Epitaph By Amy Lauren Jones


for the lesbians whose fathers
dare not speak their names,
for butches buried
and raptured,
whose watering
eyes stare at crucifixes
on the front doors
from New Orleans to Yazoo,
for the daughters
of Good Ole Boys
scratched out of photo albums
and Christmas,
for femme eyes, queer eyes,
for what remains
when women love women,
dyke eyes
lingering on guns
in their father’s holsters,
she who sees
the worst of God-
fearing men.

By Amy Lauren Jones


Amy Lauren Jones is a graduate organ major at Mississippi College, where she received her B.M. with a minor in English in 2015. Among other publications, her poetry appears in Wherewithal, Vagabond City, and GERM Magazine.”

I might have a drinking problem when it comes to death. By Julia Gaskill

I might have a drinking problem when it comes to death.

When I say I do not like funerals,
it is not to say others find them quaint, just

that I see the gathering dwindle of a family
I no longer know, count the number of faces

given over to the ghosts. I wonder who will be
next, which one of us will exit stage right. The

Italian blood in me shrinks with each new casket,
and family funerals are now an excuse to gaze

bleary eyed at photo albums while chugging wine
in bathrooms, like it’s my last day, like this is it,

like this is the thing I fear so much and
maybe, in this moment, it cannot touch me.

I’ve been imagining a grave for myself longer
than I can comfort a response. I do not

like funerals for all of the reasons you’d
expect, but the main one still stings,

relentlessly suffocates. There is a memory
stuck in the back of my throat of a thirteen

year old girl, all pigtails and overalls, who sat
front stage center for a funeral she never

could have fathomed. My father tells me I am
not social enough at funerals, but he doesn’t

know of the wine sloshing in my gut or all the
photo albums I’ve consumed, scouring pages

for every picture I could find of her. I imagine
a world where her blood never betrayed her

and I do not hate funerals. A world where
saying goodbye does not require three cups

of wine or the quiet or poetry. A world where
the word “mom” is not a sucker punch;

where my family is not a collection of ghosts
I can no longer speak to, except for when

they visit in the night, whispering how there
is an empty grave – waiting.

By Julia Gaskill


Julia Gaskill is a professional daydreamer from Portland, Oregon. She was both a staff writer and producer for the Pencil Ink Production’s web series “The Misselthwaite Archives,” and she will be reprising both roles on the studio’s new web series “The Cloisterham Case Files.” Most recently, Julia competed in the 2016 Women of the World Poetry Slam in Brooklyn, New York. Her work has been featured on FreezeRay Poetry, Thirteen Myna Birds, Front Row Central, and Voicemail Poems, and she was nominated for Best of The Net 2015 for one of her pieces. It goes without saying that she loves Muppets more than you. Find her poetry and information about available chapbooks at http://geekgirlgrownup.tumblr.com

i don’t know what to do with happiness By Haley Clapp

i don’t know what to do with happiness

i don’t know what to do with happiness.
when the blue bird replaces the anchor
on my shoulder i am suspicious of
lightness. my grey mouse-heart flutters,
my pepper eyes dart. i scurry the split
second between reeling forward or

i schedule sadness in days    weeks     months
make a timetable & a ledger & a checklist &
when happiness finds me i throw up my
limbs in surrender to the authority
i face wide-eyed happiness
is a firing squad.

happiness explodes in me and blacks out
my eyes, obliterates me like the clean
wrath of God and before i think i’m
sputtering apologies confessing all
my glass-shatter sins to prevent the holy
light from fleeing cruel as lightening
striking bark/marking scars/
God i’m so afraid of white-hot light
you send that smites the anchor from
my back God i don’t know what it means
to stand up straight God i don’t know
what to do with happiness—

By Haley Clapp


Haley Clapp is a recent Indiana University Bloomington graduate and fledgling queer poet who will be attending King’s College London in the fall for her MA in Critical Methodologies. She has served on the Editorial Board of various IU publications, including LABYRINTH and The Undergraduate Scholar. She loves sad songs and horror movies and hopes to end up somewhere in the world between literature/art and academia.

WHEN G KISSES YOU By Karese Burrows


I hope she tastes
the way I used to
bite your mouth.

Hope she knows
how much you loved
it, how it rattled your
jaw like a marching
band cymbal.

I have been everywhere
inside those lips. Left
my mark like a dog on
a fire hydrant.

If I were you, I’d never
tell her where that trap
of yours has been.

If I were you, I’d name
that trap after me.

By Karese Burrows


Karese Burrows is a 22 year old graphic artist and poet from The Bahamas. She has been published more than once by Words Dance Publishing and has works in the first issue of Penstrike Journal. You can read more of her words and the words she loves from her tumblr fluerishing.tumblr.com.

Stargazing By Carol Brown


stretched out under the stars
the night after our high school graduation
he paints a portrait of the man
he would be

he would be two iron chains
and a padlock
on the gate out back

he would be an army of buckets
to catch the rain
a new roof before next summer

he would be unbent binding
a blank page
a chalkboard scrubbed clean

an open road stretched out
a horizon, always ahead

two good legs
a pair of walking shoes

under the stars
he would be ten men
a solar system
and no apologies

years later
when he is only a shadow behind a star to me
i read the headlines
“Jurors Order 40-Year Term in Fist Fight Stabbing Case”
“Teen Guilty of Murder in 2012 Stabbing Death”
and Dan drops the word ‘psycho’
onto the table between us
like a casualty of war

that night
i watch stars explode over Boston
attempt name them
one by one
but am overwhelmed
by their numbers
and spend the whole night
crying instead

so many
we don’t know
have already gone

i would name him psycho
i would faceless-brown-boy him
fear to speak his name in silence
name no stars for his son

i would cry in that court room
scream at the reporters
with their buzzing microphones
swarming black flies arriving
before his body has even cooled
as it twitches
in the last throws of death

i would cry over his body

the girl,
the one he wrote all the poems about
is 5 months pregnant

in all the trial footage,
she’s sobbing into his sister’s shoulder

i never met his sister,
never really knew he had one

i find out later
the bump in her belly is a little boy

they name him Charlie

Charlie has a hyphenated last name
footie pajamas
and a tiny crucifix
all to himself

imagine him, 18
with his father’s gangly limbs
too big jaw
scraggly goatee
and soft brown eyes

imagine him writing poems
about a girl
and having no father except the one in jail

imagine him stretched out
counting stars
that have already gone

By Carol Brown


Born and raised in central New Jersey, Carol Brown is a performance poet, student and general bookworm based in Brooklyn. She is currently studying poetry and psychology at Eugene Lang College. Carol has been featured at the 2014 and 2015 New York City Poetry Festivals, the LaMama Experimental Theater, the 2014 TedYouth Conference, the Jersey City Slam and on Indiefeed. Her work can be found in Germ Magazine, 11 and 1/2, 12th Street and a great weather for MEDIA.


the extimacy of grief By Karuna Chandrashekar

the extimacy of grief

upon leaving

the dying body

will borrow
its expressions from trees

those memories are old

older than breeze
older than the sea
older than the first breath

loss is larval like that

a delicate half-thing

a wrist bone
an eyelash
fire mumbling through leaves

its shadow, a mute speak
of a forgotten flash

now, the light in those eyes
as if birds were
crossing their evening sun

all that will be left
will be earth

in the prism of twilight
i sift time
with the palm of my hand

let me be the pasture
let me be the animal bone
let me be the atom slipping from dead to new born

By Karuna Chandrashekar


Karuna Chandrashekar is a psychotherapist practising in New Delhi India. Her work has been featured in A Blackbird Sings, The Sunflower Collective and is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and Anomaly Lit.


having erotophobia in a sex driven culture By sarah kate osborn

having erotophobia in a sex driven culture

is like being a cockroach in a sea of spotlights, chasing you back
into the corner you just crawled out from.
here is another elephant we don’t talk about,
some nameless guest sharing our china that no one thinks to mention.
how can you live a quiet life when you are terrified of how you got here and
all the things they expect you to do before you leave?

my body is a continent i am still learning my way around and i am terrified
of what men will do to all my naked
when it cannot fight back: here, take what you want of me and don’t give anything back.

maybe i am afraid of men, or maybe
of all this skin, or maybe
of having nowhere to hide, nothing to shield myself with.
maybe i am just afraid of passing on these knotted up nucleotides, of giving life to someone else
who doesn’t want it.

i know how much my mother wants grandchildren but
i don’t know if i want children,
i don’t know if i want to get married,
i don’t know if i even like men, i’m sorry.

i don’t think i will ever fall in love,
which is to say, I don’t think i’ll ever find a boy
who will love me even if my body is never ready for him,
even if i never want to make a family out of us.

i am not waiting on the right boy, i don’t want to have my mind changed,
i am not going to grow out of this so stop asking.
i was told that my libido should be at its peak, that i’ll never be crazier than this,
but i don’t have fantasies of sex, only intrusive thoughts that i still haven’t learned to shake.

the kids from my middle school health class giggle as we talk about the kind of things they’ve played around with,
the kind of things i still can’t speak of without bile as quotation marks.
is there a special hell for those who die as virgins? do we burn naked at the pyre?

i wish my body really belonged to me.
i wish i wasn’t so afraid of something that was made to be beautiful.
i wish this poem made it hurt any less.

By sarah kate osborn


sarah kate osborn is a fifteen year old poet from north carolina who hates describing herself and rebels against capital letters. she is trying to toss her voice into a world already filled with noise and may have nothing meaningful to say. she has been published in the rising phoenix review, words dance magazine, and persephone’s daughters. she can be found at www.allthesinkingships.tumblr.com