/emily paige wilson

From every poison can be pruned a lesson, worth its gilded frame and place above a cradle.

/sonia greenfield

sometimes I feel I could / apologize forever for everything / and never feel fulfilled by my shame

/robert krut

and/ in the reflection, my hair is long, and/ in the reflection, my beard is to my chest.

/gale marie thompson

the sweet things about her /
being alive: lemon berry shortbread /
and the backs of knees, raw dates, /
the thickest of milk and rage.

/eric tran

How / electrified I felt when he brought / two fists to my face listen

/brendan curtinrich

Georgia holds me like a rip. The trail flows over peaks, slumped and the same, and I rise and fall unendingly, groped by nettle, goldenseal, laurel, and rue. I awake each morning to a mucus sheen

/anne-sophie olsen

I realized I’ve started to write “him” instead of “it.” This is natural, isn’t it? to give personhood to the things we want to love us.

/amy pence

His fingers pressed deep/ into my windpipe. What I knew of blue exploded.

/emily kingery

If I wanted, I could suck it in like an egg, intact, a blank round thing plummeted into me to incubate.

/catherine weiss

A boat. A dock. The moon, too close. Subterranean cafeterias. 14th street. Bodegas. I don’t dream about the psych ward.