November 29, 2017
by Dana Alsamsam
Your mom was the kind of person
who forgot the leftovers on the stove—
she didn’t even flinch opening the door,
my hands twist-tangled in your long, girl
hair, your striped, Target t-shirt crumpled
beside us on the floor—a small monument
to matching bodies, to hold...
November 22, 2017
by Brynn Martin
Vagina Fights Back
It’s itchier than usual, so I sit cross-legged
on a crosshatched chair in a bright hallway,
waiting on the lady doctor’s nurse to collect me.
A bowl filled to over-flowing with red-wrapped condoms
beside a pamphlet about first-time motherhood.
October 24, 2017
by Lily Bell
Frightened little girl
Body through soul
By sanctioned patriarchy
Internal wounds buried
Mother of my being
Verbal toxins stinging
October 18, 2017
by Kristin Garth
They bless the beast unbroken. Virgin limbs
to leather, wrists and ankles first to squeeze
inside a strap. Your feral glint goes dim
too quickly once you feel the trap. The pleas,
an easy emulation cover rage,
and panic, frustration. Subdued by lash
September 29, 2017
by Jennifer E. Hudgens
A Stain in the Shape of a Cigarette Burn
After Kim Yideum
Had my Mother known both of her daughters would be childless & queer/Would she have found the last wire hanger/Riverside, California/Put on her stiletto heels and Passion-Pink lipstick/& found another man to Step-...
September 11, 2017
by Sohini Chatterjee
Where’s my independence?
1947 brought a different independence
Than the novella in my head:
Where heroines dressed like themselves
But were accorded the valor of heroes.
Where an aimless drifter was a woman with matted hair
But the word “witch” did not exist in village air
September 8, 2017
by Valerie Chamberlain
The Hanging Man
I look at the bat
but he doesn’t look at me
and things are breaking.
I put an egg in a cup
my neighbor’s daughter gives me basil
I cry, with no reason or want.
Desire is dead,
and my arms hang by my sides
like two gently loosened threads.
I look at th...
August 17, 2017
by Miriam Weinstein
How I learned to thread a needle
I don’t remember her teaching me how
to thread a needle. Yet I see her today —
a basket at her side filled with spools
of many colors, buttons of many shapes,
snaps of several sizes. A length of thread
in hand, she pl...
July 24, 2017
by Nicole Greaves
Her Hair Like Ivy
The ivy grows stronger in neglect,
scales the walls, becomes reptilian:
beauty does that, unleashes like
the uninherited. This is why she cut
off the wave of her hair in one stroke
and held it out like freshly caught prey.
But her father sent h...
June 19, 2017
by Carrie L. Krucinski
Baby-making season has come and gone, again.
Young women who drank Moscato and complained
of glass ceilings have become heavy breasted,
their children’s dinner always within reach.
As a child, I dreamt of babies, bottles, booties.
There was a flow chart with marriage a...