Blooming Late, Talking Dirty

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
touch me.


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.

Ava Gardner

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.

Like hooked-Ava,
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

To Melvin

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

Never Turn Your Back On The Ocean

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.

Body like a House, Hands like Home

In my dream last night, you finally kissed me, finally opened
your door of a mouth wide enough that my past could fit through it.
My barred window lips, unsure of themselves & unsure of you,
tried to craft stories from the contact high of being so
near your chest, tried to turn your touch into non-negotiable
poems about heartache & loss & gain & futures & eventual trust
in me, I guess, but mostly in us.

Brought my right hand down to place on your thigh
but your body had distorted itself until it was my childhood
home – teal outside paint except one beige spot on the chimney,
basset hound barking from the wooden back deck.
I leaned in closer to the second story gable window to
see myself sitting on my white canopy bed
104.3 WZYP radio blasting through my 1990s boom box,
staring at my sticker-covered blue corded phone
waiting/always waiting
for a boy to call who never actually would
until you breathed into our image & everything disappeared.

Wordlessly, your hands questioned my intentions, asked my hips
if they liked what I saw. Could I ever love a man filled with
unmade memories already so comfortable that
I could slide into them like freshly-washed bedsheets
after years of sleeping cold on the ground every night?

I could.




Rachel Tanner is an Alabamian writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bad Pony Mag, Anti-Heroin Chic, Atticus Review, Tenderness, Yea, and elsewhere. She tweets @rickit.

and then hold me like an orchid

like a rocking chair my hips to get into it I like to feel hands
on my body in different places simultaneously  I like my
nipples grazed but less like a deer more like a heron over
water its feet dipping into the surface kiss me everywhere
don’t miss my lower back I like my toes sucked the
bottoms of my feet make me scream butts are meant to be
held I like my nipples held like you’re turning a coffee bean
between your fingers yes I think I’m sensitive in the
place where you’re sensitive thanks for asking and no I
won’t be held accountable for the noises be they rabbit or
owl or chimpanzee please lick the mole on my wrist open
me like a primrose and then pluck me like a dandelion


Kaitlin LaMoine Martin was raised by a community of writers in Kalamazoo, Michigan. She’s been published in Barrow Street, Bellevue Review, and Passages North, among others. She owns a photography business, works for a non-profit, and spends hours thinking of new ways to entertain her dogs, Frida and Adam Lee Wags II.

Full Fathom Five

When the preacher in the pulpit warned me about a weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth I thought it was figurative. And yet, here I am in the middle of the night with my desire an open, gaping wound. My sounds hide in the darkness not meant to be heard in sunlight. He is not here. An ocean away. Tide crashes and roils between us as the siren sings. I slither in the no man’s land of lucid dreams as my skin presses into the sheets. Fingers clutch and twist at fabric while I rub the smoothness of my cunt against well-worn flannel. I can feel him, his breath hot at my ear, a phantom riding me hard. If I turn over, I know I will stare into the black nothingness and release the spell. Instead my cheek rubs against the mattress and my mouth opens, lips parting to spill out the wail from the well inside. Legs part and knees press in search of a grounding I cannot find. My center flames, leaking wet and spreading into the ocean of us. I feel his hand wrapping my hair, winding it and pulling it until I’m anchored against him. His needs punish me and I capitulate to the pull of the moon. I am the figurehead carved into his prow, battling sea spray that steals my breath. He slides over me, submerges us both as we roll into the deep, falling a full fathom five.




Juliette van der Molen is a writer and poet living in the Greater NYC area. She writes completely unladylike erotica and other sundry things. She is a recipient of the Zathom Microfiction Award (third place, April 2018). Her work has also appeared in Memoir Mixtapes, Lit Up, P.S. I Love You, My Erotica and The Junction. You can find more of her writing at Medium and connect with her on Twitter as @j_vandermolen. Her debut chapbook, Death Library: The Exquisite Corpse Collection, is scheduled to be released in 2018 by Moonchild Magazine.