Pistil

Between her petals her lips whispered

we spread ourselves in the garden 

she created out of cardboard

and bubblewrap,

merlot in place of ambrosia

grocery deli charcuterie 

cradled by bruised knees

orange cheese bright

But she knew how magic hid in the corners

ran between crooked linoleum

rolled itself into lint

and our knees pressed together

prickly and hot while

she teased the magic out

of the knots in our hair.

She was brighter than she should be

brighter than unnatural dyes

brighter than me.

Dull, inert 

until her lips met mine

until her song touched

my lungs.

And we found it together;

she was a siren

or a banshee

or something in between.

I kissed her anyway,

not caring whether love

or rape

made her unbroken,

not caring if our world crumbled

when our legs intertwined

our magics meeting in fire

no one will stop

this time.

Marisca Pichette is a queer author wandering the woods of Western Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Fireside Magazine, Room Magazine, Enchanted Living, and Plenitude Magazine, among others. Her debut poetry collection, Rivers in Your Skin, Sirens in Your Hair, is forthcoming from Android Press in Spring 2023. Find her on Twitter as @MariscaPichette and Instagram as @marisca_write.

Trancension

Here, friend, the air is stale

History will clench your bare feet

     to the eagle's beak

Here, mother is a moving prayer

     &    flesh is a fluxive grey where

     up is down for down     is sideways

Wade with the night into the thrums &

     cast your legs at shore

Your sheer fabric of bones glittered & gilded

Sing your silent hymns with the skylark &

     ride the echoes of pregnant hunger

     for your hips are mouthful of sin

Glide/ gliding/ lure/ lure in those of weak flesh

You sunken city of adorcism

DIANA NNAEMEKA (she/her) is a queer Igbo writer from Nigeria who likes think of herself as a lover of worlds in bits. Her works are forthcoming in The Walled City Journal and Agbowó Magazine. She writes from Enugu. 

TODAY, I AM THINKING OF YOU AS YOU FILL THE NOON WITH YOUR BACK SPLAYED ON MY BED

slowed blues playing, windows naked

blubbering glass children, brown floating

flows thickening   melancholia      & her shadows lighting

plucked strings   faint zephyr

a cup of bitter wine   a dying blunt

on the walls      i stab away

spilling the red of me on the white of you

& every stroke is a beautiful death

DIANA NNAEMEKA (she/her) is a queer Igbo writer from Nigeria who likes think of herself as a lover of worlds in bits. Her works are forthcoming in The Walled City Journal and Agbowó Magazine. She writes from Enugu. 

entomo/philia

there are bugs under

my skin and maybe

they’ve found my eye-

lids too, it’s too much

to ask and even 

more to wonder. when 

you’re near I feel them 

crawling, legs scuttling 

along my arm’s insides

and out. soon they’ll 

pool in my stomach, 

pupate ‘til butterflies 

beat wings against

my throat. tiny twitches

make me wonder if

you might love me, 

y’know? make me wonder 

about yesterday and 

tomorrow and

why now, little beetle

baby, feelers long and

wispy? what made 

you walk across 

my window now?

FOX AUSLANDER (they/them) is a non-binary poet based in Southwest Philadelphia. They are a reader for Alien Magazine and The Chestnut Review, a temporary shut-in, and probably happy. You can find their recent writing in Mineral Literary Magazine, Q/A Poetry, and Daily Drunk Mag, and on Twitter @circumgender. 

Ladder to the Moon

For the second night, I ascend a ladder to the moon, 

each rung pulling me closer to its effulgence. Air turns cooler, 

enveloping my skin, stinging my nostrils more with each step. 

Once my slippered feet poise on the moon’s edge, I glance

at Earth’s oceans and continents, realizing the light

has vanished from my vacant bedroom’s window.

I twirl to see how it feels to be free of my planet’s gravity, 

released from restraints of corsets and sequined gowns

and boys of Mother’s choice escorting me at receptions.

The shame of fooling the world with our arms linked 

outweighs pain of 240,000 miles separating me

from my girl, blonde and brilliant, who I kiss secretly. 

I imagine her, robe draped from her shoulders, sharing

the stars of the universe, chatting about escaping

to Jupiter and Neptune where we’d never say goodbye. 

Every night, the moon hovers at my window. Even as it wanes, 

I rely on its gleaming sliver, coaxing me 

out of my sheets with its unrelenting friendly glow. 

I tiptoe through dust, explore the divots and every imperfection.

I gaze at other moons and worlds I could dance on, 

wondering who else has answered the call of the moon.

MAKAILA AARIN (she/her) works as an academic librarian in Mississippi where she lives with her three rescue dogs.  She holds degrees in English, library science, and education.  Currently, she is pursuing an MFA in creative writing.  Her poetry has appeared in Prismatica Magazine, Stone of Madness, Poetically Magazine, Dwelling Literary, and other magazines.  Her work is forthcoming in Versification Zine and Sinister Wisdom. Find her on Twitter: @makaila_aarin.

My First and Last Proclamation as the Child Freed and Crowned Queen of Omelas

I want every evil done at once. I want a single parade

of universal lacrimation. I want to break

up with every lover anyone has ever had

to leave and I want to do it in one deathly guilt-wet session.

I want the excruciation of every murder

that might ever happen capsulized so I can

take it with tomorrow’s breakfast. I want every blameless mote

that could ever evoke a blink thrust into my eye

as a single ocean-long compacted log,

and I want to be flayed once for each soul in each prison

that will ever stain a place.

I want to mourn every death in a 

body-blue instant. I want to become a momental maelstrom

of absolute sorrow. I want you to kill me,

over and over and over, all at once —

but I want you to do it right this time: I want you to join me.

We are going to share in every last agony

your pact magic will muster.

We’ll split each other like pomegranates,

palm cups chasing seeds or teeth to tile,

staunching all our wounds with sorries even as we ply our knives.

We’ll break bread with our broken

fingers and pass around indignities

like a last cigarette, then find each other’s eyes and see

what we have made. We will spend

every life’s anguish in a single prodigal spree

so we can be done with hurt forever, for I have had enough.

I have had enough. I have had enough,

and that is why I will not walk away.

Now we will all have enough, and the Summer will be green.

I want us to blast a last lachrymatory,

a glass granary bearing all our sunlit

tears, into orbit as a moon when the moment is done;

but we will need no spell, nor saline satellite,

to warn us against our abuse in the end.

   For once you feel what I have felt, you will know one thing forever:

It is not worth us.

PALIMRYA (she/her). Like a good wyrm, Palimrya loves you and has spent seven drops of her precious twiceblood to grant you each a full belly, an arrow-melty mantle, and a mossy millennium. Find her stories, poems, and roleplaying games at palimrya.com and feed her furnace @palimrya on twitter, where she writes microfiction and jokes and cutely bleeds.

The Serpent Wives

I. 

we lived inside ourselves, she and I. slurring 

spells, hiding in the shadows of prefab office 

tedium and reluctant murmurs. our universe 

was small. we thrived by brushing thighs 

beneath boardroom tables and slipping hands 

into trousers, inside steel bodies of empty elevators.

and when the time came to slither away from her 

maleficent Mr.Captor, we did so together, with torsos 

touching and unhinged jaws. his collateral casualty 

ballooned our bellies and sullied our sanguine smugness. 

a demise launched into a beginning. a book of secrecy 

and little lavender lies entitled, romance.

II. 

we gorged ourselves in hiding and denied our truths

in crowds. we anointed magistrates in every stranger

and pled our innocence into an apathetic air. drifters, 

grifters, deserters, of vows. sunken under the obligation 

of her own choosing. as if burdened by big bouncy babies 

above slight sweaty shoulders. how quickly joy 

becomes heavy and fragile under a scorching sanctimonious sun. 

i should’ve known. matter covered in scales only weigh 

camouflage, or keep us moving along. there’s no satiety 

in deception nor desire in utility. and so, just as in the beginning 

we remained uneasy cannibals, ad infinitum.

SHON MAPP (she/her) is a queer Black writer with words published or forthcoming in Fourteen Poems, Kissing Dynamite, Ghost Heart, and others. She was born in Barbados, raised in the U.S. and currently resides in Austria. Her works typically explore kinship, queer intimacy, and multicultural identities. You can find her on Twitter @ShonMapp, Insta @Shon.Mapp, or on her website shonmapp.com.

The Drowned Women

Cirri and Pila upend their buckets   

over gleaming silver troughs.

Mother Elda smiles at the sight 

of spiny urchins and shivering squid

and rainbow-skinned 

cuttlefish.

She unzips a squid 

with brackish fingernails that sink

into ink sack. 

Blue and black tides rise 

up rippling forearms, 

bloom with salt and wet earth

and more 

than a little blood. 

Every day her daughters trek 

through the lagoon 

that no outsider 

would ever brave.

The Drowned Women

villagers whisper,

for they breathe water

like air. They have silt

in their blood, salt to speak, 

and brine for bone. 

They are daughters

of the sea.

Alyssa Jordan (she/her) is a writer living in the United States. She pens literary horoscopes for F(r)iction Series. Her stories can be found or are forthcoming in The Sunlight Press, X–R-A-Y Literary Magazine, LEON Literary Review, and more. You can find her on Twitter @ajordan901 or Instagram @ajordanwriter.

I found a man

I found a man and brought him back,
he said he can cure insomnia,
boost eyesight and achieve nirvana.
After five kisses and three shots,
my left brain circuits re-wired, and our eyes
saw swirling feminine fantasies. The next day, 
I latched a gentle kiss over his cheek,
and watched him grow wings in my daydream.

A week later I found a man and brought him back,
he said he can cure psoriasis, strengthen
scoliosis and grant divination.
After four kisses and two shots
his hands oiled my scales and sealed my pores,
our senses were as thick as seven layers of skin.
The next morning, muscles peeled off like flakes,
our God-like spines were almost C-shaped.

Last night I found a man and brought him back,
he said he can cure heart failure, unclog
obstructed biliary duct and practise necromancy.
After three kisses and four shots,
he put his heart in my ribcage,
two hearts beat faster than time
my body expanded from fluid overload—
and I was resurrected at noon.

Ismim Putera (he/him) is a queer poet and writer from Malaysia. His works can be found in Poemhunter.com, Anak Sastra, Prismatica, Eksentrika and Orris Roots.

Twitter: @ismimputera

Sappho

I am:

girl         ,
sweetvoiced

honeyvoiced

manyskilled

mythweaver

songdelighting clearsounding

But I love delicacy
and this to me – the brilliance and beauty of the sun –
desire has allotted.

I long and seek after

Source: Anne Carson, Sappho

Percy Delatte (they/them) is the aesthetic coordinator for Periwinkle Literary Magazine and a grad student. They are a writer and an illustrator, and they also make jewelry, embroider, and speak Italian. They are currently working on a debut YA sci-fi/fantasy series, and their poetry has been published by F(r)iction and The Mark Literary Review.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/percy_kirkland

Venus

I conversed with you in a dream
Kyprogeneia

For many crowns of violets
and roses
at my side you put on
and many woven garlands
made of flowers
around your soft throat.

and on a soft bed
delicate
you would let loose your longing

sweetworded desires
lady Dawn

Source: Anne Carson, Sappho

Percy Delatte (they/them) is the aesthetic coordinator for Periwinkle Literary Magazine and a grad student. They are a writer and an illustrator, and they also make jewelry, embroider, and speak Italian. They are currently working on a debut YA sci-fi/fantasy series, and their poetry has been published by F(r)iction and The Mark Literary Review.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/percy_kirkland

Hecate

full appeared the moon
and when they around the altar took their places

thin fire is racing under skin
and in eyes no sight and drumming
fills ears

crossable

downrushing

danger

Witch (n.)

1. a woman who wants; a dangerous, ambitious woman.

2. silver-tongued desires shouted into a frosty night

echoing

among the trees

Source: Anne Carson, Sappho

Percy Delatte (they/them) is the aesthetic coordinator for Periwinkle Literary Magazine and a grad student. They are a writer and an illustrator, and they also make jewelry, embroider, and speak Italian. They are currently working on a debut YA sci-fi/fantasy series, and their poetry has been published by F(r)iction and The Mark Literary Review.

Twitter: @percy_kirkland

Prosperine

a kind of yearning has hold of me – to die
and to look upon the dewy lotus banks
of Acheron

but I

go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine

in Hades’ house
you will go your way among dim shapes. Having been breathed out.

For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

and on the eyes
black sleep of night

but me you have forgotten 

Source: Anne Carson, Sappho, John Keat

Percy Delatte (they/them) is the aesthetic coordinator for Periwinkle Literary Magazine and a grad student. They are a writer and an illustrator, and they also make jewelry, embroider, and speak Italian. They are currently working on a debut YA sci-fi/fantasy series, and their poetry has been published by F(r)iction and The Mark Literary Review.

Twitter: @percy_kirkland

The Huntress

i am the daughter of Zeus
golden, wreathed in laurels
- and -
i am the goddess of the moon
silver, with a starry crown

i am Artemis –
Diana –
Phoebe –
Potnia Theron – Mistress of Animals

i am willful and powerful and i wield my weapons carefully
my blade is swift and my bow is even swifter yet
and i am given all i ask for

i ask my father for the moon and the mountains
and i remain a girl forever
impetuous and selfish and demanding
unmarried

i refuse to allow my body to belong to anyone but me,
and i love my legs not for their shape but for their speed
i love my chest not for my pale breast but for the strong lungs and heart within
i love my hands for their dexterity,
the pads of my fingers coarse and
my shoulders sinewy from pulling back my bow
my eyes are not beautiful
they are quick,
and they make my aim true

alone i race through forests deep and dark
my heart pounding
my footing is always sure
and i know how to run without making a sound
and i know how to track a stag through the forest
for miles and miles and miles
tireless

there are a thousand paintings and sculptures entitled,
Diana
Diana

but none of them move,
and i am never still,
so none of these are me

i asked for what i wanted

and i crowned myself

Percy Delatte (they/them) is the aesthetic coordinator for Periwinkle Literary Magazine and a grad student. They are a writer and an illustrator, and they also make jewelry, embroider, and speak Italian. They are currently working on a debut YA sci-fi/fantasy series, and their poetry has been published by F(r)iction and The Mark Literary Review.

Twitter: @percy_kirkland

The Tale of the Princess-Prince

Once upon a time
there was a Princess-Prince.
A maiden who kissed
maiden lips.
Their armor shined
wherever they went.
Hardened softness—
that was the Princess-Prince

Our Princess-Prince rode a horse
a basic steed—nothing more
Just one to be sure
that they returned home safe

For the life of Princess-Prince is tough
glaring eyes and lungs that huff
voices rumble, feet that kick
and step upon their toes

The kingdom is angered
for no one really knows
is the Princess-Prince
a princess or a prince
underneath their clothes.

Destine Carrington (she/her) is a queer, black woman living in North Carolina because she enjoys challenges. Other things she enjoys include but are not limited to: burgers, brownies, and Batman. Her work has also appeared in Black from the Future: A Collection of Black Speculative Writing, Rigorous Magazine, Serendipity Literary Magazine, Jokes Review, Drunk Monkeys Literary Magazine, and Five2One Literary Magazine’s thesideshow.