Chiara Crisafulli


day 7

That summer night,
a year after Aris left, like
a brave sober drunkard
I dared ask why. Why did
you disappear? Why did you
leave all of a sudden?
                    (I left because I’m young, he said,
                    ten years younger than you.
                    What do you want from me?)

Our first night replayed in my head.
‘Do you feel safe?’ he said, staring at my tears.

So many unanswered questions
and ringing Sunday mornings.

All the shooting stars draw
a path heading for the
green –

I look at my feet.
I think maybe I should have worn
a different pair of shoes.

day 14

Today, after
a run and wrinkled
cravings for Kalamata
olives, I left
the peels of my avocados
and phantasies over a trip to Spain
leaking in a big
black, garbage

my violet
white H&M running shorts
down the stairs. The

touch of my
                 skin on the steps. The taste of
                       my bones on the shiny wooden
                               floor. Beyond the heavy

building door, wind
grabbed my body. Kicked it,
made it scream.

I saw Aris. Unexpected,
ghostly, unreal.

Eyes warm and frozen.

He was sitting next to the gate.
He was texting with his phone.
He lifted his chin and smiled

but I had to let go
of the garbage.
I had to
close the door.

day 28

These days I sleep
less, dumb thoughts
ovulate: heated,
salty eggs for
breakfast, fine leather
biker boots. Cooler,
nail polish
Bulky breasts as
church bells,
loose black locks

shutter my

thirsty,                                                                                                                                               stinging,

darker nipples — like shepherds on plateaus
                    tending to their goats too early at
                        sunset. When I digest my

period cramps,

breath crumbs

like truths

I knead with my bare hands to
strawberry cheesecake. This is how I
                                                                surrender to my body:
to its language so far unknown. There’s no
migration of cells but
rather, in-house
talkers — like hens. They gather close to my cheek,
sometimes it’s my hip or my
left ankle, and lift a

red, thick curtain to
show me a toddler in a
stroller. He squeaks,
laughs and when sucks his
big toe I see he has no
                                                      Then I read. A gig. Around you.

Your voice// your lips// move fast /

then slower / and slower /          and          /                    slower       /
                                                                                                                            warming / juicy flow/
saliva / us / moaning /
                                                                                                              brushing kissing/
                                                        …what was I doing…again?

Your stomping chest is no distance I can bear. Ache

pours into
wombs, weeps
dyed words       now

drying —
over the shell of this
full moon

Chiara Crisafulli juggles words, space and un-structures with no desire to restrict forms and/or genres. Her dream is to see ordinary things turning into art—plastic garbage bags, scratches of paint, glimpses of light. Before being a body of work, art is a way of observing (ourselves in) the world. Originally from Sicily (Italy), Chiara wrote her first poem at age 7 inspired by the moon, boredom and loneliness.Her academic background is in journalism, philosophy, teaching English as a second language, playwriting, travel writing and contemporary poetry writing. In the past eleven years, she has experienced living, travelling and volunteering in different countries including Ireland, Holland, Greece, the Canary Islands (Spain) and Portugal. She currently resides in Lisbon working as an interpreter and at her first experimental hybrid poetry book in English.

Γκέλυ Γρυντάκη

ενaς pολemος

Living like bats, or owls
labouring like beasts, οι μάργκαρετ c.
dying like worms

οι μάργκαρετ c. πονάει
• από τα χτυπήματα της συγκατάβασης,
• της ευγενικής απόρριψης,
• τα ωωωωωω και τα αααααα του ευσυγκίνητου κοινού
• τον κρυμμένο σαρκασμό στις υποκλίσεις, κάτω από χοντρά σβέρκα που τραντάζονται από γέλια και lust
• τα τοξικά σάλια στα χειροφιλήματα

η πατριαρχία είναι ευγενής για να είναι πιο επώδυνη, έχει περιποιημένα μυτερά νύχια που γρατζουνάνε στην χειραψία και το οξύ τους καίει για πολύ ώρα μετά

και ε σύ ψάχνεις (μικρά) αναλγητικά αλλά αυτά δεν φτάνουν πια
now the drugs don’t work emily

στο τρανς σου μπαινοβγαίνεις σε αυτό που θέλεις να είσαι σαν εκείνα τα εκκρεμή με τις μπάλες που συγκρούονται πέρα δώθε                                          πέρα
δώθε                                                                                           πέρα
δώθε                                                                                  πέρα
αυτή    η    ψευδής    εντύπωση        αι        ω         νιότη         ταc
(φίλε είμαι επιστήμονας.                                                         ξέρω καλύτερα από τον οποιοδήποτε           τι                   σημαίνει                             κενό

έχω αλλάξει 999 πουκάμισα από κερατίνη κι ε ξ α ϋ λ ώ ν ο μ αι λίγο περισσότερο κάθε φορά που
θυμώνω;                 σημαίνει                                 και μετά

η κούραση είναι
για να ξαναμαζέψω
την ύπαρξή μου
και είμαι
ένα τσικ

οι μάργκαρετ c. αγαπάει το μυαλό της       μισεί το μυαλό της
αγαπάει το μυαλό της       μισεί το μυαλό της

αλλά αυτό το τικ τακ είναι εξαντλητικό

θέλει να το βγάλει για λίγο,
να το αφήσει
σε ένα ποτήρι φορμόλη στο κομοδίνο
σαν μασέλα
ή δείγμα σε cabinet de κuriosites

θέλει επιτέλους ν α α ν α σ ά ν ε ι
να νιώσει κρύο αέρα να χαϊδεύει το εσωτερικό του κρανίου της
που καίει
θέλει να νιώσει πώς είναι
να μη σκέφτεσαι τίποτα

ίσως αν καταλάβαινε λιγότερα να σταματούσε (you have the right to remain silent?)
και αυτό να ήταν λιγότερο δαπανηρό για το εγώ της

το αναγνωρίζει

δεν μπορεί όμως να κάνει κάτι γι’αυτό

το εγώ της της αναλώνεται οδυνηρά κι αμετάκλητα
γλιστράει από τις σελίδες τα σημειωματάρια τα folios τα γράμματα τα notes
ξεχύνεται με κάθε λέξη από μελάνι στο χώμα,
το χώμα και το εγώ της είναι ένα βλασταίνουν μικρά μωβ φυλλαράκια βολβοί ρίζες φυτρώνουν μεγάλα σαρκώδη μανιτάρια σαν αντρικά δάχτυλα
που δεν ξέρεις αν είναι δηλητηριώδη
αν δεν τα δοκιμάσεις

α σ κ ή σ ει ς τ α π ει ν ό τ η τ α ς
α σ κ ή σ ει ς εί ναι
βαθειές ανάσες

ίσως αν καταλάβαινε λιγότερα να μην έφτιαχνε ελπίδες από σκόρπια μανιφέστα

η ελπίδα είναι πιο κοφτερή από τα νύχια τους αλλά οι λεπίδες της είναι διπλές
όσο βυθίζονται σε σένα βυθίζονται και σε εκείνους αλλά αυτός ο πόλεμος είναι άνισος,
γιατί η από κει μεριά είναι χοντρόπετση είναι από πλαστικό ή λαμαρίνα
είναι μονωμένη από διογκωμένη και εξηλασμένη πολυστερίνη από αφρό πολυουρεθάνης και χιλιετίες, από πετροβάμβακα, και τόνους αυθεντίας
τόμους αυθεντίας
δεν νιώθει

«ένα ακόμα μικρό τσίμπημα για την πατριαρχία μια βαθεία μαχαιριά για τις μάργκαρετ c.»

οι μάργκαρετ c. όταν πονάει θέλει να κουκουλωθεί να τριγυρνάει με ένα μεγάλο μακρύ γυαλιστερό μπουφάν υαλοβάμβακα που σέρνεται στο έδαφος στους κήπους του Kensington, να καλλιεργεί σαρκοφάγες ορχιδέες και daffodils στα μαλλιά της
να σκαλίζει απαλά τη γη με μια χτένα

να ψιθυρίζει λυπημένα χαϊκού στα
σκαθάρια και τις αράχνες να μιλάει στους
κοκκινολαίμηδες και στις ξανθές αλεπούδες

(που φαίνονται συζητήσιμες και ανοιχτές στο ευγενή διάλογο και την καθαρή επιχειρηματολογία)

οι μάργκαρετ c. όταν πονάει θέλει να πέφτει από παράθυρα να καταπίνει δηλητηριώδη μανιτάρια να αυτο-πυροβολείται στην καρδιά να βάζει το κεφάλι στο φούρνο να γεμίζει τις τσέπες με πέτρες και να βουτάει στο ποτάμι

να κλείνεται στο γκαράζ να
βάζει δυνατά τη μουσική και να ανάβει
τη μηχανή του Cougar της

dont they know its the end of the world cause you dont love me anymore

οι μάργκαρετ c. όταν πονάει είναι το yellow stone το κοζλοντούι και η φουκοσίμα
       είμαι ο βεζούβιος το κρακατόα και το Eyjafjallajokull είναι δύσκολη
          στην ανάγνωση και στην προφορά είμαι καυτή και παγωμένη
              ανορθόγραφη και επικίνδυνη είναι έτοιμη να εκραγεί
                 να καλύψει τον κόσμο με δάκρυα λάβα
                        και να εξαφανίσει τους
                            δεινόσαυrους και
                                άλλα δεινά

οι μάργκαρετ c. όταν πονάει θέλει να γράφει αλλά όταν γράφει πονάει περισσότερο

Gelly Gryntaki is a curator and a writer. She writes about art and other things. She has organized and curated a variety of art projects and exhibitions in Greece and abroad and several of her texts have been published in printed and online media. Her website is

Virginie Foloppe

Male gaze

“Me Too is a movement, not a moment”. Tarana Burke.
In France, on November 3, 2019, Adèle Haenel spread the Me Too movement initiated by Tarana Burke in 2006, speaking publicly and live on mediapart to denounce the sexual assault of which she was a victim as a minor under 15 years old. My video, which is part of this movement carried above all by survivors, testifies to “une culture du viol à la française”, according to the title of the book by Valérie Rey-Robert present in the image. On February 28, 2020, I joined the demonstrators near the Salle Pleyel, the day of the Caesar ceremony where Polanski was named despite multiple accusations of rape. Then, on the evening of March 7, violently repressed by the police, where I surprised myself shouting with the demonstrators, as never before. And finally on July 10, Place de l’Hotel de Ville after having watched for a call, following the appointment of Darmanin (Prime Ministe accused of raper) and Dupont-Moretti (Minister of Justice ). The sounds that you will hear, I recorded them during these three dates. And, if a book is present in the image, it is because it is an intellectual stone capable of making the eye bleed, a weapon for collective resistance.

The videos of Virginie Foloppe, based in Paris, are short performances. Since 2019, social movements in France have become a great source of inspiration for her, the Yellow Vests, feminist gatherings and demonstrations, where the photographic medium or sound recording have been experimented, while continuing to conduct her research on sexual violence (rape and incest), in video, articles, creative writing, or in his course at the Sorbonne Nouvelle.

Daniela Lucato

My name is Sami

Cinematography: Jacopo Pantaleoni

This video was made during lockdown and finished on 25th April 2020. It is a reflection about domestic violence, human rights and woman condition in all countries. I was inspired by a personal involvement: an old friend I met by chance after a long time told me the abuse she was victim of from her husband. She thought it was painful but she accepted it as a normal condition. I was shocked and I told her she needed to contact the police. I thought about this short talk we had for a long time. I really think the way she accepted this abuse, thinking it was normal, is a huge issue for many women.

This is something that needs to be changed. This topic is for me really important and the work “My name is Sami” is a studio for a bigger project. I feel a responsibility as a woman artist to make people think about it, to confront themselves with this item. I don’t know if it will help to resolve the problem, but this is a start to fight it.

Daniela Lucato started playing theatre in Padua (Italy) parallel to her studies at the university. After her degree in Philosophy she moved to Rome, Wellington and finally Berlin where she works as an actress/filmmaker. The Birthday (2014), her first short film written/directed in mandarin/english language, has been officially selected from 25 international festivals (among these Micgenero, Frameline, ShanghaiPride where the film was also nominated for the best cinematography). In 2015 she founded Connecting Fingers Company. Her last productions for theatre are Connecting Fingers, The Wheel, The rebellious Body. Her last films When I dance (2016), The Wheel (2017) are screen- ing on international film festivals. For the time being (2018) received the award as best in- ternational short film at DUAF/ Tribeca Film Center. In 2019 she wrote/directed the experimental short film Vieni and in (2020) the narrative short Mamma dorme (Mommy’s sleeping). During Covid-19 she wrote/performed/directed the short film My name is Sami.

Carolyn Guinzio


A sound and visual experiment about the “loss of power” in all senses. The sound is comprised entirely of altered, distorted, and slowed down household electronic sounds—the sounds of domesticity.

My piece “At Opening” appeared in A) Glimpse) Of), to my delight. My newest book (A) V(ertigo Book) won the Tenth Gate Poetry Prize and will appear later this year through The Word Works. My work has appeared in The Nation, The New Yorker, Poetry, and many other journals. My films have appeared in OzCast, Poetry Film Live, the Cadence Film Festival (Jury winner) and other venues and forums. My website is

Dimitra Ioannou


The ongoing photo essay “Τhe City is Now Yours” is a kind of palimpsest: in each photo there are traces of another; the magnified surfaces of walls, pavements and signs found in the Athenian Zone are partly erased by portraits of women and feminist slogans or vice versa.

Dimitra Ioannou experiments with narrative or anti-narrative forms in various media (language, photography, publications). She has exhibited her (video)poems, and photos in solo or group shows in Greece. Her pamphlet Electric Sarcasm is out from Ugly Duckling Presse (2020). She is the editor of the journal A) GLIMPSE) OF).

Monica Kim

time at a cross-section

“time at a cross-section” features erasure poems of The New York Times articles from the 1910s-1960s, and erases, inserts, and blacks out words to reimagine narratives that aren’t misogynistic and transphobic. Some poems address gender identity and expression, while others contend with the pressures women face in literature; still others tackle the intersectionality of gender and race to comment on modern-day issues while appropriating older language.

Monica Kim is a social justice advocate and aspiring writer. Born in Seoul, South Korea, she has lived in New Jersey for most of her life. Her writing has been published in The Mantle, Okay Donkey, Thimble Magazine, Stirring, and The Michigan Quarterly Review Online.

J.I. Kleinberg






J.I. Kleinberg’s visual poems have been published in print and online journals worldwide. An artist, poet, and freelance writer, she lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and on Instagram @jikleinberg.

Michelle Moloney King

5 miles of coloured pencils in mother’s hedgeschool

Michelle Moloney King, {she/her} neo-postmodern poet, asemic poet, & editor of Beir Bua Poetry Journal / Academic background ~ computer science, primary teaching & Hypnotherapy / Work published in Spillwords, streetcake, Artistic Differences Project, Babel Tower, & others / Holds Pushcart Nom  / Visual Artists Ireland member / 
Website ~  

Laura Hinton

is for Rapid City (or, Babysitter’s Husband)

The letter R is created by the artist Toni Simon.

Laura Hinton is a multi-media poet, literary critic, and editor as well as an educator. Her most recent poetry book is Ubermutter’s Death Dance (BlazeVox); she has staged this performance work in poetry venues from Tucson to Maine to New York City, where she lives and teaches. Critical books and edited collections include The Perverse Gaze of Sympathy: Sadomasochistic Sentiments from Clarissa to Rescue 911 (SUNY Press), We Who Love to Be Astonished: Experimental Women’s Writing and Performance Poetics (co-editor) and Jayne Cortez, Adrienne Rich, and the Feminist Superhero: Voice, Vision, Politics and Performance in the U.S. Contemporary Women’s Poetics (editor). She is a Professor at the City College of New York (CCNY of CUNY), where she teaches feminist and literary theory, poetics, film and visual studies, as well as creative writing. She is also the editor of the hybrid-poetics journal Chant de la Sirene (, and her website is at

Toni Simon is a multimedia artist and writer whose work encompasses the ways in which the future might appear, accessed through trance states. The process of channeled, automatic writing led to her illustrated book of experimental prose poetry Earth After Earth (Lunar Chandelier Press, 2012) and her current manuscript and video animation Telescope Highway. Her drawings have been exhibited at the Drawing Center, Odetta and A.I.R. Gallery in NYC.

Janelle Cordero

Janelle Cordero is an interdisciplinary artist and educator living in the
seventh most hipster city in the U.S. Her writing has been published in
dozens of literary journals, including Harpur Palate and The Louisville
Review, while her paintings have been featured in venues throughout the
Pacific Northwest. Janelle is the author of two books of poetry: Woke to
(V.A. Press, 2019) and Two Cups of Tomatoes (P.W.P. Press, 2015).
Her new book of poetry and artwork, Many Types of Wildflowers, is
forthcoming in December 2020 from V.A. Press. Stay connected with
Janelle’s work at

Madeline Cash

Sponge Cake

Your mom is birdwatching and you’re thinking about rapists. She points out a woodpecker or something. She use to be a big name in publishing. Now she’s retired. Now she makes sponge cake and points out woodpeckers. The walls are painted eggshell so she’s walking on eggshells as she’s climbing the walls. She has the best landscaper in Connecticut. You wonder if your mom has a rapist. She’d have the best rapist in Connecticut. Her trees are so lush that they’re top- heavy. Their trunks buckle under the weight of their foliage. It’s like their suicidal says your mom. The best landscaper in Connecticut bolsters them with structural reinforcements.

Your mom asks if you slept on the flight here and you tell her you don’t sleep. You try to shower but your mom’s faucet is in French. It says “chaud” and “froid”. It’s too froid. It isn’t froid enough. You think your mom could use a visit to Froid. She asks where your rapist is now and you say he’s in your pocket.

Your rapist is on instagram, hanging out with everyone. Everyone is like, so-and-so invited him. He use to be a big name in raping. Now he’s retired. Now he hangs out with so-and-so and this must have been some fluke thing because he’s a really nice guy if you get to know him everyone tells you. The trees are suicidal and it doesn’t matter what language the shower is in, you never feel clean anyway.

You have trouble breathing at night. Your mom asks where your rapist is now and you say he’s in your lungs. You go for a walk on eggshells. Your mom’s landscaper is the best in Connecticut. He waves you over to see where the trees are buckling. He tells you he got into the country in a shipping crate so small he had to dislocate his shoulder to fit inside. You tell him your rapist is on instagram, hanging out with everyone. He says sometimes life throws a lot at you.

Your mom has a hybrid dog. You scratch its belly and pick up its shit. Once it dislocated your mom’s shoulder by pulling too hard on the leash. She could have fit in a shipping crate, you think. The dog cocks its head at you. It tells you that it use to be a person, a person who threw a quarter in a well during a lightening storm and woke up in the body of a hybrid dog in Connecti- cut. Some fluke thing. You’re like why are you telling me this. He says sometimes life throws a lot at you. You ask what it’s like being a dog and he says it has its days.

Your mom is making sponge cake and you’re thinking about rapists. Yours is a really nice guy if you get to know him. Your mom use to work in Paris. Now it’s only Paris in her shower. Now she’s buckling but bolstered with structural reinforcements. Now she’s blanching the basil and deboning the branzino and she’s mastered the sponge cake which is very moist. Don’t patholo- gize the sponge cake says your mom. Eat up. Life is hard but not as hard as a stale sponge cake. She makes extra for the dog and the landscaper.

Madeline is a writer from Sarah Lawrence College living and working in Los Angeles.

Claire Donato

My Ex-Husband’s Doppelgänger

Once a month, I take a walk with my ex-husband’s doppelgänger, a graphic designer with whom I share a checkout shift at my local food cooperative. At the food cooperative, my ex- husband’s doppelgänger and I cooperate with one another. Can you bring this cart back to its vestibule, I ask my ex-husband’s doppelgänger, who pushes the cart away from the register where I check strangers out. During lulls in service, my ex-husband’s doppelgänger stands next to my register, offering me blueberries. It has become routine, this offering of blueberries. I was thinking about your blueberries earlier today, I tell my ex-husband’s doppelgänger, and extract a blueberry from its plastic shell. As I place the blueberry in my mouth, I think about micro-plastics getting caught in fishes’ gills and, in my mind, envision a fish—a carp, tilapia, or mackerel; a haddock, cod, or rainbow trout—washed up on a sandy shoreline. Its colorful likeness, encumbered by the micro-plastics, is captured from above, as if by a camera drone. Its eyes face skyward. How will it find the ocean? Via this question, a foreboding melancholia plagues me. This feeling feels at odds with the blueberry’s bright hue. As the fish limply drapes across the surface of my mind, I cannot perceive whether my melancholia is in response to it, or to its exterior world. Nor do I imagine my ex-husband’s doppelgänger possesses the sort of interior sensitivity that might attune him to this quandary. For the sensitivity I possess is as rare as hen’s teeth: most days, I smell the past or taste the dead and am awash with grief.

On our walks, which span approximately 20 blocks, my ex-husband’s doppelgänger tells me about his family. In it, there is one mother, and one father, although these two archetypes are no longer married to one another. One archetype—the mother—is now married to someone else. My ex-husband’s doppelgänger does not care for the mother’s new partner. Together, we commiserate. What else is there to do, after all, but bitch? I have to go home for Christmas, my ex-husband’s doppelgänger says, and I squeeze his hand with my eyes, because he will not let me touch it. This is because my ex-husband’s doppelgänger is devoted to a life partner who makes demands on his attention, and so too demands his sexual exclusivity. And this demand is fine by me. I no longer want to fuck just anybody. That period of my life is complete. Now I am in a new period, wherein I desire to walk down familiar streets with someone unbeknownst to me, beginning at one point and ending at the next, as if we are attempting to draw a line between the past and a future with our bodies. When I attempt to draw these lines alone, the lines do not exist. Only in the company of a stranger is the passage of time real.

Claire Donato lives in Brooklyn, NY, and is the author of Burial (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2013), a not-novel novel and The Second Body (Poor Claudia, 2016; Tarpaulin Sky Press, reissue forthcoming), and is currently at work on a number of writing projects, including a novel, a collection of short stories, and a full-length LP of songs. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including The Believer, BOMB, Territory, Poetry Society of America, DIAGRAM, Bennington Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Fanzine, and The Elephants. Currently, she teaches in the MFA/BFA Writing Program at Pratt Institute, where she received the 2020-2021 all-campus Distinguished Teacher Award.

Louiza Vradi

Diana’s bath

“She baths and I am being devoured by dogs.”

Louiza Vradi is a visual artist working with photography, video and new media based in Athens, Greece. She studied visual arts, new media and art education at Athens School of Fine arts. She is interested in exploring the personal and collective memories, human movement, gender and youth culture and our relationship with the land we inhabit. She is an art educator and has been trained in art therapy, which led to her work as an art and photo therapist for people with mental & psycho social disabilities, as well as drug addicts. Her customers include international publications, media, non profit organizations, universities and creatives. Her work has been awarded and exhibited internationally.