Eileen Myles unsteady cozy fill shit w your el e gant points Eileen Myles (they/them, b. 1949) is a poet, novelist and art journalist whose practice of vernacular first-person writing has made them one of the most recognizable writers of their generation. Pathetic Literature, which they edited, came out in Fall of 22. a “Working Life”, their newest collection of poems, is out now. They live in New York & in Marfa, TX.
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Eileen Myles you don’t want to leave but you like the window its big picture Eileen Myles (they/them, b. 1949) is a poet, novelist and art journalist whose practice of vernacular first-person writing has made them one of the most recognizable writers of their generation. Pathetic Literature, which they edited, came out in Fall of 22. a “Working Life”, their newest collection of poems, is out now. They live in New York & in Marfa, TX.
Eileen Myles all is coming warm socks on a hot day sense of the world coming down the clouds like a cover sun comes out & the blue heightens wind beats and clouds not so harsh Eileen Myles (they/them, b. 1949) is a poet, novelist and art journalist whose practice of vernacular first-person writing has made them one of the most recognizable writers of their generation. Pathetic Literature, which they edited, came out in Fall of 22. a “Working Life”, their newest collection of poems, is out now. They live in New York & in Marfa, TX.
Ruby Ferris Ruby Ferris is an interdisciplinary poet and writer. Born and raised in the city of Chicago, she is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst.
Dan Kraines —after Rainer Maria Rilke like raspberry cream within my stein, pink as hurt skin. At the rivulet, along the lip, trickling beads where you clicked your spoon. What pressed your need, unfisted and burnt away? You said how you felt only through familiar signs, like a novella’s trope. Then withdrew without the gift of my mouth. My stomach tingles, as if welling up with hunger: you came for me and I held you close, close enough to lose. Is that your jaw I see as I make my way back home, thicker for having grown into your father? Our faces strangely alike, I think, looking at the stein. O shooting star that fell in my eyes and through my body. Unendurable. I can’t forget. I gaze into my drink. I am still a child. Dan Kraines is a queer poet of Viennese, Bolivian, and Ukrainian heritage. He lives in an old tenement building on the Lower East Side. The titles of these poems come from Rilke, but they queer his themes. Dan teaches creative writing at FIT. You can find him @dan_kraines and get Licht + his new chapbook, Jaffa.
Dan Kraines —after Rainer Maria Rilke A woodpecker chucks its head against a tree. I wake up under a yoghurt sky and hear rain where summer has ended, in the bull rush and spruce; my obsessions leave, like tropical storms. Feelings for you? You raw my nerves against granite, but won’t cut; I tremble in my thicket of red berry and thorn, like a vein. Gravel road. Blue shale along the river. You brought me into your forest beyond where anyone can see. You with your heart of disaster, knees against chest, leapt. I know that I give in: don’t drink from the creek, you told me as I knelt. Descending more deeply into your deep ravine, your joy is in the music of distance and air: hungry, strung up, set to burn. Yellow primrose light walls at my shoulder blades, the creek far below forks and unforks, a mystical promise, you make me known to angels —and I hear their lightning. Dan Kraines is a queer poet of Viennese, Bolivian, and Ukrainian heritage. He lives in an old tenement building on the Lower East Side. The titles of these poems come from Rilke, but they queer his themes. Dan teaches creative writing at FIT. You can find him @dan_kraines and get Licht + his new chapbook, Jaffa.
Maja Lukic On a clay surface, the tennis ball arcs slowly, as if the air is honey. Clay slows the game, forces you to think. I know a little about this from the one time my father whisked me off to play on a real red clay court, just like at Roland-Garros, he promised. Neither of us even close to Nadal, sweat and clay pollinating across my body as I struggled to keep up, to show him how much I loved the clay. In tennis, Love means zero, which also means that when I play, I am almost always Love, in loss. Most often, in this life, I am losing to my father. My father says tennis is a psychological thriller, which he loves, of course. Some players need the antagonism of an unfriendly crowd —that’s when they thrive-- my father always said so, post-tennis beer in hand. He was a terrible teacher but a beautiful player once, when I was little-- a lithe strong god, his sinewy legs stretching improbably across the court. I thought he was good enough to be pro. Then the war, then the terrible jobs, his knees gave out, his elbow inflamed, then my mother died, and everything else-- I think most days of this life are played on a red clay court-- the ball travels differently than you expected, and mostly you’re at a loss, and nearly always alone, severed, cleaved from the coach who cannot communicate with you, whom you cannot hear. I think of how often I come across studies of eldest daughters of alcoholic men and find myself. How calming it is to just be a statistic, to hide in the crowd. How calming to imagine a friendly crowd of other nameless, faceless girls watching me, my mouth salty with clay and sweat and blood from a bitten tongue, but less alone. They’re watching another girl play, another girl trailing 30 – love, 40 – love, another girl down. Love—I have not yet found a more gorgeous way to lose. Maja Lukic received an MFA in poetry from the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Narrative, A Public Space, The Adroit Journal, Sixth Finch, Copper Nickel, Poetry Northwest, and other journals. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.
Sallie Fullerton If I could, I would grant you your self-evidence. Let it be known that there is nothing left to look for. Let the scolding stop and steam off in a bucket. The world has been big this whole time, even as we push its corners beyond themselves. Even through last night’s horror and the day before. It remains big. You were born here and did not leave. Here, you could wave like a flag on a high building. You could have the same brush with infinity once a month, and you could go to work. Each morning, something woke you. You awoke. Once, a performance hinted at perfection. You got on stage and drank beer among the actors. Happiness collapsed into wood and bottles. Each day, light seeped anywhere it could. It touched you, your face, it held you. Sallie Fullerton is a poet from Philadelphia. They have an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and have been published in Prairie Schooner, Bennington Review, Frontier Poetry, Literary Hub, and Pathetic Literature edited by Eileen Myles (Grove Press, 2022).
Lish Ciambrone Like a dog I look into the mirror and see nothing I recognize. no threat, no lover. I see an oak— I grew an oak tree just to chop it down and eat it. I splinter. That was then, anyway. Now is now. Now I am a mirror lying face down, a dog in the grass. Dogs recognize themselves in their master’s eyes. I see no dog but beneath me are the roots of a tree slowly being eaten through the heart. Lish Ciambrone is a poet, painter, and personal trainer living in Baltimore, MD. Her work is informed by her childhood in suburban Illinois, her teenage years spent dedicated to the Catholic church, every single day she’s ever wandered outside, plenty of the days spent under fluorescent gym lighting, and every dog she’s ever seen. Lish’s work can be found in PeachMag, Bruiser Mag, and occasionally on the IG grid @iamyourdad_now.
Bianca Josivoski I've seen you before neck snapped on an American roadside taking your last breath of life as one The same sky is not the only cursed heirloom we share as two lonely anomalies separated by lands and species our fears united by red strings On my birthdays I sob stars for you Those candle wishes are useless prayers for your hoof in my hand What will they do to you when they find you? Will they poke and prod their little scientific wonder only to doom you to death upon diagnosis? Ne placchi bebe kreva ne si sama there are others in my own head too If the Orthodox God that reigns is kind then at the border of beasts and humans we will meet again Bianca Josivoski is a queer Macedonian-American poet and editor at Antler Velvet Magazine. She received her BA in creative writing and Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies from The Ohio State University. A lover of the monstrous and grotesque, she is always peering into the dark to see what she will find.
Oswaldo Vargas I leave you a lantern in case someone prays to the engine that comes to life earlier in the morning and you’re running late - For a second the pale blue dot goes green - When I pour diesel on you it gets the grease off Your hands will be cleaner now free to journal in the meadow we buried a calf in The neighbor tracked how long you held me after I’m grateful you didn’t have the time to shave If there are cuts, let them be windows My synapses colliding can be seen Let there be light on the murals of when you hugged me or when the embers of an engine collided after tugging on a thread of yours. Oswaldo Vargas is a former farmworker, a graduate from the University of California, Davis and a 2021 Undocupoets Fellow. Anthology features include Nepantla: An Anthology Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color and Puro Chicanx Writers of the 21st Century. His work can also be seen in The Louisville Review, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Huizache, West Trade Review, Narrative (upcoming) and the Green Mountains Review tribute issue to former U.S. Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera (among others). He lives and dreams in Sacramento, California.
Talor North You die in the cemetery and haunt a field of ancestors for years before I come to retrieve you. I feed grass to your slack mouth, coat your arms and legs in ancient mud, and pray over your remains before scattering them in the Snake River. Everywhere I turn, I catch you migrating. Kneecap soaring on the back of a crow overhead a deserted road in New Mexico. Both shoulder blades stalking prey with grizzlies near Slough Creek. Sternum trampling across prairies in Oklahoma with a herd of antelope. A cheekbone perched on wild boars slaughtering swollen fruit in the southern Mountain ranges. When you finish your journey, you wander back to your old farm. The chickens kiss bits of your fingers. The cows watch over your soul like old guard dogs. Your granddaughter greets you each morning as she steps into your garden. Talor North resides in Northern Utah with her husband and two sons. She is an enthusiastic writer, reader, and appreciator of toddler crayon creations.
Hanaa Ibrahim The brief moment between daydreaming and revolution is called love i built a house there and got lost wandering Chet Baker played in the background (and in between, i yearned for a mouthful of your love) i revolted rebelled reclaimed the skin where your hands caressed my chest so that in between daydreaming and love could become a revolution i saw the sun a garden grew sea glass and sand (and in between, i marched for a palmful of your love) i sang a song kissed a friend on the cheek danced to Chet Baker this time learned how in between love and revolution was inevitable daydreaming was a free Palestine was you (and in between, i looked out my window and wrote a poem heartful of your love) i wake at dawn with guns and roses under my pillow and eyes wide open ready to fi(love)gh(daydream)t Hanaa Ibrahim is a 23 year-old Palestinian poet born and raised in the Gaza Strip, Palestine. She has been previously published in Sumou magazine, The Kenyon Review, The Rising Phoenix Review and is forthcoming in The New Orleans Review. Now based in Baltimore, MD, Hanaa works as a neuropsychiatry researcher at Johns Hopkins Medical Institutes. Poetry has been such a healing force throughout her life and Hanaa hopes it reaches those who need it.
Hanaa Ibrahim Hanaa Ibrahim is a 23 year-old Palestinian poet born and raised in the Gaza Strip, Palestine. She has been previously published in Sumou magazine, The Kenyon Review, The Rising Phoenix Review and is forthcoming in The New Orleans Review. Now based in Baltimore, MD, Hanaa works as a neuropsychiatry researcher at Johns Hopkins Medical Institutes. Poetry has been such a healing force throughout her life and Hanaa hopes it reaches those who need it.
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