by Erika Mailman

photo by Adrian Bancu on Pexels

It was from another century
It made her feel broken
it hissed of cows and ploughshares

Men who didn’t have time
to talk to their womenfolk
who were sick with shame

if they burned dinner for
no one ate and the cow
was dishonored.

The straw spoke
of how night would claim
them all if the woman

told her desire to make art,
of her dispute with the cast
iron stove,

By Nikki Ummel

photo by Wicdhemein One on Pexels

You are Orion and I am pulled close,
to lick the salt from your ears.
WWOZ whispers morning news
as my fingertips chase freckles,
play connect-the-dots, search
your kitchen-scars for constellations
as the sun rises.

I like the feel of you.
Here, in the damp darkness
of your shithole apartment,
the handprints of others
on the wall, above your bed.

I’m not the first hostess
you’ve hunted—there is
a bottle of Wet Head,

by Michelle Hulan

photo by Tala Dursun Marko on Unsplash

When I was young, my future
was as sure as static on the screen.

There were backs arching. A woman’s hand
reaching past shadows. Torsos

tethered to no discernable plot. I felt my way
toward desire blindfolded in a hum

of bees. Sometimes I bang my fists against sheet metal
just to hear its sound hit walls and return as echo—

My past always has the last word,
but I never met a future I didn’t like.

 By Brent Schaeffer 

art curtesy of The University of Chicago on Unsplash

When we got off the train in Paris it was late.
Gare Du Nord looked like a Monet: black
and gray with strokes of gloss. We were lost.
Athena and I slipped into backpacker backpacks and set out
across the city. I had to piss. Like ugly Americans
we stopped at McDonald’s, my ankles killing me,
… We were broke. We took another train north,
hoping it’d be cheaper than Paris. It was.
We got a room for a week—fucked and ate kebabs
from a taco truck thing—just like L.A.—
but colder and somehow romantic.