Kara Goughnour

Example Proving We are Never Safe

In the teasing dark of morning,
girl with hands dried like the white-dust rot
of forgotten orange stands under the lamp-light
rays at the station’s farthest end,
where men with hoodie strings pulled taut
like police nooses smoke joints not-so-secretly,
where men in suits pace before dates
or job interviews or just because
man is known to love walking over
the most ground he can.
Girl with body like a dagger wrapped
in dining cloth slips her phone out of pocket,
checks train times, counts seconds before
speed walk along sparking train slowing
before landing where lone man stands,
glancing through girl’s shadow
into some simile or metaphor of world
where girl wants him or maybe knows his name.
Girl with head like a burst grape, ear canals gushing
with headphone-hip-hop to beat
the winter down, joins man on platform
at the minute the train is due, circumferences him
like a gnashing gator stands at his feet, like his hands
are Floridian deep water glossed with moss
and flies. Like touch from man is drowning
if it holds you long enough. Man pools
into girl’s vision with a claiming wave of hand.

When is the train due?

                                                                      Now.

Maybe we should move to the other side.
When the tracks have snow on them,
it means they’re not using the tracks.

                                                           It’s snowing.

It’s actually not heavy enough to sit
on the tracks like this, considering the
trains run often. I’m serious, the tracks
aren’t being—

Man talks like girl isn’t oozing back into herself,
like girl and man at trainstop in morning are likely
friends. Girl holding twenty-three years
of misplaced trust like dead deer dragging
enters train on the right side at the right time,
cradles her head like the man’s glance is an arrow
through it, cinches her hood over hat embroidered
with workplace logo, with red-apple target bobbing
to train-rustle, to headphone rapper’s fast lips clapping
like bear trap, Baby, you love me so. You just
don’t know it yet.

Kara Goughnour is a queer writer and documentarian living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They received their Bachelor’s Degree in Creative and Professional Writing from The University of Pittsburgh. They are the recipient of the 2018 Gerald Stern Poetry Award, and have work published or forthcoming in Third Point Press, the Southampton Review, and over twenty-five others. Follow them on Twitter @kara_goughnour or read their collected and exclusive works at karagoughnour.com.

Anna Pantelakou

Elevator

Once wrote a poem for you
Now writing a poem about you
My boss in 19

My friend in 21
My boss in 24

My grandmother in 6 and 24
My mother in all of it
Priestesses

Talked about patriarchy
-though never knew a father
Once asked for the right to
Shushed

Smacked

Smothered


Anna Pantelakou studied History and Theory of Art. She is passionate about academic writing, and is currently working on a children’s story. She was born in icy Canada, therefore writes both in English and Greek. She is based in sunny Athens.

Hiromi Suzuki

The Wedding March on Soap Operas


Someone knocks on the door of kitchen

It is Frankenstein
In a tailcoat and a white tie
For his wedding

To be exact
He is a monster
Created by a mad scientist
Dr. Victor Frankenstein

Has no name at all

The kitchen faces a creek
His coffin in solitude was dug up from the soil
And he came aboard on a glacier
From the underground waterway

Could you make the poached egg with yolk?
The golden colour is good for our escape at midnight, isn’t it?

A widow warms a pot
Creek under her feet
Passes through the downtown
And will pour into their final abode

Has no name at all



Alone, Throne, a Lonely Thorn


My elder sister in a cerulean blue wig is
On the swing as the throne alone in the park
Putting lipstick in vermillion red on her dry lips

Scattering petals of Geranium whirl in Miracle Wind
When her front teeth crush the groundnuts slowly
Out-of-season dead leaves sound in her skull

It is a lull in the sea

Listening to the rumours of sudden rain
A priest brakes the rusty bicycle again
Her flared skirt flaps in lightning


hiromi suzuki is a poet, artist living in Tokyo, Japan. The author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (kisaragi publishing, 2013), logbook (Hesterglock Press, 2018) and INVISIBLE SCENERY (Low Frequency Press, 2018). Her works are published internationally in Otoliths, BlazeVOX, Empty Mirror, Hotel, Burning House Press, DATABLEED, MOONCHILD MAGAZINE, Hotel, talking about strawberries all of the time, Mookychick, THE CERUROVE, Coldfront, RIC Journal and 3:AM Magazine. More work can be found at hiromisuzukimicrojournal.tumblr.com.
Twitter : @HRMsuzuki

Katie Ebbitt

Andromeda


I dislike being picked up
          So don’t
Set me among the constellations

I cut off your head
          and slept with it, strung up over mine

Spot lit by naked bodies of women

Duh for the obsession
          on death
I will summon whatever again
I would masturbate
being bound to a rock

Being grabbed at
          your skin looks good

You have something over me
Who ever heard of a man turning
          women to stone


Castigation

Maybe I don’t crave permanence
so much as another idea
intimacy an anchorage
that I am trying to dispel


Rodentia

I lean late
Into good
To contemplate clean
There’s a lot
To say
With this old thread of recollection
To say
There’s a glass cage
That’s being emptied
Leaving a residue
A mild scent
In the freezer
Balled up and stiff
For the entire season
Until the backyard is softer
Regardless
I wrote a list
Marked the calendar
Checked the ground
Eulogized a little
About the dainty
Sweetness
From the dirt


Katie Ebbitt is a poet and social worker. Her chapbook, ANOTHER LIFE, was published by Counterpath Press, and she has contributed poetry to the upcoming anthology Rendering Unconscious (Trapart Books, 2019). Her work has appeared in Tupelo Magazine, FanZine, Queen Mob’s, Prelude, and Deluge, among others. She curates By The Way reading series in New York City.

Diana Manesi

Pep talk with Father

One

Good morning. Resilience and patience. I arrived home. Sia got the small room.
cleaned the house all over          in the kitchen worms from leftovers
Tonight the kids are coming                 I bought a mattress for the little –sleep
I am not feeling well.                    Rebound
In Athens I feel better          with chicken pox
Next week          two weeks on pills          to catch me up.
Don’t worry.          Your worries feed happy clouds                    he gave me 1000 euros.
Sia is a good housekeeper. Quiet child.
Be happy          with new blue-s dress
Good morning.          wanna hear my news
Where will you spend Christmas?
We will go to Morocco.          God knows.          Hugs& kisses

Two

Susan is beautiful, beautiful enough for me
Lubul budul          my head skipped a bit          today
two days          after Susan’s visit            her
fewer          bits the merrier Christmas    at shopping malls     car parks
a sedimentation of bags and collections                    in them I trust
I am tired     I will visit professor Gementzi     74 years’ old
Would it help if I lived in Athens?
It’s hard.     I can’t go to the gym
Fuzzy head     can’t collect me
The pills began to work     and I am locked in the coldest bathroom
We will not go to Athens.                Susan fell and broke her knee
My mouth is dry     I can’t sleep     the pills have side effects
How will I make it on my own?        Good question.                he gave me a pair of trousers
Take care of Susan.

Three

I arrived at the airport        How are you?
My migraines are unbearable        Delay/ traffic        my flight is at 8pm
I didn’t get to see you        with the other woman                you left        when
I saw a poster on an Athenian café        about Sankara        and his illusion show.
Migraines are the legacy of witches,
garbage bags of unfulfilled traffic.
I want to witness Sankara’s magic — he might possess the insides of Joan Crawford’s deranged daughter who kills her mother’s lovers.
I hope he cures migraines.

Four

Tattoo artists are the best forgers
What’s your plans now?       It’s late        my throat is quietly tuning with my bowl
Daddy wants a new car          a nice car          double sided
One cut of the dead          and I feel          hardwired to plan inks
He says nothing
He’s just a figment of people’s imaginations
God              replace the old BMW
When we met, you were pretty and I lonely
God save ink forgers (A lot of God in here).

Five

Thank you for confirming which life session you attended.
We note that you submitted a pay claim form for a total of 5 hours.
Why? What’s bothering you? Calm down. Don’t pressure yourself. Enjoy life.
As you only attended 5 of the 7 training hours provided by us,
you need to show love.
Life is beautiful. If you find a job you really enjoy, you’ll feel better.
As you only attended 2 of the 5 training hours provided by Father,
you need to stop thinking too much.
We will therefore not be approving the additional 5 hours.
Start yoga and meditation to live in the now.

Six

Descending into mad, watching the “Shining” on Netflix,           “you are nothing but a fraud”
Decaying replica        of Socrates unwritten words
        The shinning       of    snow              in a full-packed auditorium   with neo-soul sounds
       &nbsp &       &nbsp &from New Orleans
copy-paste          my mind needs          citalopram          placebo effects
    smoking gives a boost       &nbsp &    smoking gives a boost
in the mist of a saddening day    smoking gives a boost       &to Mona-Lisa and back
“you are a fraud”, you hear me!
I am doing my best    it’s not enough
I am really trying            not to desert her
Russian dolls pop         one after the other
snails suck my gastric fluids    and let go of my fingers
godfather died    and with him the golden necklace    of the Russian doll
Bless her, she was a good girl.


Diana Manesi began writing and recording diaries when she was 11. She stopped once she reached adulthood and went into academia. For many years she engaged with feminist theory, social anthropology, and cultural studies. In the last years, she began experimenting with poetic form and playful prose. In 2017 she published her first poetry collection in Greek, entitled “One and whole: One bite” by Queer Ink Publications. Recently she began writing in English. She currently resides in London and whenever she can she travels and attends poetry workshops.

Serena Braida

it is pure gold the satin oil on god’s fingers, the little devils trotting towards us

good grief you go go
harvest lemons
go get clean the whole
shebang

/ ’tis for your eyes’ sake
the sense of the land being sucked out of you /

you try a robe on,
my poor frangipane girl,
Gabriele licks your forearm,
the sun glees

and this feeling of transatlantic
                                                                                arson
                                                                                could be real.



Serena Braida is a writer & performer currently specialising in voice work. She grew up near Rome and moved to London in 2011. Her poetry pamphlet BLUE SHEILA was published by Dancing Girl Press in 2018. Serena’s work, both in Italian and English, has appeared or is forthcoming in HVTN Press, Hotel, Orlando, Hotdog, Nuovi Argomenti and more, and in anthologies including Wretched Strangers (Boiler House Press 2018). Notable performances include the Festival of Italian Literature in London, Goldsmiths LitLive, European Poetry Festival, Late Night Jazz at the Royal Albert Hall’s Elgar Room and the play Muscovado.