, was on Lambda Literary’s Most Anticipated for January and came out in 2023 with Atmosphere Press. Kwame learns plant medicine, paints, and makes what can tentatively be called potions in xir spare time.

Illogical Propositions by Jade Wallace

when solutions are concessions 
to a hegemonic logic, nonsense 
may become a necessity 
I want to be a creature 
inscrutable to a computer 
1 w@nt to be a code so 1nconsistent 
that it’s nothing but 1ntuit1on


if a = a
and ~a = a
(because sometimes @ = a,
though others @ = @)
then there’s no way to know
what a or @ signify
and the only way to
sense their m3aning
is 2 throw two @pples into the air
knowing you will never
get them back


let’s pink slip the light fantastic 
slapdash off of every last 
matchmaker platform and 
incongrue their mim3tic 
magnet1c patterns 
let’s refuse to be fractions 
held together by multiple 
diffuse dependencies 
we’re a euplastic prec@ri@ 
one evolutionary step away 
from the prokaryote, having 
grown up in environments 
made for extremophiles


because if I = I
and ~ I = I
(for instance when 1 = I,
though not when 1 = 1)
then I becomes 1 and
1 becomes indivisible

 

Jade Wallace (they/them) is the reviews editor for CAROUSEL, co-founder of the collaborative writing entity MA|DE, and the author of the debut poetry collection Love Is A Place But You Cannot Live There (Guernica Editions 2023) and the collaborative poetry collection ZZOO (Palimpsest Press, 2025). Keep in touch: jadewallace.ca.

You Already Forgot by C. M. Green

So what is the future again? Every time I think I know, it comes, and then it isn’t the future anymore. It’s not stable, just like me.

I have six questions for you:

  1. What do you remember about year three?
  2. What do you remember about your favorite aunt?
  3. What do you remember about him—yeah, him, you know who I’m talking about.
  4. What do you remember about your thirty-second birthday? Do not tell me it hasn’t yet happened. Just tell me what you remember about it.
  5. What do you remember about the kitchen growing up?
  6. What do you remember about me?

Why bother with memory, when we’re thinking about the future? 

Let me tell you what I remember: I remember seeing my reflection in a doorway in a Church and calling myself a dyke in my head. I remember looking at David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust and wondering what, exactly, I wanted. I remember shoulder blades on older women. I remember getting married in a pale blue suit. I remember dying in a train because it seems like the most fashionable way to die.

I have legs. Two of them. Today I scrambled up the side of a mountain and they burned. Tomorrow I will scramble up the side of a mountain and they will burn. Do you hear me yet? Does your body hear me? Listen to your fingernails as they tap on the keys and ask them what they remember. What is memory to a fingernail? What is memory to you?

I don’t think I believe in the future, actually. Actually, I don’t think I believe in the future. Five minutes ago the screen I’m staring at was blank, and I remember that, but I don’t remember what I’m going to write next. 

I remember being a girl. I remember not being a girl. I remember trying on my dad’s suits for the first time and I remember chopping my hair off in a dorm bathroom. I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t think my gender is anything but memory. Echoes of ways I used to feel. Legs burning, mountains climbing mountains. Shoulder blades and Ziggy Stardust. Like flowers in a vase.

I don’t think I believe in the future, but the past hasn’t broken free yet. It’s trying to, and then I guess I won’t have a past to believe in, either. I’ve lost harder things than that. I’ve lost memories before.

 

C. M. Green (they/them) is a Boston-based writer and theater artist with a focus on history, memory, gender, and religion. Their work has been published in fifth wheel press, Bullshit Lit, and elsewhere. You can find their writing at catmaxinegreen.com, or follow them on Twitter @cmgreenery.