Category Archives: Pisces

Haunting by Razili Roy


Variation of Awakening by Ranko Ajdinović | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook


Haunting

You saw me inhale snow for the first time and
I breathed it all in until my lungs were glaciers.

You kissed me once – only once.

The ice caps are on the verge of turning into oceans and
I can already feel my mountain heart and tornado stomach
drowning.

He had his lips pressed against mine as
he looked for all the crevices in my skin.
I was trying my best to memorise his hands and all
they had learned from her, when he pulled away.

His eyes looked like they had just realized
they were in love with nightmares.

I tried to find his mouth again but
he did not know the way anymore.

“You kiss me like you are looking for someone else.”

I held onto my breath for an entire infinity as
I realised I was in love with nightmares and I was
dying.

There comes a time when you realize
missing is not the same as wanting.

It is like putting your money into a coffer
whose key you threw one sunny afternoon.

All those faces end up becoming your face
and your face is in all of those faces.
All those faces I have kissed end up
looking like the only face I want to kiss.

I think I would burn the postcard you send
but have an urn for the ashes all the same.




Razili Roy

Razili Roy is a college going student who has a penchant for multiple cups of tea and equally abundant hours of sleep. A failed art curator, among other things, she writes during odd hours of either (or both) the waking and sleeping day. The rest of the hours are spent mincing words and petting strays. You can take a look at her Instagram account (@raziliroy) if you wish to see more of her work.



The night we met, I drank by Tanner Lee


Aries by Carrie Hilgert | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter

The night we met, I drank

so much my lips forgot the labor of mouths
words stuck between six and seven shots
I slipped through hallways and houseparties
unnoticed, except by one
her hair, like a wildfire, unravels me
so much trust goes into something as soft
as a body. We cannot move but through sight
through a roar of drums and howls,
the first thing to go is certainty
like everything, love begins with bourbon
its amber mash preserves me, turns
my eyes up
to the lightness of the sky




Tanner Lee

Tanner Lee lives in Ogden, Utah, and studies at Weber State University. His writing has appeared in Hobart, Glass, and is forthcoming in The Comstock Review, Bitterzoet, FRiGG Mag and Lost Sparrow Press. He is an assistant blog manager at The Blueshift Journal. Find him on twitter @heytannerlee



You’re Never Gonna Believe This by Alyssa Froehling


asymmetrical symphony by Carrie Hilgert | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter

You’re Never Gonna Believe This

listening to flatsound in my apartment, you fall
asleep on my floor. i am still wearing your

sweatshirt, holding it against my body like a
lifejacket. i want to say something



that will affect your breathing. to your

right, the window is open, and the sidewalk is


flooding in like a swimming pool. we are the

finger paint of april, laughing as it smears us



along the street with light— unfairly stolen
from man made machines and higher things floating



and cool to the touch. i want to play you the piano

underwater. i want you to hear me stutter as major



flutter kicks to minor. buoyant is the way you
sleep: a slow give to pressure, suspension on


the surface. you are glass breaking into me,
the water inside. you are a color i don’t mind bleeding.


i’ll make sure you’re awake before joking

about how i don’t exist but if i really don’t, i want



you to know i’m content like this, sleeping like a sand flea
curled into the shell sheet we hung up called the sky:

our wrists touching the carpet to the ground, touching

thirsty roots to pebbles on an unpaved pathway

running into water. some days these things come
easily. our shins don’t break. i want to sleep as deep

as the air in between the tiny-time-bomb heartbeats of
gnats as they sail on the soggy bread brink of the lake



in my bird feeder memory. the day the earth was knee
deep in its dream of a swamp, and you sounded like

you were drunk alligator green, seeping not like a sentence

but a sentiment. we both know what we already both know—




Alyssa Froehling

Alyssa Froehling is a writer from Palatine, Illinois. She graduated from Augustana College with majors in English and Creative Writing, and a minor in Women & Gender Studies. Former editor-in-chief of Augustana College’s art & literary magazine, SAGA, she is also an editorial staff member at Floodmark Poetry, a website designed to inspire and motivate new writers. Her interests include running in place, pugs, winged eyeliner, dressing like a 36-year-old lumberjack, folk-punk bands, and eating too much fruit.



Exploring Mother and The Quran as the Sea by Orooj-e-Zafar


Art by Michelle Lanter | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Instagram | Tumblr


Exploring Mother and The Quran as the Sea

before we breathed, we swam. it is believed no memory
made in the sea stays. me, I remember the scratch
of turning pages well before I ever held a book. 

I was birthed with the warm date under my tongue, 
the azan whispered into my witness, 
a cry mistaken for help and a name holding
the weight of expectation on my barely boned shoulders.

I was born here, in the half-open eyes of my mother’s hope. 
sometimes, all her lips rolled at tahajjud was my name. 
I came from prayer, dream alike. quiet like independence day
never is. independent like children never are. 
concrete like the summer I breathed before. 

sometimes, memory snaps sharp: my mother turning 
the Quran page – her belly scratching against paper. 




Orooj-e-Zafar

Orooj-e-Zafar is a storyteller/spoken word poet whose work has been widely published online in places such as Quail Bell Magazine, Off the Coast, Rufous City Review and Melancholy Hyperbole. Offline, Orooj performs at local and national events like TEDx PIEAS and Islamabad Literature Festival 2017. She was also the recipient of the second annual Judith Khan Memorial Poetry Prize and the winner of Where Are You Press Manuscript Contest 2016. Her debut chapbook HOME AND OTHER DEBRIS is scheduled for release in July 2017. : facebook.com/oroojezafarwrites



May by Christen Dimalanta


Renegade by Katherine Renee | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Instagram

May

We are in my bed.
The lights are off. We are not tired.
You are flying out tomorrow morning
for who knows how long. We don’t know.
We forget what time is when we are not together.
We only remember how skin feels like.
When it is under our fingers. When it is pressed against us.
I am quoting lines from one of our favorite books:
How love misses, how love hurts, how love longs.
To remind you what comes with what we’ve made.
Your shoulders start shaking. I don’t ask anything of you.
I only whisper, I will never leave you.
The softest parts of your skin are under my fingers now.
They are pressed against me.
Not ever.




Christen Dimalanta

Christen Dimalanta is a 20-year-old poet from Guam. She is majoring in Literature because she is in love with words. When she is not writing about wolves, she is running with them. They inspire her poetry, found on: shewolfwritings.wordpress.com.



Not Hovering by Martina Reisz Newberry


Surrender by Katherine Renee | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Instagram


Not Hovering

On fire with myself
racing, not hovering,
passing the void
and the word
and the barely spinning
listless earth.
I was here before
and before that too
and I contacted the savage sun
saying, I wish for you
to eat my heart because
I have nothing else to lose.
My wishes are all
gluttonous that way:
the feast not the snack
the dark not the dusk
the full apparition
not the suggestion of spirit.
If it has been too much
to ask then I’ve asked it.
Request that I leave the room
and I’m gone forever.
Just like that.





Martina Reisz Newberry

Newberry’s books are NEVER COMPLETELY AWAKE (Deerbrook Editions), TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME (due out in late 2017 from Unsolicited Press), WHERE IT GOES (Deerbrook Editions), LEARNING BY ROTE (Deerbrook Editions), RUNNING LIKE A WOMAN WITH HER HAIR ON FIRE (Red Hen Press), LIMA BEANS AND CITY CHICKEN: MEMORIES OF THE OPEN HEARTH (E.P. Dutton &Co) Her work has been anthologized and widely published in the U.S. and abroad. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Brian Newberry, a Media Creative.



By the Numbers by Samara Golabuk


“Glued To The Grind” by Glenn W. Cooper | Pinterest | Facebook | Blind Dog Press


By the Numbers

The apocalypse will be personal,
and it will take more time than we expect.

It will come in fits and starts—
some drowned children here,
a few demolished homes there.
Tornado alley widens every year, and
we’ve entered the age of the super-storm,
the media pundits agree.

It will be rolling brown-outs and city bus rapists—
warmer winters and dying bees.
It will come upon us slowly
and we will acclimate,
like how the price of bananas
went up one year and never came back down
and we stopped noticing. We always
stop noticing — topped up gas prices
and semi-automatics, half-lives, and zero-hours,
and how toddlers gun down
more people than the terrorists every year.
It will be corporations as people
and GMO crop-fouling Monsanto
weeding out the small farmers, the seed-keepers,
with their mega-conglomerate organic matter
you wouldn’t plant in your toilet.
We will breed the nutrients out of our food,
we will Facebook our post-truth sources.
Heart disease will go up and up, as will
depression, diabetes, the whole she-
bang.

The apocalypse will be personal, slow–
has been so for years, starting
before we noticed, until it was
an absurdity of government on
a treadmill of climate change and
a rising tide seducing shore,
licking the toes of sea-grass and brick
and driftwood post and pier
as we step back,
and step back,
and step back
some more.





Samara Golabuk

Samara is a two-time Pushcart nominee whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Inklette, Eyedrum Periodically, Peacock Journal, Memoryhouse and others. She has two children, works in marketing and design, and has returned to university to complete her BA in Poetry. More at www.samarawords.com.



Real Talk by Abby Kloppenburg


Art by Holger Barghorn | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook

Real Talk

I’m grabbing a handful of your skin, telling you to dig deeper,
but just behind your back—I’m the one with the shovel.
I’m starving for your body, I keep drooling, but what I mean by that is
the truth. Show me your bloody, shivering
honesty punched there underneath your sternum.
Show me your fury as it beats
in-out, in-out: yes, even while I’m serving us breakfast.
Slip a handful of tears into my hand—not plastic-wrapped
or candy-covered, just salty dollops pumped
from places that might hurt me to look at—
and I’ll cup them throughout
the whole damn party.
Even by the liquor cabinet buried deep in the
stranger’s bedroom: I won’t let go.
Tell me fuck you or it’s because this one time while
you catch her face in the window,
and later, as a reward, I’ll show you the difference between
a fair and a carnival.
Show me just one glimpse inside your throat,
let me wrap my fingers around its
wet pink
and I promise you this:
I’ll never ask for anything else.




Abby Kloppenburg

Abby is a writer from Philly currently surviving in DC. Her work has been featured on Human Parts and Bodega Fiction, among others. You can find more of her work on aklop.tumblr.com



I Listen To Lana Del Rey’s “Shades Of Cool” and Recognize Myself In Her Lover by Ari Eastman


Bride by Lori Field | Website | Facebook | Tumblr


I Listen To Lana Del Rey’s “Shades Of Cool” And Recognize Myself In Her Lover

When I was 6 years old,
I told my mother there was too much blue.
Everywhere I looked, buildings rooftops,
hopscotch chalk, the ice cream truck that came
singing down the street, everything seemed
tinged with blue.

I didn’t like the ocean because the color was too familiar.
I made a habit out of declining invitations to pool parties.
Not today, I’d say.
Not now.

Now, 24, with a sticky heart that keeps slipping out
through every crack in my ribcage,
I still see blue in every shade.
Shouldn’t I have outgrown this?
Shouldn’t my eyes adjust
to a different palette?

It is hard to remember the sun is
warm, melted butter yellow
if I’m squinting at the sky
and all I see
is blue.



Ari Eastman

Ari Eastman is a spoken word poet, writer, activist, and dog mother. Her work has been highlighted in Thought Catalog and The Rising Phoenix Review. She is also the author of two collections of poetry. She’d love to be friends. But she’ll like you more if you have a dog. You can follow her here: twitter.com/ivegottatheory



Between Continents by Yashodhara Trivedi


The Police of Anti-Meaning by Lori Field | Website | Facebook | Tumblr

Between Continents

I rally with a wall of clothes –
six layers of Indian cotton turn mush
against the tyranny of an English winter.
My freezing bones are built for a sun plucked clean
from the horizon, winking from the corners
of snapshots parceled across the Himalayas.
I outlive a snowstorm
spooning the heater in a walk-in closet
masquerading as bedroom –
too cold to fall asleep, too tired not to.
The thrill of experience perseveres.
Shuffling around in mismatched socks,
nostrils ablaze with the scent of candles that mimic
the spices in my father’s cooking, I ache
for mustard-hilsa and piping hot jalebis.
Weekdays are for gentle paranoia
manifested in stockpiling – with copious tins
of chicken stew, hot cocoa and herbal tea,
the common cold beats a survivor out of me.
These skills are rendered worthless now,
like farming in a landfill
or hitting jackpot in monopoly.
Weekends turn to drinking games
with chilled mimosas and ice lollies.
My body sinks
in a pool of sweat, all thawing limbs
and glistening chest, slapping away mosquito wings.
Everything reeks of the tropical sun –
my tangled hair, the tie-dyed sheets,
this water bed and browning skin.
When dawn splits open the old skyline,
the crows begin to raise new hell.
I stumble barefoot across the room
and make love to the air-conditioning.



Yashodhara Trivedi

Yashodhara Trivedi is a twenty-three year old from Kolkata, India. She enjoys Buzzfeed videos and modern adaptations of Jane Austen’s novels. Her writing has also been featured in The Rising Phoenix Review.