by Sara Aultman

You left the keys to my apartment next to
that spinal clementine rind, so

twisted in its amputated waltz by
fingers of someone else’s hunger and

abandoned the moment this
sharp citrus bit pink beneath the nail white, a

perfect spiral of the same glowing that
sunsets wore, but peeled thin—to acidic whispers.

Sara Aultman is a Seattle-based poet of liminal things whose work has been featured in The Fiery Scribe Review, Fahmidan Journal, Olney Magazine, HAD, as well as in the anthologies Black Stone / White Stone (Making the Machines that Destroy Us) and HELL IS REAL: A Midwest Gothic Anthology. She can be found on Twitter @TheSaraAult.

by Court Ludwick

CW: Bodily objectification and violence in a performance art setting.

I ask if you ever heard about that artist
who gave strangers a table filled with
love and violence, who without a cry or
twitch of muscle let men cut her hair
and skin for six hours, who let women weep
at the thought of a gun placed in her hand, who
made women cry only because they saw a victim
of violence bearing some slight resemblance
to their own dark hair and deep-set eyes and now
they fear the men they toss a leg over when it’s cold
at night. I ask if you ever heard about the woman
who gave strangers a table filled with warmth
and a flower that was wilting but lovely still,
who gave strangers a gun and let them curl
her own finger around the trigger, who trembled
not at the click that was coming but who flinched at the thought
of an untouched daisy.

You think, not long, say no.

Note: This poem references Serbian artist Marina Abramović’s Rhythm 0, a six-hour work of performance art which overtly dealt with themes related to consent, objectification of the body, and violence directed toward women.

Court Ludwick is a writer, artist, teacher, and PhD student at USD. She is the author of THESE STRANGE BODIES, a hybrid collection of essays, poems, and experimental works, forthcoming from ELJ Editions in 2024. She is an associate poetry editor at South Dakota Review, as well as the founder and editor-in-chief of Broken Antler Magazine. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in West Trade Review, Full House Literary, New Note Poetry, Necessary Fiction, Jet Fuel Review, Oxford Magazine, Watershed Review, Sweet Tooth, and elsewhere. More of Court’s writing and art can be found on Instagram and Twitter @courtludwick, and on courtlud.com.

by Christina Daub

Scooping the earth this morning,
dirt turning and overturned
loose root loam, tunnels
of worms, centipedes
now exposed to sun, to air—
an invasion of sorts,
a disturbance, I regret and yet,
also a sign to exit the dark,
to unroot this burrowed
grief I wriggle away from,
my unseen father near me
in the grass, watching,
waiting, the cardinal
dressed in all his feathers,
his otherworldly reds.

Christina Daub has recent or forthcoming work in Another Chicago Magazine, Kenyon Review, poetryxhunger.com, Potomac Review among other literary journals. She is a Pushcart nominated poet who also translates Spanish & German poetry into English. You can find her at christinadaub.com or @flix2fly on Twitter.

by Amanda Russell

For most of my life, I barely recognized her.
The body stretched and split and stitched like
some corporeal applique sewn around my role-play.

I grew up squirming inside her, was taught
my Self was some hidden else. Spent years
ditching Sunday sermons for the woods, the creek,
the time to unsheathe my claws and climb into my doubt.

In another lifetime, I choked down the last bite
of bread with gulps of goat’s milk— sat in a monastery cafeteria
consuming each word peeled from page and placed
upon sound waves. Found the wisdom of so many saints

less convincing than the letter he penned me— Never mind what I said
about us— without grounds or vows, I booked the flight home.
Spent over a decade stirring the limiting reagent of faith.
I was washing my hands the last time I prayed.

Somehow, it happened. She had become a part of Me—
a home I filled to the fingerprints.

I was washing my fingers. Each digit. Free
to pull back my auburn drapes and see
chipmunks over-fill their cheeks with birdseed
or the sill that needs a good dusting.

Neighbors often witness me rolling up sleeves, sweeping out
unlived lives and relics of fetus dreams stuck in utero. Closet
congregations of old selves sing requiem as I room-to-room….

In this room, Mom is my dominant feature, the exaggerated hand
grasping the multifaceted jewel of my heart,

but in the west room, Someone wakes.
I know that was her
flash of light catching in my mirrored hall.

Amanda Russell is an editor at The Comstock Review and a stay-at-home mom. Her poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Walt’s Corner, EcoTheo Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and the anthology mightier: poets for social justice. To learn more about her or her chapbook, Barren Years, please visit poetrussell.wordpress.com. You can find her on Instagram @poet_russell.