If the flowers decline to tell the bees why
they are tasked with stretching the thread
of continuance all the way to the garden’s edge
—or why they must adumbrate its shaky lace
even in the face of hard hands or a wet
summer—then why should we have to move
so far from this godly meadow, one move
shy of the brutallest checkmate? At the Y
I watched your legs resist equipment, wet
like the dogs no one shakes or the thread
no one can make go into the needlelace
because it’s borderline, too near an edge
to manipulate. If I ask you to edge
before I get home it’s because I move
too slowly anyway—I want to lace
your bones with shimmering desire, the why
to want’s what, the unhidden thread
we lay bare in the rich, soily wet
of mid-May, our brief spring’s groaning whet-
stone. Who brought us to the edge
of living? Which forum thread
told us the exact dimensions of the move
we needed to make, and why
on earth didn’t we tell anyone? Two lace-
less cleats, cast up high in the one place
you’ll never be able to reach them. A sweat
ring wrung permanent in the bedclothes. Why
not fool around a little before work, at the edge
of our shared wakefulness? Don’t move,
I’ll turn off this seemingly endless thread
of alarms, your morning body’s warmth red
and breathing next to mine. If my place
in the universe were at even a small remove
from yours, my ugly heart would pirouette
out across the roof of the world to a ledge
off which I’d leap / towards you. This is why
I’m so afraid to thread your wet
hair anyplace but through mine. The edge
is too close to move. I hope you see why.
By Nathanielle Dawn
hi! we’ve discussed how we can make HPR a bit better for everyone in this weird little community that seems to be growing around our shared filth, and the outcome is this:
HPR will publish on a rolling as of today, rather than spaced out “issues”
we think this means:
- you get a quicker reply on your work when you submit ❤
- we get to publish as and when we get time 🙂
- we can hopefully publish more over the long term !!
will we ever return to issues? probably at some point, but we’d like to try this for now.
so if you have something that’s too hot and heavy to be discussed on the Paris Review podcast, then please send it to us instead
what do her lips taste like?
do they taste sweet
like she smothered them in bubble gum?
or is the taste slightly bitter
like cranberry juice?
probably the latter
so when her kisses become bitter
was it due to texts left on read?
was it due to sex becoming the only way you connect?
does the routine go like this:
you both touch each other
until it burns both of you like an open flame
then you go in for another kiss
only for her lips to taste like
cranberry juice again
at this point
not even Marvin Gaye himself
would sing Sexual Healing for you
Vanessa Maki is a writer (& other things) who is queer & full of black girl magic. She’s been published in Enclave, Faded Out, Rag Queen Periodical, Occulum, Five:2:One Magazine & SYS. She also founded/runs an online literary journal for qpoc.
At 15, I was two padded bras, layered,
masquerading as breasts
not blooming late but
a thistle knot: unyielding.
At night I’d steal away
and call phone sex lines
hoping there was enough intimacy
in this world for a thistle girl
there were those oozy voices
one minute, thirty seconds
I liked them
they were achy bloody sticky, felt like friends
they taught me to think about what
to say for sex
harder deeper squeeze me drown it
I never talked back, but I think they could hear my thorny wishes:
give me something
Rita Mookerjee’s poetry is forthcoming in Lavender Review, Sorority Mansion Review, and Spider Mirror Journal. Her critical work has been featured in the Routledge Companion of Literature and Food, the Bloomsbury Handbook to Literary and Cultural Theory, and the Bloomsbury Handbook of Twenty-First Century Feminist Theory. She currently teaches ethnic minority fiction and women’s literature at Florida State University where she is a PhD candidate specializing in contemporary Caribbean literature with a focus on queer theory. Her current research deals with the fiction of Edwidge Danticat.
I read once that Ava Gardner kept her face wrinkle-free
by stretching and clasping the hooks she’d sewn into
the back of her head.
This kind of beauty, I read, would be impossible today
because those hooks would be caught
by high-definition cameras.
not Mogambo Ava (who could compare oneself to Mogambo Ava?),
I am not a high-definition beauty.
I am glorious by candlelight,
toned and lined and shaded, and stunning
in Polaroid, angled in profile, ripe from the rear.
But in high-definition (or in fluorescent),
I am terrifying, round eyed with awful
nostrils and feminine lips.
My chest is too large and
my shoulders too slim, and I worry that my eye skin
looks like foreskin.
So meet me after midnight under the gaslights on Drury Lane
and we’ll step into a candlelit pub and drink our fill.
You’ll look at me and think I’m the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.
Like Sharon Stone and the zipper, Mike McClelland is originally from Meadville, Pennsylvania. He has lived on five different continents but now resides in Georgia with his husband, son, and a menagerie of rescue dogs. His is the author of the short fiction collection Gay Zoo Day (Beautiful Dreamer Press, 2017) and his work has appeared publications such as the Boston Review, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Permafrost, and others. Keep up with him at magicmikewrites.com.
neuro-gnosis plasmid dyspraxic morphemes overheated like canned chili pot mealworm fractioned from the Nechako alfalfa gesticulate hookah’s of eurhythmic libido with the Human-Condition syndrome of an inverted spectrum Guardia festering in the womyn’s urinal during AD 8000.
The intergenerational dyslexia of Solomon’s barbiturates tea-bag bludgeons of Journeyman explosive sympathetic nervous system self-sustaining units like fellatio-instantiated Mortimer’s Geneva vacation. Para-thrusting from the Zenoan distance bilaterally east to the encephalic labia’s location in the Mindscape. Ojibwa granulated December-esque marmalades speak in Marfan tongues of genderless Horatio’s multi-gender cubicles sporing bodily fluids: epiphenomenal social organisms group masturbate recidivism in a gifted Krishna primus’ nodenetwork south-center towards ontological independences if and only if Sigmund Freud is the prophet of Kelloggian Yukon hermeneutics.
Maximally Non-Existentially Imported Beings guzzle the homunculus pancake-snorting the healing of the pan-gendered soul’s c-fiber to pull the locket behind the monodeistic, thought-controlled, pool-side stall. Animism of menstruating logorrhea that is teleologically in the bodily forms of an ideonomical calculator with the automatism of Thalean moisture, its symbiosis with the un- clothed gymnasium artifacts, its blood drinking of Papa Smurf’s (I know “it” as God) paternalistic psychobabble: hirustisic water that every possible deviancy drinks.
Tiana Lavrova is an eighteen year old who has an interest in all things art and science: including sculpture, product design, printmaking, free verse poetry, and the mental health and psychological sciences. She is also the author of two forthcoming chapbooks: dancing girl press and Grey Borders Books in 2018
you stood at the edge of the promenade and waited
as stones clapped out a quick little rhythm
as water surged into feet and skin
the idiot waves danced, moon-tethered
they spat, and you spat back, your hair a pennant
rippling towards me. the beach, bespectacled with
sea-glass, shone. the churning storm tugging
at fingertips, the rush, an orgasm of static, burst —
the self-aware hush, creeping back. how it beckons.
how your mouth is salt, ozone and spit.
Lorna Martin lives in North London and on @lornarabbit. Her poetry has appeared in A Quiet Courage, Foxglove Journal, Roulade Magazine and Crush Anthology (Brunel University Press). She also reviews films for Blueprint Review.