Issue 003: Home by Karma Comes Before

Cover art: "Homecoming" by @jk_inc San Francisco Rainbow Pride Victorian House Enamel Pin by Brenna Daugherty on Lola of North Beach UFO enamel pin on AliExpress

March 2024

Stephanie: I have a love-hate relationship with home. On one hand, I’m blessed to live in the rich and vibrant neighborhood of Spanish Harlem. I love the Puerto Rican festival I can look forward to every year. I love the way the sun shines through my living room window. And my bed... I *love* my bed. But there’s a reason I published, “Alice and the Tiny House” in Issue 000: Genesis (IYKYK!). Jayn: Home for me, are the people I leave a bit of my soul with to come back to. I have felt more peace, joy, and curiosity within the arms of a dear friend than I have in my childhood homes. Though, like Stephanie, my bed is a different story. In fact, napping is one of my favorite hobbies! (Stephanie: I can attest to this. They also wake up after noon LOL). The 17 contributors in this issue also have mixed feelings about home. From a poem about household critters to another about coming home, these stories captivate the layers of our private lives. So, come on in and have a seat. The tea is almost ready. With good vibes, Stephanie and Jayn Laure

Note from the Editors

Dedication

Six by Marjorie Vera

Postcards by John Grey

Home is in the Works by Ordinary Daze

Camp Winona by Elise LeSage

secondhand furniture by Adrian Elise

The Couch Sitting Time... by Shamik Banerjee

The Heartbeat of a City by A. Daniyal

The Guests by Marjorie Vera

Of Love & Friendship by Rebecca Barlowe

Home Leave by Bernard Pearson

Home in Harlem by Kwanzaa Owes

Break the Ridge by Meghan Dhawan

Meant to Be Series: Asia Lee

This is How to Love Me by Jayn Laure

Queen from Queens by Jasmine Rosario

Piles of Me by Stephanie Nieves

The Rising by Maggie Iribarne

Horoscopes

Lesson Plan

Announcements

Home playlist

Contributors

Acknowledgements

Waiting for treatment at Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City. Credit: Samar Abu Elouf for The New York Times

Six Spaghetti every Thursday Sauce stain on the sling that supported the cast on the wrist that I had to present to the surgeon every Thursday But no autograph, monogram, or museum-worthy masterpiece would stain the virgin white cast and no one could obstruct obstinate, odd, serious, sensitive six year-old me on this ruling nor instruct me on the finer points of fracture fame I knew about purity Other things I knew— that the liquid brown eyes of Paul McCartney and Davy Jones saw into my soul and the sugar that left their lips tasted like strawberry shortcake, cream on top, the tingle of the wait and the hiss of the needle as it searched for the groove in the vinyl on the portable phonograph, the shivering bliss of the first chords, the stomping foot to stop the skip, I knew that Mister Rogers was my bonus dad, the thrill of mixing potions from pilfered perfumes and powders, pinches of this and that from the pantry, and the occasional dollop of lotion the letter writing magic of Raggedy Andy, the brother I didn’t have who always wrote back, and the art of guiding expeditions to Mexico, Egypt, and Japan via canopy swing

Things I did not know— if monsters lurked in the shadows at night, how to ride a bicycle, or feed myself books more filling than Sally, Dick, and Jane, how, with one arm strung up in a sling, to reach the light switch in the lavatory, or summon the unreachable teacher for help on that Day of Infamy and Shame, when the darkness taunted my cowardly kidneys and baited my bursting bladder to let it flow Yet, there was, on that Yellow Day, the brief relief of retreat to the safe haven of the School of Miss Lemon Drop, aka Miss Mommy, whose magnetic alphabet board could never match the magnetic pull of her buttercream lap full of fairy tales, love minerals, and me This was six We moved to a different neighborhood a few years on, another phase by then, an older odd and obstinate, serious, sensitive me and I never returned to see if high hedges still hemmed the lawn of that split level brick house on Allison Avenue like a fortress guarding locked-away secrets and treasures, or if, within, there is an obstinate, odd, serious, sensitive little girl with a pure white cast in a spaghetti-stained sling who is guarding her own

By Marjorie Vera

Postcards I hate postcards, especially from Venice: the basilica of San Marco, ripening in the sun, the Palazzo Ducale, delicate loggia, rose-colored walls, Calendario, Giovanni, Lamberto, Bragni, and canals, always canals, gondolas, light and bobbing, in their brown and fleshy waters. Please, no more reminders of where I am, as you’re traversing the continent in all its arcane, archaic glory. Paris, I can just about handle. I have my Colette, my Sartre, my Gide, after all. But if I can’t tour the palace, kneel at the altar, be blinded by gold at the Pala Oro, then keep your awe to yourself, conceal the splendor from my disappointed eyes, my home-bound self. I prefer the bills that proliferate in my mailbox. How much electricity I used this past month couldn’t care a fig about “Titian’s Assumption.”

I’m not jealous. My neighbor tinkering with his lawn mower not patting down the final touches to “The Rape Of The Sabine Women.” I’m pleased for you, these discoveries, treasures for the mind, manna for the soul.

But I just scoured the oven out, fixed the leaking tap.

Things that needed doing but don’t travel well.

by John Grey

Camp Winona We lived on that riverbank for only twelve weeks, but time always moves slower in the summer. It was onehundred-and-one acres altogether: emerald woods dissected by footpaths, two freezing swimming pools, ten clusters of cabins, a craft center, and an archery range. We came from all over the world. There was Buckeye from England, Peaches from France, Rodeo from Estonia, and yes, those were our names back then. We’d hid our other names—our other lives—away, shedding more and more of who we’d been as we sunk deeper into the summer. We said grace before meals; we pruned curse words from our vocabularies. Accustomed to addressing elementary-aged campers, our accents slowed to the jaunty drawl of kiddie-talk. Breathing through bandanas, we poured lye into reeking outhouses. At night, we scooped wolf spiders from sleeping bags with our bare hands, unflinching. We were paid—barely—to present the camp as a hub

of adventure and whimsy. Here was a place wherein campers might polar-bear swim before sun-up, then search for fairies come dusk. Sleep deprived by the bonfire, we told stories of friendly ghouls, of lost puppies, of princesses with frozen hearts. We were not immune to the magic we preached. The firefly-jeweled thickets, the star-hung sky, the cicadas that sung us to sleep—all these lent the hundred acres the vastness of a dream. And were downsides, yes. In this space, the even smallest drama could feel cataclysmic. Rumors replaced world politics; side-eyes swept through the camp like hurricanes; secretes carried the weight of nuclear missiles. Yet, there was love enough— always love enough—to braid each other’s hair, to tweeze ticks from nervous ankles, and to hold tight any weeping cabin-mate who needed it, squeezing hands and petting backs until the sun budged over the tree line. We lived on that riverbank for only twelve weeks, but it wasn’t until we left that the camp shrunk back to its doll-sized proportions: a plot of land, a seasonal job, a lifetime collapsed into a single summer.

by Elise LeSage

Tallies of time measured in initials on the doorframe. In this convex sanctuary, the light is prying through the shapes in my roots. Vines of my soul unfurl to meet the day, curling and trailing. Smoke curves through the window screen; intoxicating incense and free will linger. Their shapes as unique as snowflakes forge a map to the pasture, pacifying aching bones. Lock pin boundaries and high ceilings from which we could hang our anxious threads to dry. Bare feet cold-toed the ceramic floors, the blinking emerald light consistently kept score. On this hill, I grazed those serene years. Drumming the walls for studs of identity & two porcelain cups of black evening coffee.

drian Elis A e By

At half past six, the staid hour does come with its air of boredom when we, for tea, group on the couch and smile with trueness seldom. The teapot is the interceder— while passing hands, it tries to peek into our too diffident mouths to make our buried voices speak. The sister gives a gentle grin, then follows soon the brother; our parents’ noncontacting eyes then turn towards each other. Then come the routinary lines: “Today, the weather’s just too bad,” “The neighbor left their garth unmown,” or, “You should get a shave, my lad.” And all are in their best charades to prove their faces—happy, solved, although within their minds has been a deep moroseness involved.

The

of a City

The time right now is... you don’t know. You can’t really tell the time because you don’t wear wristwatches and they made you switch your cellphone off before the take-off. With all the time zones you’ve already crossed, and also because of lack of sleep, you just can’t figure out what time it is exactly. The only thing you’re sure about is that it’s night time. You can see that outside your window. There is a mysterious darkness in the cabin, interrupted only by the ghostly glow of monitors which are showing movies you don’t care about. Everything is quiet and slumbers in silence, cushioned by the engine noise which is gently humming in your ears: it’s almost sleep-inducing. Your ears are plugged, the plane is getting ready to start its descent. The plugged ears are more than welcome: they isolate you from the wailing kids and from the rest of the world and its frenzy, sending you in your own parallel dimension that no one can trespass. You wonder since how long ago you hadn’t

had your own space, where nobody could reach you and where you could slowly breathe the darkness in. The advantage of having all the seats of your row free is that you can lay down over them and sleep comfortably, alone, during your long flight, but making use of this advantage is the last thing you want. You would love to have someone sitting beside you, that special someone, on the shoulders of whom you could rest your head and sleep better than you ever did before, better than in any luxury hotel suite, better than under effect of any sleepaid. You should feel safe. Nothing can go wrong here, you’re flying 10000m above ground and all the problems that dwell on it, fortified in your limbo, with plugged ears. You’re safe, at least until your own internal demons get tired of monotony of peace and start nibbling at you from the inside, where you’re most vulnerable. Then you start seeing gremlins outside your window busy sawing off the wings, or busy invading the cabin and eating everybody’s heads: those are nothing else but your own insecurities, anxieties and impossible desires, ready to make you crash even if you’re flying on a perfectly tested and functioning airplane.

You look down through the window, you’re almost there. Now in the pitch dark you can notice some lights. They look like coffee stains on a white tablecloth. The city where you’re about to land is Toronto, but it might as well be New York, or Los Angeles, or San Francisco... In all your travels you’ve learnt that the cities have the name that YOU give them, according to how they make you feel. You’re returning to this city. The city did not ask you expressively to return back. It went on even without you, as you can see below you. The things you used to do in this city are done by millions of other people and nobody awards them a medal for doing them. No one ever noticed that in these weeks the city counted a person less than umpteen millions of inhabitants. But perhaps, for your return, you can only blame yourself and that damned wish to return to your familiar places, masked by sentences like “I have to return to my work”, “I have to return to my family”, “I have to return to my fiancée”. The plane descends a bit more. You notice stains of light intensify below you in the pitch dark. At first glance, these stains remind you of circulatory system diagrams in your middle school biology lab, with all the arteries, veins and the heart. You wonder how a city could be compared

to a human being. To be honest it’s true. The highways from up here look like principal arteries from which blood is pumped from the center-heart towards all the peripherals of the body-city. The sea of lights overwhelms your vision. You’re noticing even more details, the pressure on your eardrums gets more and more pressing. The veins and arteries reach intensively all the parts still left in the dark. Now you can see even the cars travelling on the roads, which from up here look like red blood cells transporting oxygen, the light of their headlights, towards the organs. In your heart, in that moment, you don’t want anything else other than each one of these cars reaching their destinations safely to bring good news with them. Just like the red blood cells transport oxygen, i.e. the good news, the life, to peripheral organs of the body. You really want that to happen with all your heart. The spots of light resemble the glimmer of hope, even if quite dim, in the total darkness around. Now you can notice monuments, plazas, shops. The plane is hovering over the city. The city seems alive and pumping, throbbing, vibrant even with all its problems, but you seem grim and

slow. Fact is, how can the city make your heart beat if it needs the pulsing heartbeat of its inhabitants to be alive? The urban scenery reverts to an industrial one, it is sign that you are almost over the airport. You grab your armrests and clench them tightly, and as a basic instinct, you clench your eyes close tightly for some seconds before the landing. It’s just your vain attempt to stop time in flight, remain up in the air forever. You’d love to make time go back to when you felt like you were alive, back to where you departed from. You’d just want the plane to remain in air, or detour to some other far-off destination like Tokyo, or Melbourne, or wherever. You’re still not ready to face the land and all its problems. But all your mental attempts are futile. The plane lands with an impressive thud and you abruptly open your eyes, your heart thumping.

The Guests Once, mere weeks ago, when I was newly arrived, they would visit me, the spiders, appearing on thresholds, in the passageway between bedrooms, surprise companions in my shower stall long-legged males, waiting, always in the Game And then: a delicate female, her silks, threaded along the slats of the iron fence, catching the light like tinsel; She is a daring aerialist with her silks, a master weaver, but above all a mother always hard at work in the business of creating, even at rest, incubating her latest new ones Though you and I might be tempted to see an idle neighbor lazing in her hammock Was I to take them as a sign? I haven’t seen them lately Like fast-blooming flowers, they are here and then suddenly, not Whether they came to warn or to welcome, the task seems completed, at least for their part What is to be mine?

And then: another sign My eyes, habituated to look low, are led instead upward to a lantern dangling from a high wooden beam overhanging the front porch In the small space between glass casing and ornamental brass: a bird’s nest! Who is this enterprising mama-to-be? I want to meet her, cup my palm to her feathery breast and breathe soft hellos to calm the quivering of her heart I want to cheer her on as she broods, though she needs no doula, and warble to her hatchlings as they arrive, blind and bare, one by one We who know this work of mothering see in life’s endless fragile permutations the impossibly beautiful possibilities of our children They are all our own Oh, I am so pleased she has chosen to be a guest in this place, at this moment, when I am here to call it home I hope, like the spiders, she finds her stay hospitable Though, in truth, whose guest is whose?

By Marjorie Vera

writer

editor

teacher

writing, editing, feedback, collaborations, and brand development services

Of Love & Friendship By the time I started college, I had lived in eight cities, three countries, and attended nine schools. For the sake of something I never grew to understand. Every ending meant an unwelcome new beginning. The brutal friendship breakups to avoid tears at the airport for people I’d never see again. Friend groups of dreams that ended at kitchen tables with the ‘good news’ of my parents. The gradual unraveling that came like clockwork. Creating a new life with ‘the end’ already written. Making new friends to cruelly recreate something from the past, and crushing it to feel in control of something. Becoming a shell of what I could’ve been before the age of 25. Losing myself in each city I can’t seem to remember. As I listen to people talk about childhood bedrooms I realize I don’t have anywhere to visit. 5,073 miles and an ocean that separates me from everything I knew to be law.

by Rebecca Barlowe

He would place His head against Her shell-like breast, And hear the sea Roll in her heart, As he took his rest.

The eczema around my mouth is subtle My hair long enough to be put up halfway as I draw scratches of a spider on my knock-off etch-a-sketch There are many nights of vegetables cooked weirdly Where I greet my younger one in the early mornings on the bottom bunk As we make our way down the stairs to say hello to the glowing box where cartoons and Wii games beat with life, the heart of the DVD box warm with hours of love, appreciation, and strained eyes Finding solace in the space by the back door where the snow falls, buses halted as school calls to indicate closure for the day Spring rolls around, it is safe to go outside

Hearing the hums from the plugged-in heater no more as a new life begins Shedding the skin of the previous year as the air of new friends and silly conversations take place as the destination to the undisclosed derailment of my mental state that I would not see coming yet… Dark nights on the patio, mommy drinking sips of her tequila-laced drink, using her own phrasing as a weapon of conversation against daddy, more strategic in the dance of detest I play with my fork against the pieces of over-steamed broccoli, my father, taking a swig of his third glass of bourbon, inquiring why I haven’t finished my plate Daddy goes on a business trip, I long for his return Mommy holds me tight to her chest, I feel the bedsheets, loose from sleep, tangled between my ankle, as if to pull me as the anchor into the endless sea

She tells me he will be back, my instinct to run into his closet and grab a white t-shirt from the stack of thousands he had from mowing the lawn was immense I wrap it around the top half of my body and lay back into the bed, this time, on his side. Hoping that it would feel like he is there in the room with me, lulling me into the false sense of security that is a sleeping sandwich between him and my mother. I hope they always sleep in the same bed together.

Asia Lee

Meant to Be series

with Asia Lee

Asia Lee is a lot of things: A phenomenal woman, a mentor, and a leader. She wears many hats, and was recently recognized by NY1 for her community service.

Asia and I are two of many women who attended The Young Women’s Leadership School of East Harlem. We were taught social skills that allowed us to build genuine relationships as adults. We learned how to market and speak up for ourselves. And we built an unshakable community of young women who want to see each other win. I had the privilege of sitting down with Asia for an exclusive interview. Here’s her advice for living purposefully and authentically. SN: “Without using your job title, who are you?” AL: “I am a healer, a confidence builder, a lover of good energy, an entertainer, a protector, a friend, a sister, a comedian and a confidant. The best way I'd describe who I am would be to say that I am a protective lover of people. I thoroughly

installment 004

enjoy building confidence in anybody I have a conversation with. I like to make people smile, laugh, and forget about all the worries in their world. I like for people to feel good, not only about themselves, but also about life. I want people to walk with the joy that I have no matter what's going on around them so I lead by example. Even if it's for a few short moments in interaction, I am a spirit lifter. I like to think of myself as a goddess. There is a heavenly uniqueness to my charismatic and infectious personality. I am dependable. I am a healer and a good energy provider. I am a soul seeker and it excites me that through all of my mess this is who I became.” SN: “How did you discover the work you were meant to do?” AL: “I discovered the work of

transformational life coaching the moment I decided to start working on my own selfdevelopment in 2018. Although it took me until 2021 to fully walk in this direction, I believe the discovery started when I discovered myself. I started my podcast "How Lee See's It" in 2020. It was an outlet for me to share my growth with anyone who could relate to my struggles. The podcast led to life coaching and coaching led to motivational keynote speaking. I realized the things that were important to me like mental health awareness, anti-bullying, suicide prevention, identifying purpose, reframing fear, understanding emotional intelligence, and adverse childhood experiences needed to be spoken about more often with people of all ages and at the largest scale possible.”

“I like to think of myself as a goddess. There is a heavenly uniqueness to my charismatic and infectious personality.” SN: “How do you balance your day job with your life's work?” AL: “I honestly would do my life's work at my day job whenever I possibly could. I actually got my life coaching certification on the clock. My life's work is a 24/7 thing for me so it's truly all I care about.

I even found a way to incorporate it while interacting with my patients at my day job by focusing on empowering them anyway I can in the few short moments I have to make their appointments.” SN: “What advice do you have for someone trying to discover their purpose and passion?” AL: “My advice for anyone looking to discover their purpose and passion in life is to start from within. The first step is to figure out what makes you YOU! The second step would be to pinpoint how you want to use that as you interact with the world. Everything else will figure itself out as you go but just in case anyone needs any further assistance, I AM YOUR GIRL. Book a transformational coaching session at mymentor.life/asialee and let's identify your unique purpose once and for all. 2024 is your year!”

@phenomenal_leeee

This is How to Love Me Hold me often Hold me tightly Hug me from the front when you see me first and when you say goodbye Hug me from behind while I’m doing dishes or when my brows are nit with concentration Help me ease my stress and release my built up tension Hug my hand with yours so we don’t get separated in a large crowd Or just because it feels nice Affix me to you when we nap, when we sleep Hug my legs with yours Even on the couch Speak to me often Speak to me gently As if a breeze on the wind Caressing a cheek Tell me all the mundane Share your dreams and hopes And even your worries and fears So that I might offer you compassion And support And encouragement Speak to me even when The words feel difficult to express If I’m not quick to reply

Know that I’m listening intently Or maybe it’s through text and I’m taking a nap Or my phone is out of sight And if you contact me via a meme or two or forty three I will watch them like a story, A glimpse into your life Regardless, I will talk to you At least one out of every ten times You run through my mind Anymore than that and I fear you’d tire of me Though if that’s your speed, We can talk till our voices are hoarse And our fingers are numb And our abs hurt from hosting our own comedy show (PS I don’t have defined abs And I don’t expect you to either) Assure me often Assure me genuinely Without malice, envy or expectation Tell me you’re proud of the work I’ve done To get where I am And the growth I’ve accomplished Of who I am becoming Assure me I’m more than enough You can tell me I look beautiful But it won’t be as impactful As telling me I’m weird In just the right way That compliments your weirdness

Encourage me often Encourage me with support and kind words Prove you’re in my corner Yet don’t be afraid to kindly nudge me When I have room to grow Talk about me to your friends and family, In a room full of opportunities Build with me Even if we are doing our own thing Let’s do it together Play with me often Play with me freely Of course there is a time and a place for everything But I don’t want a life that’s too often serious Let us laugh And tease Crack a joke when I’m sad And let me fix you with a unamused stare before I break into a smile Let’s adventure through a park Or get lost in a forest Or a city we’ve been a thousand times And through ones we’ve only dreamed of Feed me often Feed me well Fuel my body, mind and soul And let me feed you Carry snacks with you everywhere And let’s share them Under a tree In a museum or gallery In the car to our next destination

On that note, I’d love it if you drove more often than I Though I’m not opposed to having you as my passenger When your eyes get heavy Or you need to finish a few more tasks so that when we arrive I have your full attention Or really you just have to ask And one day I hope you feel safe enough To ask me anything This list is in no way exhaustive Still, I’ll close with this, Most importantly of all Choose me Love me on purpose and with all you are capable Tell me Show me And never stop doing so Instead of falling, Climb down with me to discover the depths of our connection And then keep digging Hold the gates open to your most vulnerable parts And you’re happiest memories And I’ll do the same for you We’ll acknowledge and validate the sore and tender together And treat each other with patience and warmth We can marvel the lore, the foundations of who we are And celebrate that which we cherish with new eyes

And again love with intention Tell me how you want to be loved And I’ll treat it like a love letter In these ways You will secure your place As a home for my nomadic heart

by Jayn Laure

Queen from Queens Queens, I have so much to thank you for You taught me that fire escapes were also verandas, green houses and basketball hoops Led me to rooftops where I could watch the Macy's fireworks with wide eyes and a skeptical mind You turned stoops into conference rooms for meetings to discuss who was sitting with who in a tree.... K-I-S-S-I-N-G Sold me summer sunsets with Mr. Softee And winters I wish I kept the receipts for The snow was plenty, but you made sure Mamí put 14 layers of clothing on me

Queens, I have so much to thank you for The most diverse of the FIVE kingdoms of New York City

As if all FOUR corners of the world melted into a Flushing Meadow and created the Unisphere Where I learned THREE languages without stepping into a school Where I had to walk up and down the strip at Astoria Park at least TWO times to pass by my crush The place where I had that ONE special kiss… the first of many

Queens, I have so much to thank you for Like your clever way of confusing visitors with 44th St, 44th Rd, 44th Ave, 44th Dr and 44th Pl Demanding patience from those who venture into your space You took me shopping from Steinway St, Queens Center Mall all the way to "The Ave" to find trends I just had to have Playgrounds around every corner Wanna race? Last one to the slide is a rotten egg! These memories forever saved to save me back to sanity

Whenever I start to worry about where I'm going, I think of Queens She pours the truths of where I come from back into me and reminds me that I am a Queen from Queens Born in the month of Kings, and I am destined for ROYALTY No matter where I sing, the lyrics are written in my veins

Queens, I have so much to thank you for

By Jasmine Rosario

piles of me I move from room to room with this pile of myself Getting bigger and bigger Small books sliding off the top My arm pinching them at the elbow As I cradle them Piles of words That are mine and of friends, strangers and authors Self-help and kindness, Maya and Chaucer Piles of me, they’re all me, my babies I must cradle them. Afraid that if I leave them behind, I’ll miss them They’ll miss me And that that someone, anyone, might open up a page that is mine. A thought that is mine Get your own, this is mine I’m okay, this is fine. There’s a reflection of me

rolled in paint strokes and cardboard Tucked into corner of our room Afraid that if I open her up, I’ll have to share her, compromise, figure out where *we* like her in what frame, near what color, on what wall, —we should wait Because she, She is me She is mine, so I make her suffocate, refusing to share Keep her there, where I know she’ll wait for me, and just me cause of you? There’s a little bit of me, small fractions, percentages tacked onto the walls The fridge The table The bed A headache, “I don’t fit, I need space,” she has said How can I see myself, just as myself, if I’m wrapped up, coiled in us, in we, Where is she?

I signed up for this. The sharing, the surrendering, I signed up for this. I fucked up, went too fast And now I’m trying to put myself back together at last In pieces, in piles, she’s mine Don’t touch If I slip, even one piece, even one part, just one book Then all I’ll be are these fractions, and pieces, and piles, and things Might rip me up at the seams And you glue me back together Until I’m us and I’m we and I shed till I’m dead I want me, set me free Let me be... me... please? I’m tryna hold on to what’s whole, to what’s mine, define mine But I feel like she’s leaving me, so the least I can do is not drop her...

by stephanie nieves

Reparations of the Heart: Toward a SWANA Futurity by Kristin Anahit Cass – available now Jillian A. Fantin – forthcoming July 2024 Akira Ritos – forthcoming August 2024 Tenacity Plys – forthcoming August 2024 Artemisia Romero y Carver – forthcoming September 2024 Alison Lubar – forthcoming October 2024 Rosie Villano – forthcoming October 2024 Ashley Elizabeth – forthcoming November 2024 Max Gillette – forthcoming December 2024 Emily Perkovich – forthcoming December 2024

The : Rising She has left for the school where she works. I turn to face her side of the bed. The pillow is shadowed, a circle of peach makeup. She doesn’t wash before sleep. I remove the case to toss in the basket. Later, I will apply a special mixture learned long ago: vinegar, baking soda, lemon. I straighten the bedroom, lining up her tiny shoes, dead mice, returning her cast off clothes to boney hangers. (She is a snake, constantly shedding.) I avoid my own spare closet, the black chalice box -- a gift from my dead parents-tucked high on a shelf. A moment of peace. I kneel down beside the bed to pray. The baby’s room is another planet, an alternate atmosphere. I am weightless here, I float. Here, I can breathe, enjoy the scents of Vaseline and powder. The light is a pink haze, puffy stars dangle overhead. The baby is beautiful, curled brown hair at her temples, pursed rosebud lips. Her body rises and falls in sleep. Behold! My daughter. My. Daughter. I rest a hand on her back to feel warmth, life, joy. ***

By 10 AM the house is sufficiently neat. The baby plays on the floor with her blocks and books while yeast proofs in a bowl of warm water. At noon, the dough rises in the oven. We eat together at the kitchen table. With a steady hand I spoon pureed vegetable soup into her o-shaped mouth. Later, we stroll in the spring air. Cracked sidewalks lead to more cracked sidewalks, a palm outstretched, lines revealing mistakes, broken promises. Still, we amble under budding trees, pass small sad houses similar to ours. A stray dog follows, sniffing our trail. I resist annoyance, hold out a hand for a sniff. At the deserted playground, we glide on a rusty swing, scuff marks on sand. On the way back, it sneaks in, a burglar through a back window: the dread of late afternoon. I attempt to untangle, smooth the jumble of dark thoughts emerging. Hail Mary, full of grace. I can’t sustain the prayer. I repeat different, well known words: Seconds lead to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, months to… The baby naps. I sit hunched at the screen, bathed in computer glow. I examine a nearly empty inbox, my failed search for employment. Not so long ago I led a large parish, fielded untold questions and needs. I spent my days stretched thin between the living and the dying, an adept trapeze artist, balancing, flying, falling.

*** She arrives home at 3:30 PM, begins shedding, unravelling the peace I built throughout the day. The boy, eyes covered in bangs, follows close at her heals. He doesn’t greet me, darts to his room, a chipmunk running under a bush. I will not make him a snack, help him with homework. His mother will feed him. His father will collect him for baseball practice. The boy will leave and return in silence, never once meeting my eyes. She stands at the counter, a dividing line between us. She boils water, crackles open a package of ramen, empties it into a pot. She holds a bowl from beneath, catches noodles in her open mouth. At the table I feed little bits of bread to our daughter. On the counter, her phone repeatedly lights. “Must be nice,” she snipes without prompting, “to stay home.” “You know I’m looking,” I say. “Look harder,” she says, mouth full. The thought comes without any warning, becomes

words. I turn away from my daughter and say them carefully, as though practiced. “What if I take her, just go?” I prepare for the roof to crack, collapse, plaster raining down, to shield the baby with my body. She pauses, says, “When?” She continues to slurp strands of noodles into her mouth, worms disappearing into an unknowable tunnel. The fork seems bigger than her hand. She is a tiny, bird like person whom I have allowed to shatter my life in pieces. No, she is a giant who stomps on villages, shattering everything to tiny bits. She is a storm, a hurricane. “As soon as possible?” “Fine. Perfect.” She finishes, abandons the bowl in a clean sink. *** Even this last night, we share a bed. Our backs face each other, untouching. She snores. I lay awake in the darkness, my mind flashing, memory’s lightning strike, my failures shocking in the flare, diminishing into waning thunder rumbles. My daughter sleeps in the next room, the calm after the storm, an expected surprise, a gift.

I watch the window for the slightest glimpse of light. Its gentle fingers reach through the blinds, striping the bed. I whisper words to myself, a mantra, a prayer: I am a father still, her father. I will always be her father.

*This piece was previously published in the Poor Ezra’s Almanac, Volume 2, Nov 2023.

by Maggie : Iribarne

Big Idea Discussion Home can mean a lot of things to different people. Based on your own experience, is home a person, place, or thing? Or is it something else entirely?

Writing Craft Exercises Vocabulary: Based on the context clues in “Camp Winona” by Elise LeSage, what could the word, “cataclysmic” mean? Highlight the words that helped you draw this conclusion. (p. 14) Setting & Senses: How does Meghan Dhawan in “Break the Ridge” appeal to our five senses? Highlight one example of each (p. 30). Rhythm & Flow: How would you describe the rhythm of Stephanie Nieves’ “Piles of Me?” What words slow the piece down or speed it up? (p. 48) Main Ideas: What is the main idea of “Postcards” by John Grey (p. 8) and “Of Love & Friendship” by Rebecca Barlowe (p. 27). How are they similar and how are they different? Writing Genre: Read “Home Leave” by Bernard Pearson (p. 29). What is the main idea of this piece? Without straying from the main idea, replace the “shell-like” simile with another simile or metaphor and rewrite the poem.

Text Discussions Diction: In “The Couch-Sitting Time in Our Family,” how do the words “seldom,” “interceder,” and “charades,” help enhance the story? (p.17) Sense of Place: In “The Guests” by Marjorie Vera, what do you learn about our place in the world as humans? (p. 25) Compare & Contrast: Compare your home to Jasmine Rosario’s in “Queen of Queens.” What is similar about where you’re from or live and what’s different? (p. 44) Point-of-View: Whose perspective(s) is “The Rising” by Maggie Iribarne written from? What’s similar about each perspective and what’s different? (p. 53)

Projects Diorama: Choose a scene from one of these pieces and create a diorama. Who are the main characters and what do they look like to you? What colors would you use to set the ambiance of the space? How can you get the main idea across through this scene? Art: Create a welcome mat using crayons, markers, paint, oil pastels, or any other art medium. What would your welcome mat say? What colors would be the most inviting? What texture would it be; what would it feel like?

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Each song on this playlist was carefully selected to represent a different part of home. See if you can fill in each blank using the hints provided. The first person to email the correct answers to kcbthemag@gmail.com with a paragraph about what they liked about this issue will win a prize in the mail! Mad House by Rihanna Dollhouse by Melanie Martinez House on Fire by Sia Take Me Home by Jess Glynne

l_s_ _y _i_d _o_l _u_n__g y_u_s

Feels Like Home by Bea Miller and Jessie Reyez

f_z_y _ee_s

My House by Flo Rida

ho_e_wn__

Daddy’s Home by Usher

m__e

Hold On, We’re Going Home by Drake

m_rk o_ _e

Hold On, We’re Going Home by Pia Mia

a_on_

Lego House by Ed Sheeran

b_i_d

Find Your Way Back by Beyoncê

st_e_ l___ts

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.

A. Daniyal was born in Lahore, Pakistan, and grew up in a small town in northern Italy. He moved to Toronto in 2008 and now lives in Montreal.

Meghan Dhawan is a Poet, Film and Television Reviewer, Actress, Painter, Adventurer, and Aspiring Voice Actress. Her written works have been featured online in Dear Asian Youth and in one of their printed issues, as well as Vocivia Magazine's printed issue, and online for Justice for Youth Magazine and The Pillar, FDU Florham's Studentrun magazine, where she served as a Staff Writer and Student Voice Editor. Meghan is currently based in New Jersey, but is always proud to tell others that she was born in Toronto, Canada. In her free time, Meghan actively performs at various open mics in both New York and New Jersey, and goes by the name "Meghan", @ meghans_poetry, and can also be found @ meghan_dhawan on Instagram.

Adrian Elise is a writer, satirist, and emerging poet rising to meet the sun in America’s midwest rust belt. She writes for those who find beauty in simplicity and humor in everything. Adrian shares pieces on grief, passion, and cursed femininity in the forthcoming collection Shiva.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available on Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.

Maggie Nerz Iribarne is 53, living her writing dream in a yellow house in Syracuse, New York. She writes about teenagers, witches, the very old, bats, cats, priests/nuns, cleaning ladies, runaways, struggling teachers, and neighborhood ghosts, among many other things. She keeps a portfolio of her published work at https://www.maggienerziribarne.com.

Jay Kennedy is a New Zealand born illustrator who enjoys creating cartoony, stylized drawings that often have a central character focus. His art takes inspiration from the people around him while incorporating elements of cartoon to make the design more fun and fantasy-driven. Most of his art is created digitally on an iPad, which allows for greater freedom in adjusting the composition and colors used in each piece. You might recognize his

work from Issue 000: Genesis or the front and back covers of Issue 001: Finding Joy. Follow him on Instagram @jk_inc to enjoy the rest of his creations.

Jayn is a multi-passionate creative with background in Interior Design. They were born and raised in Queens, NY and moved to Arizona to enjoy desert living and the wonderfully extreme heat. In joining the KCB team as an editorial fellow, they hope to share a touch of their radiance and attention to detail with every story chosen to grace the pages of KCB mag!

Elise LeSage studied English at Virginia Commonwealth University, where they received the undergraduate writing award for poetry (2018) and creative non-fiction (2019). They have served as an editor at Amendment Literary and Arts Journal, Wind-Up Mice Journal, and Plain China Anthology. Ordinary Daze, is a Digital Artist who lives in a world of day dream, based out of Los Angeles, California. Our goal is to build a community where you can come together and not be afraid to question the world we live in by creating a reality you wish to explore in the art community.

Kwanzaa Owes was born and raised in Harlem, New York. He's been creating since the age of 8-years-old and has a deep appreciation for all types of art. You can find him on Instagram @keyztothefuture.

His work appears in over one hundred publications worldwide, including; Aesthetica Magazine, The Edinburgh Review, In 2017 a selection of his poetry ‘In Free Fall’ was published by Leaf by Leaf Press. In 2019 he won second prize in The Aurora Prize.

JRose is a spoken word artist born and raised in Queens, NY. Her love for hip-hop inspired her to start writing poetry over 20 years ago. In 2015, she decided to take her poetry from paper to the stage and since then she's been featured on stages all over New York, such as The Nuyorican Poets Cafe, Inspired Word NYC, Open Mic Renegades, Bronx Poetry, and many more. In 2018, she established a creative platform called, The Rose Garden Events, and has grown to become a powerhouse beyond her local community. JRose has expanded to curating and hosting performance based events such as, monthly open mic nights, showcases, fundraisers, small business expos (VenDivA Expo) and more.

Marjorie Cohen Vera grew up in the suburban wilds of Rockland County, NY but has spent the better part of life in Brooklyn. She is a lifelong learner, an educator, language enthusiast, artist, writer, yogini and Kirtan (sacred and ceremonial song) singer, and the mother of two beautiful adult sons. A life-altering encounter with a tumor led her to train in various yogic and spiritual traditions, whose teachings inspire and infuse her art and poetry, as does her recent relocation with her husband to Puerto Rico.

If you were following us on Twitter in 2023, you’ll know that I, Stephanie, actually archived the magazine after reading, “Deceived No More: How Jesus Led Me out of the New Age and into His Word” by Doreen Virtue. I was captivated by her storytelling and my curiosity about Christ, so the more I read, the more I felt like I needed to “follow the rules.” And then I got to the part about The Good News, and I felt like my job was to convert folx to Christianity. Like, literally start handing out pamphlets at the train station LOL! So I get it. I get why people do it. But I also empathize with those who have been burned by the church. Those who have shared a confession, only to be met with raised eyebrows, as if our sins were something to be measured. I sympathize for those who strive to be perfect and right, over authentic and true. And I aim, now and always, to create transformative spaces for all of us to heal in harmony. THANK YOU for still believing in us and supporting this issue. We love having you here. Stay tuned for updates on Issue 004! We’ll announce the theme in June!

Want your work in the next issue? Read more about writing, creating, or working with KCB at www.kcbthemagazine.com and stay tuned for Issue 004 updates on Instagram and X:

@kcbthemagazine

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