The Equivalence of Nature and the

Deirdre, Mother of Sons

by Kaylin Kaupish

“All mothers are slightly insane.” – Catcher in the Rye

I was born into a family meant to die out All of the daughters, told by their mothers, Do not have children. But the daughter would become women And eventually become mothers. So it was a family meant to die out, But cursed to go on forever. Christ, that sounds even worse.

Matthew. Matthew had been the worst. We watched him loose his brain strands Give into the voices in his head And disappear behind a veil of cigarette smoke Until mother had to send him away To the land of barred windows I’m the only one left to visit him Not that mother’s dead I guess a part of him knows I’m there The sister who will share a cigarette with him

Henry. Henry had been saved. Mother hid him in her house Of gold, antique jewelry And purple, pleated coats Fuck, after Matthew, can you blame her? But now Henry won’t come out Even though mother’s dead I guess you could call that being saved.

Deirdre. Deirdre was the last hope. She could end the line, stay the madness Stop cold the delusions that got passed down

From generation to generation Like a cursed inheritance.

I’m Deirdre, and my mother told me to never have children. So, we’d die out. Our glitch in the evolutionary process Would be over and forgotten. The family born to die out; It had struggled so hard to keep afloat. Thrashing, fighting, and gasping for air. Shit, we always were a stubborn lot. But the daughter kept becoming women, The women kept wanting sons, The sons kept being born. And the sons kept running rampant and going down, And taking the others down, In no blaze of glory, But a slump that you couldn’t get out of.

Deirdre, don’t have children.

But I was never one to do something I didn’t want to do. So why be somebody who doesn’t do what I want to do? I always wanted a little boy with dark, curly hair.

I’ve decided this evolutionary glitch isn’t dying out. I’ve decided this is as much part of human history as your fancy sanity. Who said those in their right mind get to write the fucking history books? Who said we are a blot on humanity’s flawless face? It wasn’t that flawless to begin with.

So I’ll have my little boy with dark, curly hair. And I’ll name him Adam.

The Equivalence of Nature and the Modern Woman

by Kameron Jones

It is to have firm yet transferable roots and leaves that are broad enough to properly thrive, yet slim enough to store hope; in expectation that those roots are able to grow and expand past the shit they have been planted in and have used for survival from season to season, hoping to bear fruit the plant will never consume itself– unless left untouched and withered to fall and rot at the foundation of the trunk; to become nutrient in the dirt and shit, so that the whole can bear fruit once more.

To be born with the sin of man between my legs, and the continuance of man between my hips, though expected to walk delicate, as if that weight were not present in every moment — or to carefully decide today and everyday with which lips shall I forge an encounter with those of equal or greater importance than myself — because everyone is trying to get ahead and most are