Beyond Queer Words, 7th Edition, Summer 2024 by Beyond Words Literary Magazine

Beyond Queer Words – A Queer Anthology Seventh Edition, July 2024 All rights reserved © Beyond Words Press, Berlin, Germany Editor-in-chief: Gal Slonim Cover art: Lorinda Boyer Editorial Board: Emma McNamara, Nina Huang, Edward M. Cohen Emma McNamara is a national award-winning writer from Hopkinton, Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Beyond Words, Wild Roof Journal, Scholastic Art and Writing, Ember—a Journal of Luminous Things, and Cathexis Northwest. Emma’s passions include mental health awareness, disability advocacy, and LGBTQ+ issues. She has been an editorial board member at Beyond Queer Words since March 2021. IG: @author_emma. Nina Huang has a deep love for reading and writing. Her favorite genre to read and to write is queer fiction, and her work has been recognized by organizations like the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She has two cats named Fanta and Fresca, a dog named Oscar. She enjoys spending time with friends and family in her spare time. Edward M. Cohen’s story collection, Before Stonewall, won the Awst Press Book Award. His novel, $250,000, was published by G.P. Putnam's Sons; his novella, A Visit to my Father with my Son, by Running Wild Press. His chapbook, Grim Gay Tales, was published in 2022 by Fjords Books. ISBN 978-3-948977-81-8 https://www.beyondqueerwords.com Instagram: @beyondqueerwords

BEYOND QUEER WORDS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

In Pursuit of Pleasure

Olivia Weiss

Harlod and Lilli

CJ. Clement

Safety Shorts

Dameien Nathaniel

an appetite for a king size frame

Konner Sauve

11 Every Boy Will Gaze At Another

Cole Crosby

12 How to Cook an Egg for Your Sister

Grace Walters

14 Sumo

Luke Brix

16 M.E

Charles Swartling

22 Inner Thoughts: From Eve to Lilith

Sergio Roper

23 #1

Jo Chen

24 Roadside Example

Allen Ireland

26 The American "Signora"

Lee Lanzillotta

29 Late

Kyle Lang

33 Potters Pearl

Celinda Ybarra

35 Ten: Hands

Maribel Martínez

37 Untitled

Luca Fiora Dalton

38 Who Am I?

Jasper Ritvo

39 Arse poetica

Anisha Jackson

41 Pan de Diosa

Alejandra S. Alanis

43 Club Cafe

Gavin Poplawski

45 Teeth and Zoology: A Fable

Avery Reed

51 Dinosaurs and IVF

Ro Smith

58 The first time I notice I am naked

Mel T. Passaretti

59 The Minutes Between

Sacha Del Bosque

62 Barnacle Poem

Rachel Pray

65 After Reading Saeed Jones

Subhaga Crystal Bacon

67 Waltzing with Water

Megan Chunn

70 Show them Love

Lorinda Boyer

76 Bottom

Robin Robinson

78 The Things Together Is

Eren Harris

In Pursuit of Pleasure Olivia Weiss My mind is a dirty soda fountain, my mouth a warped sugar pour. My bed is too big now. All this space and still, I choose to sleep in the corner. Pile the rest with dirty laundry, the lone earring, a wet blanket. My tongue is too tight from stringing corn syrup hedonism into a bitches brew on high heat. Blackened caramel bubbles harden over teflon sugar crustings. I’ll kiss your hand with a drunken sway, lick his lips like forbidden fruit and rub soft the nape of her neck, so she doesn’t fly out of reach. I want to crack long release pleasure like pinto bean energy letting itself out into the body, 1

small spurts over time, full fats. But instead I’ll settle for a couple quarters in my pocket as the clock strikes 12:00, one last quick carbohydrate kick for the new year. A kiss as a handshake. Scraping tongues with a painted devil. Olivia Weiss is a poet and painter living in Brooklyn. Instagram: @qi3

Harold and Lilli CJ. Clement They’re still together up there. Did you hear that? With that deity, that .5% of meteorites. A woman once told me that my porcelain skin reminded her of the moon. Unafraid of cracking, I say that it is smooth and vintage in a way that makes you nostalgic for youth. To a child, the moon is more of a god than God. I heard they’re still together up there. Did you hear that? Even though I heard Harold left Lilli down here. Fragility is all I used to feel until that glass cracked. Until I told myself that I was insulting my ancestors. That chipping away or that crisp crunch of what could have been. That Jesus Christ. That oh my God. That holy shit. I haven’t been to church in ages. Are you alone down there? Did you hear that? Why won’t you answer me?

I need to call my Oma, but I don’t want to wake her. It’s too late to pray. I’ll do it in the morning. CJ. Clement (they/he) is a twenty-six year old writer from Washington state. He currently attends Arizona State University.

Gr ace Piont ek, Her s/Mine

Safety Shorts Dameien Nathaniel There’s a company that makes shorts that can’t be torn by hands or cut by knives. Specially reinforced, the only way to take them off is to disengage a locking mechanism that keeps them safe on your body. My mother taught me to wear shorts under my skirts in case I played too hard, or in case my skirts got so dirty I had to take them off to look presentable. As I reached my teenage years I learned the shorts could also be for playing hard to get. When boys ask you to flash your panties you could flash your shorts, give them something exciting, but not so much that they get excited. I learned at 16 that grown men no longer accept the flirtatious flash. Men aren’t playing when they ask to see what’s under your skirt. 5

They will push and push for more, demanding as boldly as a nor'easter to see what that cute little pussy looks like. Even now, as a 30 year old white man, I wear shorts under my skirts. hiding my vagina, protecting my vagina, from something I’ve heard too many stories about. From something my mother knows too much about. I have outgrown the age and the face these men want, and in their stead a new predator has emerged. Men who claim Chaser and continue to ask what that cute little pussy looks like. Not quite as bold, they hover behind screens and drop into my DM’s with no face for me to fear. 6

Just a name like ‘ftmonly’ or ‘hungforftm’ or ‘femsonly’; Different variations of asking for pussy without commitment. They do not offer their face as they send dick pics and demand my body in return. No face and no name, no way to report the abuse or to avoid them on the street. Grindr says one is a mile away. 4,032 feet away. 2,400 feet away. 1,000 feet away. Until I fear he is standing right outside my door, Demanding to be let in, demanding to see under my skirt, demanding – and ready to take even if I say no. Dameien Nathaniel is a queer, trans, autistic poet from the Northeast U.S.. They have completed an MFA in poetry with Arcadia University, with

their work centering around themes of trauma, loss, mental health, and queer identity. Dameien can be found performing at open mics and slams throughout New England. Instagram @SpasmOfFeelings.

an appetite for a king size frame Konner Sauve so we sling our bodies across these crinkled, creased, & canyoned sheets dangling on the edge of bliss – only to be wound back up again to coil around limbs pin me onto this frame like an insect in your shadowbox collection bedspreads pulled and muscles tensed hearts waxing and waning to the pulse of our pupils

i’m thirsty and hungry and begging for more Konner Sauve grew up in the small hop town of Moxee, Washington, and eventually found his way to Seattle via a four year stint in the Monterey Bay of California teaching English. When he's not teaching, spending time with family or friends, or fulfilling his uncle duties, you can usually find him walking along coastal shores or exploring the great outdoors in the Pacific Northwest. More often than not, he will have a coffee or tea in hand.

Every Boy Will Gaze At Another Cole Crosby “Ruby, Gold, Malachite,” -Henry Scott Tuke, c. 1902 Their limbs, lithe and supple, cascade from rocks, a boat— spilling into liquid crystal: a pool of molten English opal. Their skin slicked with it—shimmering sea and summer sheen. A dream. Every boy will gaze at another, glimpsing a childhood eclipsed. Grecian marble or call them gilded soldiers—their hearts: a softness filled with desire burning sapphire. Make ritual of the undressing. Revel in what’s theirs and ours: delicate and hidden. A cove then becomes a bathhouse where ephebes go to swim.

Cole Crosby is an emerging poet captivated by the transformative power of language. With a passion for exploring themes of identity, memory, and the everyday, Cole's work seeks to illuminate the queer experience with sincerity and depth. When he's not clacking verse to digital paper, he finds solace in yoga, the company of his beloved cat Pepper, and the tranquility of summer mornings.

How to Cook an Egg for Your Sister Grace Walters There’s something so methodical about the cracking of an egg in a pan, watching something so fragile become hardened just before burning. Step 1: Say yes when she asks you to make her breakfast You’ll ask her what she wants even though you already know the answer. You gather and organize the equipment in order on the black marble counter. You set the pan down and wonder if this time you’ll finally get it right. You wind up, and… “I’m going on a date.” Step 2: Crack the egg Crack! the egg against the side of the pan. Wait in silence as the whites bubble at the sides, popping from the heat and anticipation of cooking fully. Watch meticulously as the egg cooks, fearing it will burn to a crisp the moment you remove your eyes from the yellow against white against black (and wonder why you still can only hear the sound of heat hissing). When you do decide to look away from the egg, trusting it will not burn so quickly, you see your sister on her phone. “Did you hear me?” She will look up from 12

her phone. “No, what?” You count how many pops of air from beneath the skin: one, two, three, four. “I said I’m going on a date.” Her face will light up. “Who’s the guy?” Step 3: Flip it over and cook it just until it burns Too many pops. You flip over the egg. Over hard, same as always. You’ll watch as the yolk begins sinking into the whites. Be careful: sometimes it’s easy to forget to breathe when intensely focused. But that’s not it, is it? “No, not a guy.” “Oh.” You’ll stare at each other as smoke leaves the pan. Grace Walters (she/her) is a writer from McLean, Virginia. She is currently a senior at Choate Rosemary Hall and will attend New York University in the fall where she will major in Undergraduate Film and Television at the Tisch School of the Arts. Her work has been previously published in The Lit, The Artist, and The Choate News.

Sumo Luke Brix We came here to see large men Face off in a ring of earth, Collision, Struggle, Force Mattering as much as Balance, Scheme and Gravity. It’s like gladiators. The audience provides the energy. The wrestlers flow it through them. It’s a church; worship euphoria Every few minutes. I saw them rise to the ring The crier singing their names. Hair tied up, Body wrapped in but one cloth Snug around belly and loins. The ring is salted, They hunch down, preparing To launch the first strike That may decide the winner Like a flipped coin. 14

Once they are together In locked grapple That’s when the crowd takes part. Shouting not for blood, But a simple falter After which is a cheer Then peace returns. But oh, in that struggle, The voices echo to the center And back to your seat. The noises, the bodies together Till an often-simple end. A bow, some hand movements Chopping the air. The next in line approach To repeat and repeat And my heart cries out, Though not my voice, “Beautiful, beautiful.” Luke Brix is a poet and fiction writer living in Florida. He graduated from the University of Florida with a BA in English and Japanese. He recently survived being a gay public school teacher under Ron DeSantis.

M.E Charles Swartling When we cleared out grandma’s room at the retirement home, we found a photograph of grandpa kissing another man. The photo must have been taken sometime in the late 50s. Blurry, yet I was able to recognise the man whose face I have only seen in photographs and whose words my Dad passed onto me like gospel. Here, in my own hands sticky with DIY testosterone induced sweat, I held proof that I was not alone. No Anglican smokes and bells or suburban repression could hide the fact that I held solid proof that the late Reverend Alfred Williams was in fact queer and that my equally late grandma somehow decided to document it. Shame I didn’t find the photograph before grandma died, although coming to think of it, I am not sure she would have been able to give me an explanation even if I had found it before she died. In the months leading up to her death it was as if she had left the world behind. At first she could hardly get out of bed, then her mind started to decay at the same rapid pace as her heart. At one point when I came to make sure she was still there, after dreaming she was suddenly swallowed by a vortex, she called me Alfred. Flattered as I was to be inadvertently gendered correctly by a woman I never had the chance to come out to, there was no point

trying to explain I was not the man she had shared her life with until his death from heart failure in the mid 70s. I heard my father call me by the wrong name. “We have been through this! It’s James!” While wondering if he would ever get my name right I saw a silver bracelet next to where I picked up the photograph. I grabbed it and put it in my pocket along with the photograph. Maybe it could give me clues about my grandpa and the man he was kissing? After my father and I had cleared out the remains of a 90-yearlong life, he dropped me off by my flat and I was once again left alone with the mystery of my grandfather and the man in the photograph. Once back at home behind closed doors, I lay out the fruit of my heist on the table and began to examine the bracelet. The thick silver links looked like lopsided herringbones that had been transformed into this precious silver bracelet by the touch of a fairy’s wand. Close to the clasp I noticed an engraving. It was small, but not small enough to not be legible through a loupe I had since getting into gemmology during the pandemic. It said: A.M W.E

Before I noticed the punctuation marks between each letter. I thought the engraver must have been drunk. And yet, none of these initials seemed to be my grandfather’s. I stared at the bracelet. Could it be that the first set of initials corresponded not to one person’s first and last name, but to the first names of both of the parties? That would make A and W my grandfather’s initials Alfred Williams. Which meant that whoever gave him the bracelet must have a first name that starts with an M and a surname that starts with an E. None of these initials corresponded to my grandma, so we could safely rule her out. If the man who gave my grandfather the bracelet was the same as the man in the photograph, I was one step closer to finding out who he was. I took a good look at the photograph. The man who was kissing my grandfather seemed to be much older than him. Much might be a bit of a stretch but he seemed to be at least ten years his senior. If my grandpa were alive he would have been 95 and the chances of his mysterious lover being alive were even slimmer. I could of course call every retirement home in the country and ask them if they happened to have a centenarian with the initials M.E in their ward. But the chances of my search bearing fruit before I was put on some kind of list were slim and I decided to give up the search temporarily.

Despite my best efforts I couldn’t stop thinking about the bracelet, the photograph and the grandfather who I never met. The initials of his unknown lover were brandished on my mind. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate on mundane activities like watering my plants, trying not to think about the NHS waiting lists and (finally) blocking my ex on Instagram; I could not let go of M.E. Was he Milton Edwards? Matthew, Manfred or maybe Maxwell or Miles? The last two were names I considered when I first transitioned but somehow they felt a bit too much like Elliot in the sense that I would end up being the 99th Max or Miles in the community. As much as I love community building, I wanted to be able not be confused when someone called me by my name. Wait a second... I looked at the photograph again and noticed that the man kissing my grandfather was wearing a signet ring on the same hand that covered my grandfather’s cheek. The crest was eerily familiar to the Elliot manor at Kellynch Hall. No one has lived there since the 80s and it had become one of those Georgian national trust homes where people came to admire the painting collection. It was open tomorrow and even if I didn’t find the spitting image of my grandfather's lover in the portrait gallery I would at least have the opportunity to take in some culture and avoid Sunday lunch at my parents.

Walking through the portrait gallery was like walking through a sea of Georges, Walters and all the Marys and Elizabeths they married until I came to the last portrait in the gallery. It was a photograph of an elderly man standing beside a fountain with a pack of basset hounds at his feet. It must have been taken sometime in the 80s, though the man himself looked like he stepped out of a 1930s murder mystery. He was doing those hands and I figured out that is where the Elliot family line ended. I looked at the sign below the portrait: Sir Malcom Elliot, last owner of Kellynch Hall. I looked at my own photograph: Malcom Elliot was indeed the spitting image of my grandfather's lover and it seemed as if he had the same ring as when he kissed my grandfather. So did the young reverend have an affair with the local baronet? It sounds like a Harlequin Novel, but to this day I cannot find any evidence which points to the contrary. The man in the photograph was, and is, the spitting image of Malcom Elliot. Although I found the name of my grandfather’s lover, the revelation raised more questions than it answered. I will never know why my grandmother took the picture, why she saved it and how long my grandpa kept going to Kellynch Hall. I will never know if Malcom Elliot found another man after my grandfather died. Despite all the unanswered questions, I at least know is that I am not and have never been alone in my queerness. I am able to live 20

a queer life to an extent that my grandfather never could. To always carry him with me, I added Alfred and Malcom as my middle names. Anglo Swedish Muppet, time traveller and bisexual chaos, Charles Swartling writes about queer histories, death and rebirth. IG: @grevenavhaga

Inner Thoughts: From Eve to Lilith Sergio Roper Bad thing happen when I do not listen From His rib I come and go, squeeze my own Pick and prod at the bark of the apple tree Wait for the lion to sink his teeth in the baby lamb The other shoe of our god to rain down I want to lick his soles like he did mine He saw my fingers green from nickel My eyes following the light of your hips Bad things happen when I do not listen and I've been pondering your morning breath, the different colors in your eyes My heart beats shame in the rhythm of your sounds I will not touch you Because bad thing happen when I do not listen Sergio Roper is a poet from Akron, Ohio. They are studying Psychology and English at Kent State. He is currently working on his debut chapbook Matchbook Body.

#1 Jo Chen A lovely lady gave me a kiss on the cheek one afternoon. She asked me many questions about the city and took my hand. I showed her a little of myself. she hid herself away when the lights became too bright & asked again what the city was like. In the morning she wandered to the roof. She told me about Hamilton Beach, she's from there. She slid down a slant, and fit a crook inside me. "I'm comfortable.” So was the bed, how lazily it manufactured upon me. Another day she realized the leaves were changing, rustling next to the window. "I want to go home now.” She jumped out the window, indoor to out, her guts shifted a little. she didn't land, she flew away. I found her a year later in an old, beat up Volkswagen. This time she said, "I won't go back." Her home was ruined, so she emptied herself out & took half of me to live by, still asking about the city. she began to tattoo skylines in my skin. danced music into my ears, string beads of light across my arms. "I love you." All over me. Another year later, she's in an old beat up room, parallel to mine. she doesn't notice me. when I look to the mirror, she's gone. Jo Chen is a multidisciplinary artisan, builder, and poet. Their hobbies include 3D printing, woodworking, the culinary arts, writing, climbing, and miniatures. As a native Texan, Jo currently resides in Austin by the way of Oakland, California with their partner and their pup named Tutti.

Roadside Example Allen Ireland The news is in the morning wind: A man with another man has sinned. “Bring your feathers, and bring your tar. We know exactly where they are. And with God’s blessing we will purge From our fair country the counter-urge.” The two men wake to a blinding sun, Which shines on Man no matter what he’s done. Happiness is in their eyes Until they hear the approaching cries: “Preserve, preserve what God has built!” They flee, but they are caught and killed. Other feathers are on them now As the white sun blazes down. Since no one will give them a grave in the sod, Let them be kissed by an older god…. An object lesson for all the others! Men can be haters but never lovers. Allen Ireland's poetry has appeared in The Road Not Taken, Blue Unicorn, The Lyric and The Orchards Poetry Journal. He has published

two poetry collections: Loners and Mothers (2017) and Dark and Light Verse (2021).

The American Signora Lee Lanzillotta It’s a book about the sex fantasies of friars that first catches my eye, outside that little shop in Frascati. Sick stuff, probably. Wanting to be ravished by all three parts of the Holy Trinity, like that Donne poem, or shot full of arrows, moaning like Jarman’s movie. But I don’t have the nerve to pick it up. Two men stand chatting just through the dusty glass of the door. They’re watching me already, wondering what I’m looking at. Better grab that seedy giallo before they get suspicious. Before I can, one of the two opens the door. He’s got long, gray ringlets and an operatic Italian nose. There’s something almost Dickensian about that garish waistcoat. He says, smiling a bit too broadly: “Puoi entrare senza timore, signora.” The other one looks at me curiously, then explains they have food and drinks. Wine, beer, cocktail analcolici. I sit down at the dark wooden table, glancing around. Shelves full of old books line the walls, but none seem to be for sale. There are wooden boxes overflowing with old Batman comics in Italian and French. The man with the grey curls sits on an overstuffed chair holding a volume of Schiller. He begins to read in a strong, clear voice. I don’t recall enough German to really be able to follow but his intonation is pleasant. His friend, a tall man in a beat-up leather jacket and a beret, sips a beer and watches silently.

Another man enters, a skinny smoker in a sweater his mother probably knitted in 1985. I bet he lives in Marino and I’m right. His name is Alfonso. They’re all locals and they regard me with some interest. I tell them I study classics. Beret guy thinks I must mean I live at the Villa Falconieri, but I assure him that’s not the case. “Nel’estate, sì, ma non… come si dice ‘his diebus’…? um, non adesso.” Either way, he regards me with newfound interest. His gaze is a little bit too intense for someone merely inquiring about my studies. A book of Latin verse - “testo a fronte” - is produced from the overflowing shelves and placed on my lap. I flip through, looking for something worth reading. Trying to hint, to give beret a clue at least, I begin to read: “Formosum pastor Corydon ardebat Alexin…” but he doesn’t understand. None of them do. We’re speaking two different languages, two brother-tongues that are nevertheless different enough that something always gets lost. They applaud my passion nonetheless. After I finish they call for some wine for La Signora Americana, but I refuse. A group of moody Italian teenagers lurches in as I flip through the book, searching for Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It’s a pretty sparse edition, so the only Ovid is something from Amores and fragments of the Tristia. I sing some love-words of Catullus to appease them. When the poet begs Lesbia for a thousand kisses, I stop and blush. Beret leans over my shoulder, looking at the Italian text opposite the original. “Ma non è obscena!” 27

"Sì, sì, forse’…” I read, while the men watch. One of them shushes the teenagers, who are conversing amongst themselves. “La Signora Americana legge!” But after I finish the poem, I know I need to stop. Alfonso, Beret, and Grey Curls are all watching me curiously, a bit too attentive. I’m on the verge of something dangerous. Shyly, I ask where the book belongs. Beret shows me, following me towards the shelf. As I stand on my toes to reach the shelf he brushes his hand against my hip - my ass, really - and I don’t move. I try to remain as neutral as possible until he steps away because the others are watching. I’m not sure if he notices or understands. I would if he wanted, if only out of loneliness. His whole “hipster artist living in a hotel” deal is a little much but he’s not bad looking. I just don’t know what he’d do if he got close enough to see my flat boy-chest and the faint shadow above my lip. Lee Lanzillotta (he/him) is a transmasculine writer and reporter originally from Virginia. He is currently based in Italy.

Sam Piscit el l i, Bl ush in Bl oom

Late Kyle Lang I tell people I came out late, as if I missed my alarm or hit snooze too many times. The resonant buzz of my sexuality not penetrating the din of perceived expectations or adolescent alchemy. But what is late? Did I miss a meeting? A bus? A plane? Some human milestone? Once, I was late for an exam and the professor barred me from the room berating my thoughtlessness. I blushed, breathless from my cross-campus dash and snaked from the room, but I didn’t fail the class and now possess a degree. 29

My father-in-law revels in the story where he arrives late to his own wedding, the day after St. Pats, breath reeking of booze and bleary sleeplessness. They’ve now been married sixty years. My daughter arrived on this earth early but she was late to breath. The cord wrapped, noose-like, around her neck choking her and causing the stroke that gave her CP. But breath arrived late a moment before my drug-addled ex-wife realized she had arrived and didn’t cry. 30

She is now seventeen, Ornery, and loud With a chest full of breath. Time is long. Inconceivably long. And the possibility that any one of us could arrive a moment after an expectation seems now inconsequential. And so I consider that when the easy slide of my breath glides loose and tranquil from my unburdened chest, when my heart trills as I touch his bearded chin, and my mind luxuriates in the deepest sleep as his bulky form snores beside me,

I open to newfound realms of dream and delight. When the measure of time is taken in moments, now appears just in time. Kyle Lang writes from the Portland, Oregon metro area. He is currently working on nonfiction addressing identity and culture with a specific focus on LGBTQIA+ intersections, but he has written and published fiction, erotica and poetry as well. When he isn’t writing, he is either parenting his teenage daughter or planning music festivals around the Pacific Northwest. He has published in Story Quarterly, Going Down Swinging and the M Review.

Potters Pearl Celinda Ybarra Wittle her down Until you strike the peach core Or whatever may rest beneath her mantle, And I bet you’d find it graffitied, The same name in practiced cursive Over and over, And over again. Or failing that— Finger marks, Dug through the dirty riverbed— Sludge clay of her skin, Where i reached forward And came away with a handful Of the soft stuff where her heart is meant to be. For a while now, There has been a hunk of clay— Of her— In my unwitting palm, To do as I please; To squeeze into nothing Or smooth into something Or just let fall with a wet heavy thud. 33

Celinda Ybarra, @celliewellie_ , is a twenty year old aspiring poet from South Texas. Her journey in poetry began ten years ago, but until recently she's never shared her words with the world. She hopes her poetry allows others to feel seen and know they aren't alone.

Ten: Hands Maribel Martínez 1.

The way my fingertips buzz electric, tracing their way

around her smooth skin, soft hair, moving so effortlessly, gently, like whispers in the nights; wandering is the destination. 2.

Judah at 29 weeks. Out of the incubator, his 2.5-pound

body fits snuggly when I cup my hands the long way. 3.

My hand under my ex’s hand, under, always under. Tight.

Gripped. Grasped. Weighed down. My hand never on top. “That would be weird,” she said; I should have known then. Hindsight is 20/20. 4.

Curling up my thumb and index finger, and cross them

over each other, desperately wishing, praying, for safety. 8 years old. I use the same two fingers, this time pinched together to lock my door. I sleep through the night. 5.

Gripping the steering wheel up a winding road mountain

on a foggy day making my way up to my new home. The rocks to the left, cliffs right. Heartbreak on the road. Respite at the top.

Clap! Clap! Clap! Really hard. Rub them together and pull

them apart, sensing the heat and connection between them. “This is how you feel the energy.” Curandera in training. 7.

Hands salty and stained. Slightly stinging. Valentina y

limón. High fives. Summer days and carefree vibes. 8.

“Ya no te pintes las uñas,” me dice Doña Enriqueta. My

unpainted nails. Naked. Odd and ugly. Day after day, I look and look. Then, one day, they are mine again. 9.

Firm handshakes, soft touches, no hard surfaces, “I can

tell you are lesbian.” “No, not from a handshake. That’s not how you can tell,” I say. 10.

The cold earth. Wet. I say a prayer for me and for all who

have lost their connection. I bury the pain to be transformed and

bloom anew. You are sacred. Maribel Martínez is a Queer Chicanx of P’urhépecha heritage. She is a brainiac, storyteller, and guerrera who dreams of shapeshifting. By day, she works in public policy. After hours, she lets the wild rumpus start through her imagination as she writes poetry, short stories, Teatro scenes, and performance pieces. As a community artist, she sees her role in moving forward with counternarratives to address social issues.

Untitled Luca Fiora Dalton You saw me, a young trans woman in a violent and tortured place. A young woman who was terrified and so, so strong. You said, bring your wisdom here, place your heart among these trees. These children are running and eating berries. I said, I’m scared and cannot take it too much longer. You said, I know. Come sit with me and clean these children’s wounds. I didn't speak for a while. The children needed things—to sleep, to learn, to try and then fail. The children needed things— some love, a little softness, some fruit. You didn't speak for a while. We sat among the trees. I said to you, I think I am a child. You said to me, I know. I asked, are you a child too? You said, I am among these trees. We didn't speak for a while. The children needed things. Luca Fiora Dalton is a pilot, teacher, and writer living on Kikiallus land in Washington State. She is grateful for clouds, forestry roads, and her fellow queer writers.

Who Am I? Jasper Ritvo I am a hallway of locked doors. I am skinned knees and vomit in the carpet. I am the silver sliver of a scar on my hairline from when the blinds fell on my head as a child; 16 stitches, my curiosity will be the death of me. I am shattered. I am fractured. I never heal quite right. I am an amalgamation of everyone I have ever met. I am a kaleidoscope of feelings. I am a force of nature. I am the river. I am the flood. I am the flood bound to the river. I am drained till the last drop. I am a tornado stuffed into a body. I am decay. I am rot. I am dress clothes on a buried corpse. I am the casket. I am the funeral. I am the mourning procession lined down the block. I am the earth I am lowered into. I am dirt beneath fingernails. I am hushed voices. I am nerve: raw, sharp, awake. I am an archive of aching. I am sterile white walls and flickering fluorescent lights. I am medicine in bruised veins. I am the bitter aftertaste. I am pills swallowed one after another, after another. I am choking them down dry. I am who I could be for other people. Who am I if not a sacrifice? I am running out of threads to pull before I undo myself completely. Jasper Ritvo (he/they) is a 22 year old queer and transgender poet based in California. He is currently a full time undergraduate student at the University of California Davis studying psychology and in his free time can be found painting, writing and contemplating the meaning of life and of various poems.

Arse Poetica Anisha Jackson I’m going to write an ars poetica, I told her as she stirred, eyelids slightly-slightly swollen with sleep. She gulped down the last of a sweetened, lukewarm bitterness. That sounds like arse, she said, slumping back down into the pillows. So, here is my arse poetica, in which poetry follows behind the main event. The event being: a wound undone The event being: crumbs into the sink The event being: my umbilical emerging the rest of me following— my naked body reflected in the tap excess vaseline rubbed into my palm unpopped kernels wedged up against gum We laid top-to-tail. Sometimes I still move my pillow to the bottom of the bed to see things from a different perspective. She told me she wanted eggs for breakfast, her feet fidgeting in front of my 39

face. Eggs it is, I said, as I moved to the kitchen to crack open something private, considering a poem as I went. Anisha Jackson is based in London and the countryside not far from London. Her writing revolves around food, mixed-race heritage, and queer love. She holds an MA (Distinction) in Creative and Life Writing from Goldsmiths, University of London. You can find her work in various places online and in print.

Ar t ist : Cal l ie Lit t l e

Pan de Diosa Alejandra Sánchez Alanis b/r/e/a/k/i/n/g your holy bread p\a\r\t\i\e\n\d\o tu pan sagrado as steam rises d o w n the middle

vapor sube por el medio hearing a sound dividing escuchando el sonido dividiendo salty butter dripping mantequilla salada goteando ardent drop fall ardientes gotas caen c f a a e l n l biting into you a^s^c^e^n^d^s me into euphoria mordiéndote me asciendo a la euforia 41

savoring, devouring your lips devorando tus labios all the way to your hips hasta los pies bread of a goddess pan de diosa holy sacred nourishment sagrado alimento breaking your bread partiendo tu pan over the sacred table sobre la mesa sagrada anointing me turning your water into wine bendiciendo y convirtiendo tu agua en vino consecrating you my feminine divine consagrándote mi divino femenino As a queer Tejana, Mexicana, Alejandra Sánchez Alanis represents her marginalized LGBTQ and Latinx community with pride, gifting exposure to trans linguistic erotic representation. Her work pays homage to the sensuous divine, esoteric spiritual world, playing with the visual aspect of poetry, engaging with the hypnotic effect, and indulgence of sensory pleasure. Embodying the bilingual universe, modeling the importance of language, gifting readers a multilingual immersive space to coexist in.

Club Café Gavin Poplawski -For Tommy We were angels, once, don’t you remember? Or have you chosen to renounce divinity; to pluck the graying hairs of Catholic guilt and cast them from your brow; to cleanse your babbled tongue with ouzo in the mouths of handsome men; to bum a smoke outside the bar - proclaim it grace? Or, are you screaming to an empty sky, the two halves of your heart divided between blasphemy and penance? May I offer you communion, then: anoint your salted flesh with lavender, exchange your wings for dancing shoes, and welcome you to take, eat, drink salvation to your fill.

Gavin Poplawski started writing poetry during senior year of high school in the hopes of impressing his crush - it didn't work! He has had poetry published in the New Worcester Spy and currently lives in Worcester, MA with a pocket full of dreams and an orange tabby furball named Jelly.

Teeth and Zoology: A Fable Avery Reed Auburn, New York, 2022 It’s Sunday afternoon and you’re knitting again. The oxygen machine whirs and you swat the air as a fly passes. You remember how to knit but you don’t remember much else these days. Your fingers know the stitches but when I ask you to hold my hand you look confused, as if this steps out of bounds somehow, or you can’t remember the significance of this gesture. It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m reading a book about another, more complete, love story. New York City, 1963 When you found me, I was called Rayan, but ever since, I’ve been Ray. It must have been nearly 1 in the morning in a dark club in downtown Manhattan. I lay there on the floor covered in thick wet dance, when your stiletto pinched my finger between the concrete and my eyes stung for a second until they met yours. You smiled your apology. I saw your teeth and knew I would need a new name, as if my old identity was perhaps too lazy to entertain such extraordinary company.

The Rabbit & The Swan The rabbit meets the swan on the edge of the pond. They are both late, but elegant nonetheless. They exchange niceties as old friends and embrace with the ferocity of lovers. They fly together, the rabbit perched lightly on the swan’s left wing. One long leap into the ether where they’re ensnared in a swamp of stars, as if trespassing on their own love story. Moral: Love looks better in the moonlight.

New York City, 1963 I didn’t see you again until two weeks later on the night shift at the zoo. You worked the Birds of Prey and I cleaned the cages in the Himalayan Highlands. That night, my foxes were sick so I asked the walkie talkies if anyone had extra pine or cedar shavings. You said your birds had some to spare. Then you picked me up. “No way! Ray, right?” We walked the length of the zoo, up through World of Reptiles, down Tiger Mountain, up and over Congo Gorilla Forest, and back to the Himalayan Highlands. The animals paced, their tongues lashing.

We lay down in the cedar shavings and laughed until morning.

The Parrot & The Eagle A parrot and an eagle walk into a bar with first date nerves. They chat for hours. He mimics other lovers and she makes jokes. He can only respond off topic (the man next to him is a contractor of sorts and is conversing about wood and other physical materials). She thinks this is hilarious and takes him to bed. In the morning, it is just the two of them. There is no conversation to copy. He is silent. She plucks her feathers absentmindedly and asks him, politely, to leave. Moral: Love is funny when you’re drunk but very serious in the morning. Auburn, New York, 2022 You let me hold your hand tonight on the way to dinner. I tell you about the time we took our lunch break to kiss in front of the tropical birds. You laugh. You say you wish you’d been there to see it. You were there, Vera.

The Shrew & Her Shell A shrew dreams of life at the bottom of the ocean. She dreams so hard that her fur turns to scales so she can swim in tandem with the fish. The shrew finds love there and wants to stay forever in the dense silence. Eventually, she wakes up. Of course, no one believes her about the colorful fish or the silence. When they laugh at her ocean story, she opens her paw to show them the sand and shells gathered there.

If you are waiting for someone to tell you the moral, read the story again.

New York City, 1967 In November you told me I was “forceful.” Or, more accurately, that I “forced you to get the canaries.” Looking back, I agree it was not a good decision, but in the heat of a very dull moment in our relationship, I had no idea the canaries would escape, or that you would cheat, or that I would be left standing in the living room with an empty cage and nothing to say. Yes, of course I would stay with you. No, I did not want to know the details. Yes, I knew who Tori was. No, I did not care that she was ‘an artist.’ 48

I’ve kept a meticulous record of our arguments. My lines are always the same, but yours keep getting faster and more complex.

The Tortoise & The Peregrine Falcon

and yet,

Moral: if you listen to them slowly, they sound similar.

Auburn, New York, 2022 We walk the same path every morning. Some of the other couples have walkers, some have large rubber bands tying them together at the wrists so they don’t get lost. You and I walk just far enough apart from each other that our hands don't brush. Our bodies are the same. It was suddenly obvious to me that love couldn’t 49

produce a child in that simple way no matter how hard I loved you. But we never get lost. But today, you were gone. After hours of searching, I found you in the field, alone, surrounded by a flock of small yellow birds. From a distance, it looks like you are frantically beating the air, threatening to snatch their wings. Your legs are bent but your face is turned upwards. You’re screaming. As I get closer, I realize you aren’t screaming, but singing. You’re reaching for the birds as if begging them to stay. I stare until you hold my face and point to the birds. “I told them you were coming. I found them, Ray.” I don’t know how you remember my name. When the birds are gone, you let my hand drop. Our bodies are limp and far enough apart to tell me the moment is no longer happening. There is, very rarely, a moral to this story. Avery Reed is a recent graduate of Barnard College where she studied political science, English and Creative Writing.

Dinosaurs and IVF or Being Queer and Having Kids in the Apocalypse Ro Smith In two organs the size of a walnut, I have 200,000 eggs. They have lived inside me for longer than I have lived, since I was, according to the internet, the size of a grapefruit, a banana, a troll doll. Then, at 20 weeks old, there were 7 million of them, a New York City’s worth of half-me’s, midtown and skyscrapers and crisscrossed bridges, commutes and matinees of me’s, snowy-window Christmas dinners of me’s, a tableful of me’s at Sardi’s, waiting for the review of my new play, written by my worst critic—me. It is this image that flashes through my mind the first time you make a joke about how much sunscreen our kids will need, the laughter, and then the realization that our children will be ours, ours, but not made of the two of us. A New York City’s worth of me’s pressing their faces to the glass, seeing only a reflection. A city of faces looking out and seeing nothing. 20 weeks. When I was halfway through becoming a being that could breathe air and open my eyes, I carried already these 7 million possibilities, floating in the natal darkness of a woman in a small wintery town. For twenty weeks, it was all of us in there, considering whatever was to be considered then. Once, I was one of 7 million possibilities my mother held, as my grandmother held her. And so it goes, back and back, and in this way, we have all 51

known countries we never set foot in, lived fights we didn’t flinch from, dreamed, inside a dream, inside a dream. 160 million years ago, the dream begins, just as Pangea begins to drift apart. It begins in Jurassic-era China, with a shrew named Juramaia. At just under three inches long, the average size of a man’s thumb, or the size of a bumblebee hummingbird, Juramaia is the first mammal to give birth. She does this alone, in a burrow, without knowing what will happen to her. 65 million years ago, the Maiasaura lives in what is now called Montana. She is an elegant dinosaur, with a long, sloping neck, a broad mouth, often greened and pollen dusted from grazing on wildflowers, and wet, soulful eyes. This is an embellishment on my part—we cannot actually know what the dinosaur's eyes looked like. But Maiasaur was a plant eater, a herd animal, the aunty-inspirit of the cow, the deer, the manatee. I don't need a fossil record to know she had kind eyes. 185 million years ago, a mother is in Arizona. She is Kayentatherium, a thing between many things. A mammal-like reptile, or reptile-like mammal. Semi-aquatic. Semi-mammalian. We know that she loved to swim. To climb the arches. Maybe to look at the sky. I tell myself I know her, because I too live here and love those things. When we find her, 185 million years later, it is from her footprints. 52

Too deep in the mud, trying desperately to escape a rising river. Too deep for her bodyweight. Too deep, we know, once we find the body, because she died carrying her 38 babies on her back. I realize I don’t know her at all. I don’t know if I could carry that much. 5 years ago, we have the first conversation about children. It is mostly a catalogue of maybes. Maybe we want them, maybe we don’t. Maybe we couldn’t afford them. Maybe we could. Maybe we want to stay forever this way, coming and going as we please. Maybe it would ruin everything. 4 years ago, we wonder. What if there was a way. What if you carried them. What if I did. What if we saved. What if we couldn’t save them from what was coming. 65 million years ago, Maiasaura is living in a green valley, near what will someday be called Choteau, Montana. She has never seen a human being, and we will never see her, because one day (before there are days of the week, or even months, when the sun and its turning really is the only calendar), one day, an asteroid the size of Mount Everest will careen into the Yucatán Peninsula going 100,000 kilometers per hour, releasing a detonating force equivalent to 10 billion atomic bombs. 2020 53

When we talk about children—over breakfast eaten on the floor, watching nature documentaries, in the car on the way to wait, masked, in the parking lot of a grocery store, in bed, in the dark, in the silences between passing cars, what we come back to is this: how can we bring them into this world. This world in which I call myself an environmentalist. I’m a vegan. I take the bus. I recycle. But there’s still a part of me, the part of me nestled close to my granny’s granny’s granny, that looks at you and wants to know what your eyes would look like, gazing up from a little potential. Our maybe. A baby who is already contained in me, or you, but who cannot be in both of us. And yet, a baby that is still possible, the doctors say. The strangeness of it all, to be the first of our kind. A new plotpoint on the evolutionary tree. Our generation, the first to be able to dream of this glass-creation. Our eggs in a nest of reflection, our me’s staring out the window, our faces pressed against the glass. Unimaginable to the past. One hundred years ago, or fifty years ago or twenty years ago, it would not be possible, what we are considering. The choice we have available. And there is no question: for us, it is a choice. We are not afforded the luxury of an accident. 667 trees. Per person. Per year. 667 trees breathing away on a mountaintop somewhere, to drink in the effects of our life. Our trips to the movies. Our avocados. Our doctors’ appointments.

What do I say to that. What is a maybe worth. What are 667 trees worth. What am I paying with. How far do I sit from the end of the dream. How long until the fire goes out. ∞ time. Mythic time. Time not as a line, but as a fabric, your sweatshirt bundled up and tossed in the corner. As liquid, the teacup at your bedside. As present, as in gift, as in I am bumping into you the night we met, I am sleeping, always on the left, I am walking down the aisle again, and again and I am in kindergarten, saying I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up yet, but that I still have time. As cycle, you bleeding then me, me bleeding then you. As spiral, the pattern on the belly of the tadpoles I saved from puddles when I was still close enough to my mother to remember darkness. Time as again, and again, and again. Am I willing to be an ending. In mythic time, I am already being eaten. I have crawled into the nest of a grave, I am smiling to the earthy stars with a mossy tombstone of herbivore teeth as worms learn the crests of my body. I am at peace, finally, already, just glad to be of use. To stop consuming. The worms learn, as you once did. In mythic time, the ghost of Maiasaura is in my t-shirt. It makes sense that we are all made of each other. I drive to a doctor’s appointment, the engine a swarm of plankton and the deep places of the earth, fire. 55

In mythic time, my question is no question. There is just the stretch in all directions, an unbroken line, not straight, but stitching, bringing me together again and again with all my thanksgivings, giving thanks to Juramaia, to Westlothiana, to Icthyostega and Agnatha and Cyanobacteria. Thank you for lungs, I say as the asteroid looms. Thank you for teeth. For hips. For blood, for bleeding. For sight and all the things we see. Thank you, living breathing endless pieces that brought me to this maybe. The world is burning. 43 nests. In a valley in Montana, there are 43 nests. We know about the Maiasaura, because of the picture they left us. The Pompeian lovers. The moment of impact. 43 nests, raised burms of earth in perfect circles. Inside them, eggs. Delicate. Unbroken. Eggs, complete with translucent, unfinished bones inside, even though 65 million years ago, a stone breaks the silence. Craters the earth. It is heard around the world, flash of light, wall of water, rock-strewn sky. A curtain of fire crosses the continent faster than a fighter jet, arrives, less than an hour later, at the Maiasaura and her nest. 43 Maiasaura climb atop the small craters, the berms, their worlds. They lay down, smooth bellies to the earth. Above, stones re-enter the atmosphere at speed faster than the fastest bullet we have 56

created. It begins to rain fire. But to the little ones, with the cool, familiar bulk of their mothers between them and the world, the known darkness of the nest, the pattering of this fiery rain thrumming through the earth, to them, it feels no different than a summer thunderstorm. Seems, for the longest time, as though it will pass. 2023 We have already chosen names, though I don’t know if we will use them. 65 million years later, a Paleontologist finds them, hundreds of them, the first dinosaur eggs to have survived the weight of the world ending, time and time again. They debate genus, species, phylum, and in the end, a name is chosen. They name her Maiasaura. The good mother. Ro Smith is a storyteller. They like snails, dogs, and kind people. They dislike capitalism, hustle culture, and bad movie adaptations. If you want to find them on social media, you cannot. But you could spend your time on this website instead :) https://www.whose.land/en/

The first time I notice I am naked Mel T. Passaretti You giggle at the shitty poetry I wrote in 9th grade about people who aren’t you and places that were only mentioned in passing stories You wonder if one day you will be a shitty poem that I read aloud to the girl who ends up next to me in bed love conquers all things but itself which is why when I loved you it was not enough Mel T. Passaretti (they/them) is an artist and educator based in Massachusetts and California. They love all sorts of critters but especially the deep sea giant isopod. You can usually find them with a notebook in hand and rocks in their pockets.

E. Hynes, Sex-Gender

The Minutes Between Sacha Del Bosque A teenage boy with dark brown eyes sits on the subway platform, legs dangling over the side, and tosses pebbles into the depths below. The stones rattle and clink as they fall to the ground and connect with the metal track. It’s dark enough in the tunnel that the trench seems to go on forever. He feels like he’s sitting on the edge of the world. If he catapulted himself off the concrete, he might fall until his hair is white and his memories fade faster than the light. A deceiving breeze flutters the still air around the platform. If he closes his eyes, the wind feels almost natural. It could be a breezy afternoon, except for the whirring of the subway. The train can’t be seen yet, but the boy stares at the empty tunnel. The dry, forced air makes his eyes water; he doesn’t look away. He waits for the lights of the train to appear and prepares to count the doors. Fourth car, second entrance. Fourth car, second entrance. That’s what he’s looking for. He needs to find it. He has come to this station for the past two days to meet his friend, who always rides in the fourth car. Each day, he has tried to find the courage to ask the question he’s been silently practicing on his tongue for weeks. 59

The train finally comes into view. The brown-eyed boy rises and steps out of the way. He wants to see the passengers in the fourth car as soon as possible. Other people wait for the train around him. Most of them are older, wearier; they bear the distant expressions of human bodies following their routines while their minds are elsewhere. They want to reach their destination. The minutes between where they were and where they want to be are meaningless. The teenage boy is the only one who’s fully awake. He lives for these few minutes before nighttime calls and he loses his freedom to the obligations of the next day. The train slides closer. It’s five feet away, then two, and now only a few inches remain. The boy’s heart beats louder than the shriek of the wheels against the track. He counts the cars and finds the fourth. His eyes bear into it as it slows in front of him. He can’t comb through the people at the subway door fast enough. Then, he finds who he’s been longing to see. The train shudders to a complete stop, and everyone goes rigid. The people on the platform are desperate for the doors to open. They are at the mercy of the unpredictable public transportation system, all except the boy with dark brown eyes. He is at the mercy of a teenage boy at the second entrance of the fourth car, and the answer he might give to a simple question: “Would you like to be more than friends?”

Sacha Del Bosque is a latino writer from California, who loves escaping into stories about queer people with happy endings. He's currently a creative writing student at Columbia University.

Barnacle Poem Rachel Pray Life did not send me back to those saltwater ponds of youth, nestled safe with others of my kind clusters of barnacles on sun-washed ancient rocks, Atlantic-lapped, island of ancestral bones Whalers, outcasts, a slew of misfits, brave and strange they left familiarity behind, to yes, exploit another land, take what was not theirs, my legacy of shame My place was here, if I’d been male, a lobsterman or captain of my fishing boat, safe berth my second home Tossed by winter seas, gladly facing wind and rain boots wet and muscles sore at night, a wife to tend our fire knowing who I was and how to take up space the world met without apology or need to set things right Gentle, briny incubator of my youth the place I learned to swim, to bodysurf rough waves steer a Sunfish, tiller and sail, pull lobster pots, hand over hand, aboard a Boston Whaler, land bluefish from a pole to kiss, to feel myself become alive feet bare along the tide

I learned to speak Algonquin names Menemsha, Aquinnah, Quahog, meanings all but lost: rivers of multi-colored clay, fist-large saltwater clams Here, where my mother chose her body to remain became the last place in New England I could stay My father buried us in fear and grief, like Lear he claimed his kingdom of false praise Cordelia spoke the truth in disbelief I chose to share her fate to save my soul cast out from patriarchy’s grasp, thrown deep and fast into the bathysphere By surface currents, plankton barnacles are swept along

to far saltwater ponds, while I am carried to another shore lost in depths too dark to name - I come apart shattered carbon molecules, unfathomable joy Relentless crush of ice creating land, massive rock ground down to powdered sand, those lovely salt-washed landscapes of my youth In dreams I see them rise to meet my gaze, but waking here I know I won’t return - death tears our moorings loose.

Previously published in East By Northeast, Autumn/Winter 2020. Rachel Pray (she/her) is a poet, photographer, Buddhist, teacher, Reiki Master and aspiring wise Dyke Elder. Her work has been published in literary journals, magazines and anthologies since 1989. Her publications include: Sinister Wisdom, Matrix, Transfer, Mudfish, Liberty Hill, California Quarterly, The Advocate, The Larcom Review, East By Northeast and Kiss Me Goodnight: Stories and Poems by Women Who Were Girls When Their Mothers Died. Rachel lives on unceded Coast Miwok land near the ocean in N. CA with her dog and many ancestral guides and nature spirits.

After Reading Saeed Jones’ Prelude to a Bruise Subhaga Crystal Bacon There’s a pain in pleasure; in pleasure a pain. There’s a body within a body. One is woman; one is man. There’s a spell in words that stir these layers, blur what’s real. Naked beneath a linen dress, refuge from heat—from waistband, belt—a tent of thread and air. I’m stirred, stirring, nipples exhale. Below my navel— tides rise and fall, hard and soft with blood— what to call the place that’s both inside and out? I dream as I read that I have been in that stall, that bed, felt the thrusts, the cracked open jaw, the throat, the ass. I have dreamed these scenes. The throat, the ass. I have dreamed these scenes: the bed, felt the thrusts, the cracked open jaw. I dream as I read that I have been in that stall— what to call the place that’s both inside and out— tides rise and fall, hard and soft with blood. Stirring, nipples exhale; below my navel, banned belt, a tent of thread and air. I’m stirred. A linen dress, refuge from heat, from waist, these layers blur what’s real. Naked beneath: one is man. There’s a spell in the words that stir. 65

There’s a body within a body. One is woman. There’s pain in pleasure; in pleasure, pain. Subhaga Crystal Bacon (they/them) is the author of four collections of poetry including most recently the Isabella Gardner Awardwinning Transitory, a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award for Transgender Poetry, 2023, from BOA Editions, and Surrender of Water in Hidden Places, winner of the Red Flag Poetry Chapbook Prize, 2023. A Queer elder, they live in rural northcentral Washington on unceded Methow land.

Waltzing with Water Megan Chunn The moon asked the sun, “What do you know of love?” “It burns,” said the sun. “It brightens. It is something you make and then give away.” “Don’t listen to him,” said the clouds. “This big ball of gas doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” “Yes, I do,” said the sun. “Who but me makes the roses grow?” “We do,” said the clouds. “Love nourishes, like the rain. We turn the hills green and fill the creeks so they will sing in their creek beds.” “Why do you ask?” said the sun. “I think I might be in love,” said the moon. “I am trying to understand it.” So the moon went and looked at the deserts. They were dry and hot and empty. “See?” said the clouds. But the deserts were still beautiful. And so the moon went and looked at the creeks in their beds, and they were cool and wet and full. And they were beautiful too. “What do you think?” the moon asked the sky. “I want to know if I am in love.” “Ask the earth,” said the sky, and so the moon asked the earth. “The clouds cover me,” said the earth. “They make me bloom. The sun warms me. Without them I would be cold and dry.” “You would be ugly without them. That is love?” 67

“I would be cold and dry,” said the earth, “but not ugly. You are cold and dry, my little one, and you are beautiful.” “Not like you,” said the moon. “Not like the ocean...” “No one is like me. No one is like you,” said the earth. “I feel loveliest when she holds my light,” said the moon. “Who is it that you love, my child? What kind of love do you wish?” “Are there different kinds?” the moon asked. “The sun warms me and pulls me in. The clouds cover me, when they remember. The sky turns every color for me. How do you and yours love?” “We dance,” said the moon, and they knew she meant the ocean. “I push and she pulls. I rise and set, she rises and ebbs. We go around and around and I watch her tides and I do not think I will ever tire of calling her beautiful. Is that love?” “It is only your own reflection you see on the ocean’s surface,” scoffed the clouds. “It is like when the sun sets, and calls us beautiful, but it is only his own colors he loves.” “I love her even when I shine no light,” said the moon. “Maybe I love her most then.” “You only love her because she follows where you lead,” said the sun. “It is a dance,” said the moon. “It is self-centered,” said the clouds. “Bossy. Mean.”

“She is the heart of my orbit,” said the moon. “I will live my life by her until she is gas and I am dust and the universe is cold and dead.” And the sun and the clouds were quiet and went away, and the stars came out from where they had been listening. “Is this love?” said the moon. “You are not asking the right people,” said the stars. “I have asked the sun, who burns,” said the moon. “I have asked the clouds, who cover. I have asked the sky, who stays forever. I have asked the earth, who made me.” “But have you asked the ocean, who loves you?” said the stars. “Oh,” said the moon. And so the moon went down to the ocean and asked, “Is this love?” And the ocean said, “Yes.” Megan Chunn is a southern-based poet that writes about the struggles of lesbianism in the south as well as love in general. She owns a huskymalamute named Yogi Bear and a cat named Dovah. Without them she’d be lost. In her free time she writes, researches and cross-stitches.

Show Them Love Lorinda Boyer Shielding my eyes against the glare of the sun, I peer down Fourth Street, anxious for the festivities to begin. The Seattle Pride parade is heavily attended, attracting upwards of three hundred thousand people each year. Staking claim to a piece of sidewalk early is essential, but after two hours of waiting, I’m impatient. I bop from one foot to the other. Sandy’s hand closes around mine. She pulls me into her, plants a kiss on my cheek. “I adore you, wife!” she declares. I giggle. “And I adore you, wife!” We wrap our arms around each other’s waists. Living in northwest Washington, and especially here in Seattle, we are afforded a level of acceptance more generous than other places. Still, there are pockets in surrounding areas of my hometown of Bellingham where I feel insecure. Places where I avoid holding Sandy’s hand or kissing her, where I consciously try to blend. But here, today, surrounded by our people, our culture of love and acceptance, I’m a part of the majority for a change. I allow myself to relax. From somewhere behind me a voice booms, “Homosexuals, turn from your wicked ways!” I turn to see a dozen middle-aged men gathered under a coffee shop eave on the corner. Formally attired in slacks and button-down shirts, they pump their fists in 70

the air. Pits wet with perspiration; they wave their placards declaring all gays are doomed to hell. A short guy clutching his bible in one hand, erratically waving a sign in the other, yells, “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” I roll my eyes. Such godly gentlemen. Clean-shaven, short haired, voices dripping with hatred. A blight against the otherwise colorful crowd. I ignore them. On the opposite side of the street, a queen perches atop a platform flanked by gigantic amplifiers. Extravagantly festooned in glittery platform heels and a sequined, strapless, peacock-blue dress, she laughs into a cordless microphone. “Welcome, Seattle!” She pauses, grins, bats her enormous eyelashes while we all shout and clap. She holds her hand up for quiet. “Welcome Seattle to your fortieth Pride Parade celebration!” The spectators erupt in deafening applause. The dykes on bikes, Seattle Pride’s official leaders of the parade, throttle their motorcycle engines. Clad in leather, Lycra, and in some cases, nothing at all, they tear down the middle of the street. Sandy whistles and claps. I raise my hands up and attempt to catch pieces of multicolored confetti before it floats to the ground. Two individuals dressed in decorated military uniforms march side by side. One carries the American flag, the other the Pride flag. I lay my right hand over my heart as I wonder why uniting us can’t be as simple as this.

A cherry-red convertible carrying the mayor of Seattle rolls down the street at the heels of Seattle’s Rainbow City Marching Band. The band’s members sway in choreographed motion to the music. Primary-colored balloons, rainbow flags, feathers, and copious amounts of glitter adorn dancers, singers, marchers, and those simply caught up in the thrill of it all. Fourth Street is transformed into an endless, most raucous, musical. I’ve nearly forgotten the negative protesters until I hear, “Turn from your wickedness!” The words spew wet on my exposed shoulder; I turn around as the men from the corner push their way between my wife and me. Our clasped hands are forced apart. Terror triggers my fight-or-flight response and I freeze. Not careful where they step, whom they shove, or in whose ear they bellow, the men barge through the swarm of people lining the curb. My heart pounds in my chest as I search for Sandy, who has seemingly disappeared. The roar of the crowd is louder than the band of demonstrators, but their commotion catches the attention of the drag queen in the peacock-blue dress. In one swift motion, she powers up the mic, presses it to her lips. “Uh-ohhhh!” she singsongs, “Seems we have some angry fellas.” She tsks, clucks, shakes her head. Parade-goers maneuver about, craning their necks to locate the men she’s referencing.

I spot Sandy’s head pop up above the crowd, then she vanishes. I wiggle my way through the bodies, hopeful I’m headed in my wife’s direction. The men, undeterred by the queen’s acknowledgement, continue to rant with greater intensity. “Being gay is not the way!” “God hates gays!” They’ve managed to wrestle their way onto the street, filling a lull in parade activity. Disjointed in their approach, the men veer off in opposite directions, bellowing over the top of one another. The effect is chaotic, unpredictable. I hunch my shoulders, pull into myself as my feelings of vulnerability intensify. “Sandy!” My voice cracks. I’m close to tears when her face appears. I grab and squeeze tight to my wife’s hand. Sandy squares her shoulders, pulls me closer, her muscles tighten against me. For decades, I struggled to come to terms with messages like those scrawled in sharpie across the men’s cardboard signs. I searched to find my place in their world, in their beliefs, but there wasn’t one. I’m learning that’s okay; I’ve found my tribe. Even still, fear creeps in. “You are safe,” Sandy whispers in my ear. Drawing strength from her reassurance, I stand a little taller. “We love you even if you don’t love us.” The peacock queen’s voice is unwavering. She tosses her silky, black hair over her shoulder, causing her rhinestone earrings to swing. In all honesty, I’m not feeling particularly loving, but I do my best to embrace the 73

sentiment. “Come on y’all.” She sweeps open her arms, her flawlessly sculpted bosom bobbing with the movement. “Let’s show these boys some love!” As if on cue, a float bursting with posh drag queens slows in front of the peacock queen. Garmented in gowns, miniskirts, and hot pants, with their faces close-shaved, as well as fully bearded and mustached, the drag queens leap from the flatbed. Without hesitation, they link arms like Rockettes and skip in unison toward the men. The peacock queen twirls on her heel, pushes a few buttons. Sister Sledge’s “We are Family” blasts from the speakers. A collective cheer emerges from the crowd. The men glance warily at one another as the queens shimmy up and thread arms with them. I half expect the men to retaliate, to use their signs as weapons. Instead, one by one, the men drop their posters to their sides, eventually discarding them altogether. I scrutinize their faces. Squint my eyes to get the most accurate take on their expressions. For sure, not all the men are smiling, but neither do they look infuriated. Rather, they appear confused, a bit freaked out, quieted. I watch as the elaborately painted and coifed queens coax the stoic men forward. The men move in step with their new friends. I gaze in amazement as they amble down the street, arm in arm, none pulling away. As they disappear into the sun, I turn to my wife. “Did that just happen?” She nods, her mouth open, her eyes wide. 74

“And that, Seattle,” the peacock queen pirouettes and throws her arms in the air, “is how we show LOVE!” Once again, the masses yell, scream, whoop, and holler. My shoulders relax. I feel a glimmer of hope that love, in fact, can conquer hate. Lorinda Boyer is the author of the multi-award-winning memoir, Straight Enough (Sidekick Press, 2021). Her poetry has been published both in print and online. When she isn’t writing, Lorinda enjoys running, cycling, and coffee.

Bottom Robin Robinson Kanyon leaves me alone and sore, so I wander naked to the kitchen. The oven clock is the only light: 4 AM, yellow-green. Sweat dries tight on my forehead. I’ve still got flecks of him crusted on my back. I can feel it crack when I move. I open the fridge, and the fan comes alive. I squint into the jaundiced light, looking over the leftovers and deli meat and pulling out a manhandled plastic box. A supermarket cake. I open it— it’s missing a slice. Kanyon is a good boy, a young professional office plant. He is gentle with me and has been since I sucked his dick in the seventh grade. Sex with Kanyon is so artsy it’s disgusting. He’s as tender as a bruise. He bends over me and shame and taboo become anatomical. I want limerent desire, ego dying by overspilling, the urgent, spiral erotic, in and out, fill and empty. He treats me like a love affair when all I am is a hole. I watched him eat his slice before we fucked, and I didn’t feel hungry, because I don’t feel hunger anymore, and because I was horny and he was there. Holes are empty. I’m nauseous. I pinch the body of the cake apart and bring it to my lips. It’s fluffy, still fresh. Crumbs fall to the floor. The kitchen tile is cold on my feet, the air around me muggy and stagnant. I lick my fingers clean and take another bite. Chocolate syrup over chocolate frosting over chocolate cake.

He’s on top. His glasses are glints of light above my face. He pumps, arhythmic, slowing, and pulls himself out of me. I eat by the fistful. It’s sticky. I take it in my fists and pack my mouth. I masticate like an animal. My molars compact, again, again, and chewing is all I hear. I tear the cake into wads of mud. I take bites so large my lips bulge over the matter, I swallow and my throat aches. I sweep crumbs off the floor and frosting onto my hand and lick them from my palms. I lick my skin, the sugar spilled over my upper arms, the streaks over my belly, the tight lines of chocolate under my fingernails and in the creases of my knuckles. When all this sweet ends, I start biting. It tastes of salt, then iron. I chew fingernails and knuckles, the thighs, the fat of the stomach, the long strings of innards. Bite, bite, bite. And when it seems that everything is gone, I finally chew my tongue, merciless, until nothing, really nothing is left. Robin Robinson is a queer multi-genre writer from Northern California, currently based in San Jose, CA. He is the playwright of Making Sense (2019) and Fishbrain & Frank (2023). His fiction and poetry have been published by Lethe Press, Chinquapin Literary Magazine, and The Mandarin Magazine.

The Things Together Is Eren Harris you can see here where they cut // and cut where they spread me down // to flatpacked beach smooth and neat along a seam of // sea, now you can feel // with hands, lips, tongue the stingray spines of // stitches, two knotty // pink // ribbon roads to joy unspooling under little sew// on stars tell me // do you miss those half// filled sacks of shame? they mocked me not just because they // dangled like a pair of wagging // tongues // with flaccid jellied ooze but with their // there. pendulous anchors // unwanted twins swaddled tight to // my chest bones abort // abort // abort— as deft fingers // took that false// and flagging flesh away // now you take me your cock is heavy // heavy // pink // carnation at sundown 78

fat with hope and // now i am scattered // atomic // i breathe in // blue against the // green of your eyes and // you can’t even see // my tongue slitted as it flicks // and feeds on your snakemilk we are renegade things sweet // boned and scar // studded, vixen conglomerates forming // covalent bonds we are sea // creatures tide in // tide out both wave // and particle both never // and here but all // and entirely unflinchingly alive. Eren Harris a genre- and gender-fluid creator whose writing has appeared in over a dozen publications. Their short story “Bodies in Flight” won first prize in Please See Me’s Spring 2020 fiction contest, their poetry chapbook Chrysalis was published by Lupercalia Press in 2021, and their first novel, Siren Season, is in its final stages of editing. A graduate of Yale University, Eren works as a writer/editor for a nonprofit in Los Angeles.

Featured Visual Artists Grace Piontek, Hers/Mine (between p. 4 and p. 5) - Grace is a photographer and writer. Through 35 mm film photography, they focus on environmental portraiture. As a poet, they explore identity, self-expression, and gender fluidity grounded within observations of the natural world. Robert Walker, Dominic–Merman (between p. 11 and p. 12) – Robert opened RW2 Gallery in 2004, and has been a full-time artist ever since. Paint is his primary medium, and he draws largely from his experiences and imagination. He likes to smoke a joint, listen to music, and let his mind wander until that eureka moment hits and the magic happens! Sam Piscitelli, Blush in Bloom (between p. 28 and p. 29) - Sam is a poet, photographer and digital artist who resides in Denver, CO. He received his B.A. in English with a Concentration in Creative Writing from Curry College. His work "A Pocket In Time” has been published in Train River Poetry: Summer 2020 anthology and Beyond Queer Words - 4th Edition. Callie Little (between p. 40 and p. 41) - Callie is a queer, neurodivergent illustrator, tattoo artist and writer living in Seattle. Find her written work in VICE, Teen Vogue, Architectural Digest, BUST, Harper's BAZAAR, ONE ART, and her first book will publish in August 2024 with Clarkson Potter. Her visual work has been shown in galleries throughout the Pacific Northwest, and she can be found at www.callielittle.com and @goshcallie. MP Vare, Creature Comforts #5 (between p. 57 and p. 58) - MP Vare is a disabled transgender parent living in Philadelphia on

Lenapehoking. Their artistic life is shaped by becoming a laterin-life parent, the infertility journey that preceded parenthood, and the gender affirmation journey that followed. They are actively reparenting themself while raising their three children, and the processes of coming to terms with disenfranchised grief and forgiveness inspire them. MP’s art and poetry can also be found in Opal Age Tribune. MP is community-trained writer, including studying creative non-fiction at Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. E. Hynes, Sex-Gender (between p. 58 and p. 59) – E. is a queer non-binary person with an M.F.A from the University of Massachusetts. Kathe Burkhart, Fountain Merman (between p. 75 and p. 76) Kathe is a writer and visual artist based in New York City and Amsterdam. She is the author of four books of fiction, Dudes, 2014, Participant Press, NYC; Between the Lines, Hachette Litteratures, January 2006; Deux Poids, Deux Mesures (The Double Standard) Participant Press 2005 and Hachette Litteratures, Paris, 2002, and From Under the 8 Ball, (LINE, 1985). She has been anthologized in Writers Who Love Too Much (NY: Nightboat Press, 2017) Love, Always (Oakland: Transgress Press, 2015) and has also been published in Artforum, Hyperallergic.com, Evergreen Review, Esopus, Women and Performance, Cultural Politics, Purple Fiction, FlashArt, and High Performance, among others.