Category: Issue #24

appalachia, underwater

no i won’t trust the current
this isn’t a cleansing
fuck noah and his diamond ark
our roofs are sinking beneath the water
silt-made stillness runs down           
undelivered
I’m watching my body drown on instagram
the messages switch to infection-green
chin-high catastrophe
web-cams dark
even the surveillance
won’t hold
news, curfew, shelter in    
place   I
know this              
place I am this     
place
red shoveled        
samaritans won’t you        
answer me answer the       
lines down           
kicking   out         
no one text me     everyone
comfort                 me, the animal     trying
to climb out and up
my own  shoulders
like a      powerline like  the
black bears who
scrabbled fifty
feet high in the oak before
the clouds cracked             
sick, expectant    
there’s a sound
a high flexing pitch            
my messages won’t deliver               
tell me you’re
okay       tell me you’re     
safe are you there are you
here are you I can only       watch
the river eat my
own face
on twitter              
but this is what we get
right
this is what they say we
deserve

after the storm

most losses I still want to talk about.
I’m tempted by the tending—
I can either bow down and blabber
or enjoy another dream about drowning.

my accent comes crawling back
mid-conversation,
buckteeth bloody.

I spit recognition in the sink and
leave dinner early,
itching, pissed off
over god and other betrayals.

before bed,
I consider lowering my arms.
I consider taking aim.

I consider planting
both feet
in both worlds.

then again, the water.
cars filling up.
memories of the storm i wasn’t
home for.

each night
the grief of a nightmare reveals itself—
in waking,
the pain is suddenly
made fiction, my agony

unjustified.

 

Kelsey Day is a writer from southern Appalachia, writing about land and liberation. You can read more of their work at www.kelseydays.com. 

出卖 SELL OUT

i don’t wanna go back to a time

where i cared abt u less

slicing the roast

thick like my father

the roast is my father

fashioning sadness into a dismal suit

 

MICHAEL CHANG (they/them) is the author of many volumes of poetry, including TOY SOLDIERS (Action, Spectacle, 2024), THINGS A BRIGHT BOY CAN DO (Coach House Books, 2025), & HEROES (845 Press, 2025).

Exhibition Notes: Portrait of Arapaima at the All-Night Diner

Oil upon oil. The arapaima is dressed for a night on the town: spangled slab of muscle, scales laced with neon. A fry cook is hollering Drown the kids! meaning two boiled eggs because all children can be made to order. The arapaima already carries eggs in its mouth, which is labyrinth-shaped, strung with possible selves like rivers of white thread. Alternative title: The future you pretended not to hear cracks against your teeth, a hailstone caged in glass. Last call now, when the dinosaurs take off their feathers and become bones. When the mammoths fold themselves into amber and fuel pumps. When the moon empties out like a packet of sugar and the arapaima is left alone with its own hard skin, hard tongue. Alternative title: When you are alone, you surface within your armor and find it has not protected but drowned you. Faces shove against the diner window. They want to take pictures with a body around their necks, draped so both ends point away from heaven. An article says the arapaima is invading Florida, meaning its corpse has been found there. The author emphasizes the ugliness of the species, its appetite. Alternative title: You become a queer elder by accident, not because you are good at living but because you are slow at dying. The arapaima orders the whole menu but finds it cannot swallow, its jaws too full of hallways, of corridors, of children’s names. Perhaps another word for armor is curse: to wander until you find the end of your own hungers. To be slow at dying. To be gripped by the world’s fist like a grease stain, blemish against blemish, oil upon oil. 

 

Loren Maria Guay is a genderqueer Latine poet and speculative fiction writer. Their poems have been published in ANMLY, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Breakwater Review, West Trade Review, and elsewhere; they have been a finalist for the 2022 Peseroff Prize in Poetry, a Best of the Net nominee, and a 2024 Periplus Fellow. Born in Asunción, Paraguay and raised in Brooklyn, they currently spend their time between Chicago and Ann Arbor, where they are pursuing a PhD in English and Education at the University of Michigan.

struck down / I really can’t do weed

making hot tea; gone cold. Copter
sounds circle the city, buzzards soaring
around the wildebeest, faltering. Stuck
on the train for hours as the rain drowns
down. yet
another beautiful day. Not picking up
the phone because I know what it will 
say. It tells me you got too high and it 
was all resting on a pinpoint, balancing
on your brilliance, which cannot last.
I don’t even believe this yet
wormholes in the wood weaving wandering
ways through the rain.
a white shopping bag drifts through an azure
so pure it might be water, an aeronautic
cnidarian like my boyfriend’s dad believes
drift above us, bioluminescent, getting
caught in spyplane photographs.
it would be easy and simple to become
convinced of something wrong and
maybe I’ve given myself brain damage
permanently. maybe the trains will never
run again and maybe they’ll poison the water.

 

endwell is an androgyne writer, composer, artist, and researcher originally hailing from unceded Onondaga territory (Central New York). Their poetry has been published previously in As It Ought To Be Magazine and Angel Rust Mag. They are also the author of four poetry zines, which can be found at endwell.itch.io. Find their other work at virgilsbirds.wordpress.com.

supreme

I listened to the same song for 3 days
feeling alone in the woods.
On the fourth day the basement flooded.
I lay towels in the opening
but it’s useless.
Everything rushes in.
I watched your funeral on YouTube
and didn’t cry once
but I cry during Real Housewives of Salt Lake City 
when they cry. 
Lisa Barlow threw her husband’s rolex
out of the car window and it happened to be
by a Taco Bell. 
Grief is soft then hard.
Without a smell or taste.
I am craving a Crunchwrap Supreme
with Diablo sauce. 
My shoulder and neck on the left side
have started hurting, like someone
pressing down 
and I wonder if that is you 
or if I have been carrying myself
all wrong.

 

supreme

I 3 dagar lyssnade på samma sång
och kände mig ensam i skogen.
På den fjärde dagen översvämmade källaren.
Jag lägger handdukar i öppningen
men det är meningslöst.
Allt rusar in.
Jag kollade på din begravning på YouTube
och grät inte ens en gång
men jag gråter till Real Housewives of Salt Lake City
när dom gråter.
Lisa Barlow slängde sin mans Rolexklocka
genom bilfönstret och det råkade va 
vid en Taco Bell. 
Sorgen är hård sen mjuk.
Utan lukt eller smak.
Jag vill ha en Crunchwrap Supreme
med Diablosås.
Min axel och nacke på vänstra sidan 
har börjat göra ont, som någon
trycker ner
och jag undrar om det är du
eller om jag har hållit mig 
helt fel.

 

dandelions

The new cat climbs the window screen
and peers inside. 
Little skywalker 
shitting on the steps. 
I move the litter box 
around all day 
but she’s not interested
in my kind of society. 

*

Dad wearing a bicycle helmet
and backpack.
We are going fast around a lake. 
Me on the seat behind him.
Some kind of race.
He hands me cold mamma scans
meatballs,
reaching behind
to entertain me.

*

It’s easy to forget how to be a person.
It’s easy to become someone else. 
I’m watching a man with face tattoos 
make a dandelion sandwich on my phone.

*

The summer was a blur and fall broke
into many pieces. A song.
Imperfect shards.
Every time I blink it takes a screenshot 
and stores it, 
like now, 
like now

*

Did you know
it is illegal in some states 
to collect rain without a permit? 
I confess, Mr Rain police.
In my defense
it was raining hard, so hard, 
all night.
What was I supposed to do?

*

While I’m confessing:
I’m jealous of the cats,
even that one
scratching up my arm
when I pet wrong.
The new one,
the crooked old one,
all of the past and present cats,
their papers
in order, their passion 
to nap 
the day away.

*

How much grief
to fill a human body?
How many
birds? Blue herons 
or sparrows?
Be specific. 
How many leaky rain barrels 
of moldy yesterday tears,
approximately?

*

I like to think of him young
at the racetrack,
cool and in love,
moving quickly
with purpose,
picking up cigarette butts
and relighting them.  

*

She’s resting now
on both paws
in the small cake-slice window
of wild sunlight.

 

maskroser

Den nya katten klättrar på fönsterskyddet
och tittar in.
Lilla skywalker
skiter på trappan.
Jag flyttar runt kattlådan
hela dagen
men hon är inte intresserad
av min typ av samhälle.

*

Pappa har cykelhjälm
och ryggsäck.
Vi åker fort kring en sjö.
Jag i sätet bakom.
Nåt sorts lopp.
Han ger mig kalla mamma scans
köttbullar,
sträcker sig tillbaka
för att underhålla mig.

*

Det är lätt att glömma hur man ska va en person.
Det är lätt att bli nån annan.
Jag kollar på en man med ansiktstatueringar
som gör en maskrosmacka på min telefon.

*

Sommaren var suddig och hösten brast
i många bitar. En sång. 
Operfekta skärvor.
Varje gång jag blinkar tar den en skärmdump
och sparar den,
som nu,
som nu

*

Visste du att
det är olagligt i vissa stater
att samla regnvatten utan tillstånd?
Jag erkänner, herr regnpolis.
I mitt försvar:
det regnade så hårt, så hårt,
hela natten. 
Vad skulle jag göra?

*

Medans jag erkänner:
Jag är avundsjuk på katterna,
till och med den 
som river upp min arm
när jag stryker fel.
Den nya,
den gamla krokiga,
alla katter från förr och nu,
deras papper
i ordning, deras passion
for att sova
dagen bort.

*

Hur mycket sorg
för att fylla en människokropp?
Hur många
fåglar? Blåhäger eller
sparvar?
Va exakt. 
Hur många läckande regntunnor
med möglig igårgråt,
ungefär?

*

Jag gillar att tänka på honom ung,
på travet,
cool och kär,
snabba och meningsfulla
rörelser,
plockar upp cigarettfimpar
och tänder igen.

*

Nu sover na
på båda tassarna
i det lilla tårtbitsfönstret
av vilt solsken. 

 

Kim Göransson (they) is from Sweden but live in VA with their family. They like to bake, make playlists, and get lost in nature. They like tinned fish, brie, sad movies, and pro wrestling. Shinsuke Nakamura fan. Editing for Superfan Zine and Meow Meow Pow Pow lit. You can find them @sonofgore on instagram.

I’m Ashamed to Say It Out Loud

But the scent of blood through denim
is a thick perfume of need, slickening
my other lips. I have no words
to ask for what I want: to coat you
with my filth, then lick it clean.
My belly is bloated with excess
ache, so hot it could melt
the silicone between us. Let me wet
your phantom limb and choke
on my apology. Each touch is a soft
error, a new stain on the comforter,
another bullet point in my list
of embarrassments, but my full mouth
can’t stop begging even though I know
it’s impolite. I’m sorry. My uterus
is too heavy to move. Let’s just lie
here instead.

Kissing the Rose

O dirty secret, puckered aperture,
little well I have whispered my wishes
into, you greet me clenched like a jawbone
on a sleepless night. Quotidian embarrassment,
asterisk to a forbidden paragraph,
I lizard-tongue into your eager heat,
tease the thin membrane between pleasure
and disgust. O beads of sweat bedazzling
your skin, I lap you up until you’re soaked
in salt and brine. Outside, the envious night
dulls its gleaming teeth. I heave my thighs
over your greedy mouth and take my turn.

 

Ally Ang is a gaysian poet & editor based in Seattle. Their debut poetry collection, Let the Moon Wobble, is forthcoming from Alice James Books in November 2025. Find them at allysonang.com or @TheOceanIsGay.

Forthcoming Body of Work

The Body is still warm and 
It’s up against the wall for a stick up
It’s peeled fresh and ripe for artmaking
It’s stiff and positioned towards Orion’s Belt
It’s bloated, sewn shut, and full of empty policy 
Its blood smeared on the floor in the shape of an ankh

The Body is still warm and the poets grow wings to circle it
Squawk at it until the sound echos back familiar, picking at the remains
To smear onto fellowship applications 
For residencies in its bone marrow
The presses clip the fingernails for prize money

The Body is still warm and the news trucks are parallel parking 
But one of the tires is still stuck in its eye socket
The colleges are inviting unbiased professors of murder 
To analyze the legitimacy of its last breaths 
On panels about the restorative effects of embalming
 
The Body is still warm and I, standing across the street from it
Am making sure the seal on my mask has not been broken

Later tonight there will be a vigil/fundraiser 
For families of those who happened to witness The Body 
Lying there in the street 
Who may have been affected by the open eyes
No one thought to close

The Body is still warm and I will be forced to study it while it leaks
Dip my fingers into the fluid and 
Write about how it tastes like
Grandma’s collard greens
Pinch the skin and say its made of cobalt
Pry open the mouth
Identify the open wound as my own
Write from the pew of a funeral I’ve never been to

The Body is still warm and I, too, am
Motionless…praying the pandemonium will cease
Praying the wet and sticky on my fingers
Has not been mine the whole time

 

Jay Délise (they/them) (official jester of Sugar Hill) is a writer, performance artist, and eater of grapes, based in Harlem, New York. They have performed at the United Nations, the Schomburg Center, Judson Church, the Pulitzer Center, and Roundhouse. Their 2020 self-published poetry collection, tenderhead. debuted at #1 in the poetry audiobook category on Libro.fm, and their work has been featured in publications including Glass Poetry Press, the Huffington Post, Lucky Jefferson, AFROPUNK, Brooklyn Poets, Vagabond City, and Triangle House. Jay has been a teacher and clown consultant/director for almost a decade (old), and their work smells of mischief, church giggles, and being barefoot on unfinished hardwood floors. They enjoy stealing from white people, bad wigs, being gay, fart jokes, jazz music, free art, and assuming their mother/father wounds are undetectable, but writing poems about them anyway.

never/again

sticking the psych ward oral 
thermometer under my tongue
in its single use plastic
sheathing, i suddenly think
about sucking my ex’s
strap. i wrote about them 
a lot when i psych-
warded myself a year ago, right before 
we started dating. last time 
i mentioned them in a poem
i compared them to cat shit—
something i’ve never put in my mouth,
never let inside of me.

 

my bisexual autofiction fantasy

getting kicked out of the mental health hospital because i got caught letting the two cute bisexual cis girlies eiffel tower me with my electric toothbrush and their fists in the tv room at 1 am, on a mattress i pulled out of an unlocked closet. the tv room was also supposed to be locked. we got caught because i had turned the news on to muffle my noises, but the light in the dark room attracted the tech doing rounds to the window, which we couldn’t get away from, even in the corner of the room. i admitted to the psych ward because it seemed like my cis friends back home were not going to do their part of the group project of keeping me alive, and now i’ve been discharged, just because i believe sex is a form of care! so i’m here, standing under a tree in the rain in belmont massachusetts, waiting for a bus to take me to south station so i can get back to my phd program in new haven. the rain running down my face is reminding me of the strings of spit leaking out of my mouth from around the beautiful bisexual’s fist last night. the easy breezy beautiful bisexuals didn’t get discharged because they were both bipolar and dealing with manic episodes. i was only on the ward for saturday and sunday nights, so never got to meet with a psychiatrist or social worker because i was deemed a “nuisance transsexual” monday morning and removed by security, who unfortunately looked very straight. still, insurance covered my stay, so it only cost me a $150 emergency room copay to fulfill my most bisexual lesbian fantasy. maybe my mental health. one of my beautiful, beautiful manic pixie dream cis bisexual two-day girlfriends managed to slip a note with both their phone numbers on the back of a piece of admissions paperwork into my bag before the neurotypical cis-het security guards escorted me out.

 

or a phalloplasty

still horny in the mental
hospital. shout out to women.
the new porn star i follow
posts several bikini clips
every day. i jerk off mostly
to cisgender power swaps:
femmedom, pegging, bondage—
big titties in a bikini 
turn me on but don’t
get me off. lesbian porn typically
doesn’t make me cum. i need
a real penis on one of them,
who gets fingered, fucked
in her real ass with a strap.
there’s many more cis
pegging clips than real lesbian
vids with trans women.
the only other bisexual here
on the ward discharged after three days.
her tigger t-shirt inspired me
to think about bouncing on it, but hard
to say if she owned a strap.
she only mentioned a boyfriend
and most cis people will trip and fall over
themselves to tell me their partner’s trans,
and even if her boyfriend wasn’t cis,
he may have been the one with the strap
or phalloplasty. i tweet “cis 
girl with a phalloplasty” 
and get three likes. i open instagram
and the new porn star is there
jiggling up and down. someone
get this woman a strap!

 

sterling-elizabeth arcadia (she/they) is a Best of the Net winning disabled trans writer and lover of birds, cats, movies, and her friends.