This Girl by Ellie O’Leary
“This Girl” by Ellie O’Leary Everybody in Somerville is either Irish or Italian and we’re Irish. Everybody is Catholic except a few are Protestant and we are High Episcopal. Everybody knows we are supposed to be Catholic but I know...
Entwined Moon by Lauren Triola
“Entwined Moon” by Lauren Triola I wanted to catch the moon. Wrap it in a string, wear it around my neck. I could drag the tides as I walked, guide my way with milky white, keep it on my desk at night and watch it wax and wane all for me. But then they told me no, I couldn’t catch the moon. Impossible, they said. Ridiculous. It’s not just a light in the sky, it’s a massive body of stone. It would crush me,...
Nice Girl by Cindy Lynn Brown
“Nice Girl” by Cindy Lynn Brown Nice Girl has greasy fingers and trouble breathing. She digs a basement underneath the house. She will use it as rehearsal space. Nice Girl always rehearses before speaking, before brushing herself free from dandruff and before mixing the ingredients. Nice Girl keeps many tiny things in boxes and drawers: shiny stones, creased playing cards and salient disappointments. Her most...
Sister’s Night Walk by Abbey Chew
“Sister’s Night Walk” by Abbey Chew Her nightgown, white and long, breaks the dark like a ship’s prow, then lets the night come together again around the flitting hem. Her breath shags out — just as white, just as white as the cotton — from her mouth only to drift back, curl over her ears, and away. As she moves, her body lights up the night for brief moments that seem like praise, the air around her...
This Girl by Melissa Grossman
“This Girl” by Melissa Grossman She carried a dead coyote to class, this girl who kept to herself. Roadkill in her car, she drove to school, this girl, with thick, unkempt hair. When she told the professor of her desire to draw the dead animal, he polled the other students. The drawing class gathered in the courtyard, seated around the dead coyote, sketch pads tilted, raspy sound of charcoal on paper. This...
Chicharon by Salud Mora Carriedo
“Chicharon” by Salud Mora Carriedo Bisaya Chicharon (Kilab Nga Sugilanon) “Chicharon! Chicharon! Tag-baynte ang pak!” “Tagai ko’g usa, Day,” matud sa babayeng miduol. “Hutda na lang ni, Nang, para makauli na ko. Tulo singkwenta na lang.” Gibayran sa babaye ang dalagita. Nagsuot kini’g pug-awg asul nga sayal. Ang iyang puting blaws nagdag na, may nektay nga pareho’g kolor sa sayal ug pug-aw na sab. “Imo...
Trash Day by Therése Halscheid
“Trash Day” by Therése Halscheid This is how it really looked long ago…. This is myself back in time, a girl with sallow skin, dragging metal cans to the curb, notice how I stand for awhile that far from our house watch how my lips, bright as scars, are parting open with words so the great air can take them out of their mystery — see how my thoughts form the storms, how the morning sky fills with dark...
Bonfire Girls by Roxanna Bennett
“Bonfire Girls” by Roxanna Bennett My abortion your whatever, iceberg. Sometimes boys are ways to mark a space with caution tape, identical parks, collapsible homes, your bluebird this ghost word. We’re adrift in an ocean of fuck. Your orbit slow motion, I am weeks without weather. You storm soaked, late, heavy, never gaining traction. Stuck, stuck, but sometimes hurricanes in mason jars. Blame Mercury for...
The Third Thing by Kathleen Kelly
“The Third Thing” by Kathleen Kelly Grandma Agnes, like me, believes all things bad come in threes. My father’s recovered love of whiskey, Uncle Virgil’s violet eyes in milky disguise, the May twister churning at our cellar door. Hinges contorting like Comaneci’s saltos and somersaults. Grain silos gouged, groaning— holding their sides. The auger mangled. Yet her sweet peas survive, thrive even, tendrils...
My Father’s Coat by Christy O’Callaghan-Leue
“My Father’s Coat” by Christy O’Callaghan-Leue I pull your unwanted Army green dress coat from a box of crap sent home with us and lay it on my bed, bodiless, discarded because it no longer fit. Angry because you spoke to my brother’s history class but wouldn’t walk five doors down the hall to speak to mine. Typical. I remove the patches one of your wives had lovingly sewn. Airborne Ranger. Special Forces. I...
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