Die for My Man

A man grows

three feet a day

in my belly


he timbers

rising good gold

wetting the soft places

where I stretch and yearn

to accommodate him,

deform myself

for his very existence.

I feel strange

in the morning—

the man towering within

has unusual say

he bends my natural


the man speaks, in his

iodine adult voice,

tells me I am too small—

so he must exit

tearing my heart on his way—

left bereft missing

my internal man

wondering if he was simply

a scam.

Broken in two

no one comes to my rescue

I’ve died for my man.



Julene Tripp Weaver is a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle, WA. Her latest poetry book, truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards and won the Bisexual Book Award. Her work is online at The Seattle Review of Books, Poetry Pacific, Voices in the Wind, Antinarrative Journal; more of her writing can be found at www.julenetrippweaver.com or @trippweavepoet

even though it’s all switched off, a constant hum

the world is finally ending and everyone is in the street fucking

and we cling to this awful rock while somewhere a wild dog rips a child

to pieces, its jaws locking together like lovers hands on a cold night as they

explore the cartography on their wrists, laughing at the idea they

will ever be old and spitting softly in aching, welcome mouths

the world is finally ending and everyone is in the street fucking,

a farewell sunset behind them and nothing ahead but the fire-black ribs

of their homes. the trees are burning like funeral pyres, the pine needles

crackle like a lonely radio. the roads are melting like hot tears

and the buildings are leering, beautiful.



Stuart Buck is a poet and artist living in North Wales. His debut collection of poetry, Casually Discussing the Infinite, peaked at 89 on Amazons World Poetry chart and his second book Become Something Frail will be released on Selcouth Station Press in 2019. When he is not writing or reading poetry, he likes to cook, juggle and listen to music. He suffers terribly from tsundoku – the art of buying copious amounts of books that he will never read.

Lake water

We were in beach chairs, working on our sunburns, when I had this vision:

My body full of lake, water lapping in my ears, in sync with his thrusts. The more he fucked me, the more came out of me, until he was soaked, until we were both soaked, until the bed’s red blanket looked black and lake water poured down to the apartment below, so much so the neighbor pounded the ceiling with a broom. But the broom turned to seaweed, the neighbor dissolved. We surged. When I opened my mouth to moan, he looked inside and saw I was a lake, teeming alive and full. We fucked harder. I kissed him, he drank me, and we undulated until we were inundated in cloudy living sweetwater.

I looked over at him in his beach chair. I felt sun on my knees, sweat in my hair. I touched his hand, we stood.

We stepped into the lake.


Gretchen Uhrinek is a Pittsburgh-based writer. Her work can be found in The Longridge Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Philosophical Idiot, and elsewhere.


red stiffens into a single sough

flush                      and plump, a spectacle stained from a pomegranate

split in two








Natasha Teymourian is a Brazilian poet and artist based in San Diego, where she got her BA in Literature & Writing Studies from California State University San Marcos. She is the Editor in Chief of Epigraph Press and author of Recurrent Events, published in 2018.


my head remembers your hair / the way it tangled with mine / your lips / my lips / the green of your bedspread / door left open / so we could hear if your mom / crept up the stairs / your lips / my lips / my tongue / your lips / your tongue

and my hand remembers your hand / your hand / your hand / your lips / your hand / your hand / your hand / the green album spinning in little circles / little circles / my hand / little circles / little circles / little circles / the record turns faster / faster / little circles / faster / faster / my hand / faster / circles / faster / circles / circles / lips / lips / hands / hips / faster / circles / circles / circles / circles / god / circles / god / faster / eyes / thighs / circles / breathe / god / slower / circles / circles / slower / slower / slower / breathe

I can’t remember a goddamn thing


Annaka Saari is a 20 year old writer from Jackson, Michigan. Currently, she resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan where she studies English at the University of Michigan. Her work has previously appeared in Ghost City Review and MICRO//MACRO. You can follow her on Twitter at @AnnakaSaari or go to her website at https://annakasaariwrites.wordpress.com.


blunt //// trauma // for // boy // blunt

// I fed // him // the // heaviest /////

////////// machine // the fattest finger

interface // orifice // blow // wand ////

boy mulch /// longitude /// socket lunch

//// 9 out of 10 underwear models // use

this // trick! /// in confidence I preferred

to raffle // prick // pinking shears /// or

whatever was handy // sucked out all ///

angles // no bind I couldn’t // eat myself

out of. // I was pious // in my // prayer.

a veritable // carwash! // we all know //

lucifer // was a fallen /////////// anal.

// at //times ///// it was hard // to tell

to whom // I was // speaking. ////////

///// an object // shaped // wife /////

or a // wife // shaped /////////object.



Sara Kachelman is a student of prose and bookmaking in Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in DIAGRAM, New South, Portland Review, and other journals. You can find her online at sarakachelman.com.

The Opposite of Deja Vu

Like I was dropped into my life
Through a tear in the universe tonight
Like the opposite of a deus ex machina
Or a deus ex machina on its head
Where I’m lying in bed
And staring up at a baby’s mobile
Of stars and new questions
About where it all came from
And turtles all the way down
Lying on their backs
Exposing psychedelic bellies
At three am
Because my ex called
And wanted to tell me
About doing shrooms in Joshua Tree
About the well of sadness in himself.
I expected to find myself there
But instead I’m nowhere
Not even when he wandered the desert
And spoke with the moon
Not even in the roosters crowing outside
Inexplicably, in the middle of Silverlake,
Tangent to the sloped intersection
By this parking lot they’ll never finish,
Not even in the human wet cries
Of the feral cats and kittens
In the alley below.
But as you lie sleeping
I’m caressing the void beside me
In the cacophony of sounds,
Caressing the hundred more universes
All sweaty and bellied up, non-existent,
Where I know exactly who I am
And what this is for
But don’t have you
Or instead have everything
Except questions
Or a silent version of this timeline
Or a purple one
And three slips into four am
And so on
Until the night drains
Out through the window
And you are awake wanting toast
And to contextualize me, effortlessly,
Before coffee and after a dream about a home
We both forgot.
Lexi Cary is a bi writer (w/b)itch and musician based in Los Angeles. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in DUM DUM Zine, Angel City Review, Always Crashing, and Germinal Mag. You can see more of her work at lexicary.com and @_lexicary on twitter and Instagram.