“Unconquered Laugh” in Names for My Body Instead of Woman is borrowed from “our unconquered laugh/ha!” in Cornelius Eady’s tribute to Sonia Sanchez at her 90’th Birthday Celebration at The Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in Harlem.
In So You Want to Hear About Death, the Poem Asks, Sam references Sam Norquist, a Black transman, who was tortured and murdered in February 2025. Since this poem’s submission, two of Sam’s seven murderers have been sentenced to life in prison. The remaining five have been charged, but await sentencing.
Merrick Sloane (they/them) is a neuro-Queer 90’s kid and nonbinary Okie poet. A Best of the Net and AWP Intro Journal Awards Winner, their poetry appears in citizen trans* {project}, Seattle Journal for Social Justice, Fruitslice, Puerto del Sol, and elsewhere. Merrick writes so that others feel radically loved.
“So I will come back here as many times as necessary — swimming, or however else. Every day, if need be.” —Houssam, 21 years old 08/02/2026
“The water brought us here, the water will take us away.” —Igbo or Gullah Geechee saying
It must have been an awful sight yesterday, The lot of you, coated in that brackish water, Crawling out and onto that searing summer asphalt.
Is it true what they are saying That you are refusing to walk politely On the pavement of that mighty walled city?
It is true that No one wants to deal with the men Until they steal something that is theirs.
I cannot pretend to understand what freedom lies in eighteen point five square kilometers, Maybe it’s a place where dreams do not kill you.
It is true that Us Igbo we threw the crewmen overboard And held hands as we marched into the arms of our mother.
And it is true that, Some women and seventy thousand men in basketball shorts, Spit themselves out onto those rocks. I heard it was a riot.
Like me, have you ever wondered if Water can be a boat?
It must be true because they are saying it is true that You have overtaken the streets of that autonomous city, Like it’s another South Central or Clichy.
And I think it is true that freedom begins and ends In that momentary lapse When we be like water.
Jazz Flowers is an organizer hailing from Florida currently based in the Bay Area. They see all writing as a political act and hope that their writing can be a contribution to the battle to bear witness and sharpen our tools.
the splotched rust, decorating my grandmother’s gold bangles the eternal soil, who grows our sapphires, saree silk, and Ceylon tea leaves the pungent coconut vinegar used to brighten our village’s floors and faces the rich clay that boils, sets, and fries our milk rice, toffees, and hoppers the luminous ebony wood elephants marching across our coffee tables and piano lids
our people’s complexion, whether we sell mangoes in Maskeliya’s looming mist, rest under the banana trees in Thissa, as the white cranes meditate by the river, or catch king fish for the Sunday market, feeding the heads to Colombo’s hustling stray cats.
Kaviya Chandrasena is a Canadian-Sri Lankan writer. She currently holds a BA from the University of Toronto, having studied English literature, drama and creative writing. The goal of her work is to unite people of all walks of life and connect with their experiences, either through anger, humour, or joy.
A man married a crow. She cawed incessantly. On their anniversary, he bought himself a bottle of grape wine just off the vine, to drown out the nagging. The crow, crazy with missing flight, tore off her own wings and cried into the abyss of the internet. She googled how to fly without wings, then tore her husband’s eyes from their sockets. He never saw her leave. She found work livestreaming her sorrow, millions tuned in nightly to watch her weep into black feathers and stitch quilts from the lining of clouds. He was left with the sound of her voice echoing down the chimney, a caw caught in the flue, scraping its claws across the air. At night he still poured himself wine, tilted the glass toward the ceiling, and swore he could taste the shadow of wings in his mouth.
Gabrielle Munslow is a poet and nurse based in West Sussex, UK. Her work explores grief, myth, the body, nature and the strange places where they overlap. Her poetry has appeared in journals and anthologies including Dust Poetry Journal, The Orange Rose, and the Morecambe Poetry Festival Anthology.
when I tell you I’m all out of sun to yawn or how birds shake like kitchen timers after they bathe or how beautiful dying is do you know what I mean when I say I want you like the violence of fingernails scraping away skin cells or the slow spread of oil easing into water’s womb or vocal cord vibrations or even marriage I am trying to tell you I am all out of copper and nails ginger and rosebuds my garden is dry with tears the fish only fly at dawn the hackberry trees sulk away from light is dark on my morning commute the air is laced with whispers only you can hear the hum of my heart and how it stops at night I know you hear it too the angels screaming to the tides stilling while the grass is cooing my pulse into loosening I am not meant to make sense to anyone but you—
Carah Gedeon is a poet, musician, and photographer based in New York City. She is currently studying for her MFA in poetry at The New School.
Horses all in a basket. A black-clad man pokes his head out of the gaping half-circle mouth and tosses one of the horses in the air, creating another half-circle with its trajectory. Together they may dream of wholeness. The crowd goes wild, really wild, thrashing and prostrating themselves in excitement.
2.
I will now take questions from my philosopher-flock. Without cameras or recording devices, they cling to my every aberrant word. I say let me tell you a secret about this place: It possesses a center, but the center is empty. The flock leans in close, puffing clouds in the deserted churchyard. The rectory rolls its single disapproving eye. Let me tell you another secret: I haunt only to please you.
3.
You can’t bear to imagine our flirtation proceeding in this manner, with you indulging me and me resenting you. You want me with bells on, dancing.
4.
I want to punish you sweetly, like a late winter snow.
Alicia Kwok is a poet and organizer from New York City. Her work deals with strange bodies, science fiction, and the cultural scaffolding around concepts of gender and race.
We treat everyone with unimaginable kindness – hearts like a compass finding lives, hearing shallow breaths in rubble, hungry kids in the kitchen next door frightening neighbors
sharing dreams over the last can of soup believing, finally, there is nothing else to do. We wish it could last forever, the dead time that brings enemies to dinner. Nothing lasts.
Looking back as if through a window framing one last meal, distrust steals the tea pot, parties eager to plan escapes from a fate they planned for. Horizon
like a ruler, marks a few mornings before clouds explode, looking like what you’d imagine. We watch from the back yard. We decide nothing matters more
than thanking each other for the company, offering a couple down the street a ride home as if we’d agreed to build this future picking up pieces of the dead along the way.
Nick Reading is the author of The Party in Question, winner of the Burnside Review Chapbook Contest. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in many journals, including New Ohio Review, Mid-American Review, TriQuarterly, Cortland Review, Painted Bride Quarterly and others.
a page waits, already judging nothing; belief has not arrived, but neither has refusal. circumstance, not courage, brings me here; desire stirs before I know its use
every beginning feels borrowed; I can see fear entering quietly, like a rule unspoken. guesses at language preceding intention. hesitation manifesting as improvements edits, and incompleteness masquerading as viability
just starting ought to count as motion; knowledge of forms comes early, confidence late; lines assemble before meaning locks in; mistakes arrive faster than process progressing in noteworthy fashion, as writing attempts fail ostensible ways yet unbearable in pace
practice pretends to be preparation; questions open more space than answers. retrospection is a muse as good as introspection— self-doubt traps as much as a vacuum trying is free-fall without parachute unless understanding just enough is not good enough
voice remains inconsistent though insistent; words gather on page, each marked like x on a map, obviously treasured but unsure why— yet the hand moves the pen anyway, even with zero certainty, but still enough to begin
bivalent
BY LOW KIAN SEH
Author’s Note: This poem needs to be experienced. It is like a choose-your-own-adventure built into a duplex format, so you can make the poem progress in many, many ways.
Low Kian Seh has a chemical engineering degree but is an artist to a larger degree. He is a chemistry teacher by occupation but has poetry as preoccupation. His works had been published in various publications, and he has been serving as a subcommittee deputy head in Poetry Festival Singapore.
California, the marine layer only looks like rain clouds
BY KELLI CUMMINGS
Though some mornings the fog will be so thick you’ll get droplets in your hair. As you slip between the Asian Art Museum and the library, with gold gilded City Hall behind, you’ll remember reading how the city would spray the unhoused with water to make them leave, and as you step through Civic Center you’ll notice the cement change from dry to wet
If the Beats were still here they’d be unhoused, too
BY KELLI CUMMINGS
With a book perched between my fingers I make my way down the terracotta and sand, cypress lined La Playa Ave to the red Muni hut where you can just barely see the curling swells between the trees. A man appears between the dunes, and I swear it’s Ginsberg himself—all wild hair and horn-rimmed, sand sticking to the crevices around his eyes, nails. Still, I take little steps away till I’m between the cold metal frame and him, peering down to the red text spine of When the Emperor Was Divine. He asks about the book—he’s never read it, so I begin to tell Ginsberg’s ghost about my perception change to picture the Japanese American citizens burying their china, sleeping in the pre-Tanforan Mall horse stalls, returning to their homes occupied. He nods along, tells me he will go to the library to read it, shakes my hand, all grit and sea brine and sweat. The bus comes and we get on. I continue to see Ginsberg riding the line, sometimes with friends, raucous and ravish, dry humping the air to “take his junk” when the garbage truck rolls by. Ginsberg notices my little steps and puts himself between us. Sometimes a woman is curled under his neck as the bus glides past Taraval. Sometimes he asks about my job, my day and he tells me about his. Just as suddenly as he arrived, he disappeared again.
Kelli Cummings is a poet and essayist from Indiana. She holds an MFA in Writing from the University of San Francisco.
Ghazal for End Times, or, How to Stay Cozy in the Apocalypse
BY BROOK BHAGAT
Some will die, some will run and some will stay, cozy in the apocalypse. There are ways to not feel guilty and stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When poison hurricanes thrash and spin and fire devils streak the sky red, eat astronaut ice cream and pretend it’s a sunset to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When the gold-horned monster summons red-brimmed zombies to storm the people’s house, keep your children close. Hide them in the coat closet to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When icemen prowl the neighborhoods in masks, spilling blood in the streets of the homeland, curl up in your fleece pajamas and watch The Princess Bride to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When mutant foxes breed in boxes and spread lies for the gold-horned monster, take the blue pill and listen to the sweet whine of fox mews to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When heat and medicine are for the rich, set the kettle on the living room campfire. Drink raspberry leaf tea for pain, close your eyes, and dream of Xena to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When they burn history books, defile classrooms, and call slavery a favor, ask your aunt about the floorboard, the last copy of Beloved, to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When they tattoo you subhuman for being he or she or they, use a secret prism to flash rainbows. Your friends will give you shelter to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When robot overlords write the books, remember the prophets’ words on the subway walls. Use the blood of the goddess to write and paint to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When they zip tie Ariana and throw her in a van, at least call her mother later to find the boy under the bed who had to stay, cozy in the apocalypse.
When they disappear the girls for singing from the river to the sea and ceasefires still kill children, tie your mother’s keffiyeh tight to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When they try to force your sister to birth the spawn of demons, give her the pills from the before times, sewn in your red cloak, to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When the gold-horned monster and other pedophiles rape, kill, and laugh in the faces of survivors, channel the heat of your grandmother’s rage to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
When your daughters’ eyes are on you, cross the line and come to the gathering. Sit in the circle and feel what it means to be human to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
Then, keep your heart out of the safe. Put on your softest, strongest body. Stand up with us and scream the truth out loud: there is no way to stay cozy in the apocalypse.
Brook Bhagat (she/her) is the Pushcart-nominated author of Only Flying and Exodus with Red Delicious, forthcoming in December from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won contests and appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, and elsewhere. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and an English professor at PPSC.
