The Wax Poem by Andy Winter

The Wax Poem | Andy Winter


wax = to seal, to strip.

i have sliced myself open like an envelope countless times. i am just a letter. that yearns to be licked, to be stamped. that never gets sent. always lost in the mailroom, on the bathroom floor, at the bottom of the sea. siren song of foam & razor. 


wax = to lyric, to open your gab & have a garden spill out.

if i wish to speak, i stuff my mouth full. the days of the lunar new year can’t seem to pass by any sooner. the love letters flake, around the corners of chapped petals. no one can call me flowery. no one can call me fruity. if i cannot be heard.


wax = to evolve, to become, to grow close to fullness

i change my face more frequently than the moon. she has nothing on me. i am crescent-lidded & gibbous-cheeked. body interstellar. body in transit. body in orbit.

                                     weightless yet anchored 
                               not to the ground 
                                     but to some other world
                                                           some other future

About the Author:

Andy Winter (they/them/she/her) is a non-binary trans-femme ice goddess from the sunny city of Singapore. Their works have appeared in adda, beestung, SAND, Stellium, and Strange Horizons amongst others. They were a ’22 Lambda Literary Poetry Fellow. Find them chilling at


Mother’s Day, Register 7 by William Bonfiglio

Mother’s Day, Register 7 | William Bonfiglio

She has little patience for me. She
spent it on her husband somewhere
between the aisles stocked with 
Lunchables, Banquet dinners, and
Seagrams frozen drink pouches. 

Ice, she says. I need ice. Where do
you keep your ice? I have a bag
fetched for her. 

                            It’s his week with
Aubrey and, he’s sorry, but they’ve
already made plans. The state park
has been on their radar for months,
and the weather’s just perfect for
the quadcopter. 

                          She’s slashing at
the terminal. It’s asking me to
swipe my card she says. I did that
already. I tell her the machines are
temperamental and sometimes they
don’t take.  

                This isn’t true. 

                                      The truth  
is that if she took the time to read
the instructions she would know
there is an order to how things are
done. So when the terminal reads
Please Select Payment Type and
shows keys labeled Credit and
Debit and EBT, she should comply. 

But I don’t tell her the truth. I tell 
her the machines are
temperamental. I tell her that
sometimes they don’t take.

About the Author:

William Bonfiglio is a PhD candidate at the University of New Brunswick. His poetry has been awarded a Peal Hogrefe Grant in Creative Writing Recognition Award, the Julia Fonville Smithson Memorial Prize, and has appeared in New Letters, PRISM International, The American Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere.


The Hair Poem: a Haibun by Andy Winter

The Hair Poem: a Haibun | Andy Winter


I gouge a pumpkin, rub its entrails around my lips & chin. Its orange blood conceals all that’s purple & blue. This is an ancient ritual, passed down through generations of witches. How to trick the light – the bane of witches. Light that is harsh, light that is natural. Light that exposes the slightest fuzz of a peach. The shadow of unwanted growth. The chinks in glamour. Enough to make a witch wobble in her heels.

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Every two weeks, I pay for someone to inject beams of light into my face. We use aloe vera in our rituals now. We have mechanical teeth that plucks out the deepest darkest secrets. Modern spells for modern shapeshifters. 

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What does epilation have in common with translation? Something is removed, something gets lost. Vellum into voice, coarse into smooth, root into air.

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I like my men clean-shaven, jawlines smooth & sharp. I wonder if I’m attracted to such features because I suffered so much to attain them. 

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Every three months, I sculpt my brows with tweezer & thread. There is a certain pleasure in the way wax plucks away the traces of puberty. Past a certain point, I stopped feeling— 


About the Author:

Andy Winter (they/them/she/her) is a non-binary trans-femme ice goddess from the sunny city of Singapore. Their works have appeared in adda, beestung, SAND, Stellium, and Strange Horizons amongst others. They were a ’22 Lambda Literary Poetry Fellow. Find them chilling at


Yahrzeit by Anne Whitehouse

Yahrzeit | Anne Whitehouse

My parents were rarely on the same wavelength.
Most of the time they talked at each other,
not to each other. But here they are,
by a quirk of the Hebrew calendar,
yoked forever and forever, 
until the end of time, 
sharing the same Yahrzeit,
although one died in February
and the other in March,
two years apart. 

Every year I pray for them together
and speak their names together
before my congregation.

About the Author:

Anne Whitehouse’s most recent poetry collection is OUTSIDE FROM THE INSIDE (Dos Madres Press, 2020), and her most recent chapbook is ESCAPING LEE MILLER (Ethel Zine and Micro Press, 2021). A new chapbook, FRIDA, about Frida Kahlo, is forthcoming from Ethel Zine and Micro Press in December 2022.


Meditation at North Beach Park, Burlington by Anne Whitehouse

Meditation at North Beach Park, Burlington | Anne Whitehouse

Thickly wooded Juniper Island
rises from the lake
within swimming distance from shore.
The sloping peaks of the Adirondacks,
misty blue and far off in the distance,
belong to heaven and not to earth.

From the beach I watch a storm 
gather from the mountains, 
then sweep over the lake. 
Whitecaps form on the surface.
It is like the sea, 
and it is not like the sea.

Rain falls in large drops
propelled by a breeze,
and a canopy on aluminum poles 
topples on the beach, 
somersaulting erratically.

Under a shelter,
students and faculty gather
at an impromptu party
celebrating recent graduates.
I eat strawberry-rhubarb pie
tasting of summer. 

I think of the mountains, eons old.
When they were formed,
fault lines pushed yellow dolostone
above the dark shale,
the older stone above the younger.

Now I am old,
I want to impart history.
Shivering children in wet bathing suits
wrap themselves in towels.
Sometimes the young listen politely
and sometimes impatiently, 
propelled towards lives
that haven’t happened yet.

I feel my hold on life growing tenuous,
like those islands farther off—
the Four Brothers—like steppingstones
appearing to float in the blue 
without moving at all.

About the Author:

Anne Whitehouse’s most recent poetry collection is OUTSIDE FROM THE INSIDE (Dos Madres Press, 2020), and her most recent chapbook is ESCAPING LEE MILLER (Ethel Zine and Micro Press, 2021). A new chapbook, FRIDA, about Frida Kahlo, is forthcoming from Ethel Zine and Micro Press in December 2022.


dear sister by Sequoia Maner

dear sister | Sequoia Maner


i’d like to think we never experienced a world where foster
care fostered absence. we went to the roller rink for birthdays.
later we giggled over longed-armed boys with flexed jaws &
soft faces. we shared a bed cuz, like everyone said, we
shoulda been twins, anyway. our favorite tv show was i love
lucy cuz she be acting a fool like no other. we ate good &
laughed with our whole bodies. we wanted for little & desired
it all. we were simmer heat flare & flame. when mama beat
me for being fast you said, “sissy, it’s natural.” when mama
asked “what’d you do for that boy to lay hands” i said, “sissy,
no woman deserves this.” maybe we tucked our desire into
folded notes & tucked our notes into secret drawers. maybe
we found a door within each other. i’d like to think it could
have been like that, anyway. a life where we never knew
group homes, social workers, shelters nor courtrooms. a life
where loneliness was nonviable cuz even if we didn’t have a
mother we had each other & even if we didn’t have a mother
we had a “mama” & even if we didn’t have a mother we had
a life. i’d like to think couldn’t nothin ever separate us: me &
my protector from mean girls & bullies, my warrior because
you had to be, my Atlanta—goddess of perfect aim &
unwavering fortitude. Oh, how you slayed for me.

About the Author:

Sequoia Maner is a poet and Assistant Professor of English at Spelman College.


For Those of Us Forced to Flee by Jane Muschenetz

For Those of Us Forced to Flee | Jane Muschenetz


For those of us forced to flee,  
the world is forever shrinking down
to a single question:
What can you carry? 
The suitcase of your heart closed tight 
on all the things there was no room to bring—
your memories of “home,” the snowflake moments 
of your youth, the blooming Lilac tree  
outside your bedroom window… 
a heavy burden  
saps your strength on a long journey, 
bring only what you need— 
homes can be built again, a new tree can be rooted


When you have nothing left to plant, become the seed

Ukrainian-born, Russian-speaking Jew, Jane (Yevgenia!) Muschenetz was granted asylum as a refugee to the US at 10 years old. Today, she is a fully-grown MIT nerd, mother, emerging artist and writer. Currently, Jane is working on her first poetry chapbook, “All the Bad Girls Wear Russian Accents,” forthcoming in 2023 from Kelsay Books. In 2022, Jane’s work was shortlisted for the Jacar Press Chapbook Prize, and was awarded first place ribbons in the Lone Star Art Guild Annual Show and the CAL Spring Juried Art Show. Connect with more of Jane’s writing and art at her website,


Under a Calm Wave, Not Killing Myself by Sola Damon

Under a Calm Wave, Not Killing Myself | Sola Damon

My mother always threatened me not to have sex, but killing myself is something she never forbade. I’m sitting in a café in Collioure, France, when this realization blindsides me. It’s a strange omission considering her father killed himself and that suicide can result from a concoction of circumstances, including genetics. 

The café walls are lined with wooden picture frames. Mediterranean seaside memories I absorb while enamored with the act of living. I’m drafting my first assignment at a writing retreat with the following prompt: Write about something you’ve never told anyone.

 It’s dangerous territory. 

Thoughts about ending my life have weighed on me since I was six years old. I’ve never told anyone about my dreams where I hear a voice underwater telling me to swim deeper and farther from shore. But I find the courage to share from the edge of this particular sea with a disclaimer: I am not suicidal.

The line between ending my life and it ending naturally is not a blurry one for me. I’m bursting with so much happiness. Like the kind I see in the paintings inside this café, filled with pastels of people frozen in their seaside holidays. Or like the man sitting outside drinking a glass of beer, a poodle at his feet, and a book with dog-eared pages. I imagine the book smells like an old book shop or a green wooden kiosk from along the Seine. The poodle stretches next to a glass water bowl with edges dimpled like a pie crust. The man is so content he might actually levitate. I know that feeling. But that’s not what keeps me hiding my history of suicidal dreams and thoughts. It’s because the thoughts act as shovels, digging up dangerous dirt. Family dirt. 

Looking back at the paintings, I wonder if contentment comes from embracing only the parts of our lives we choose to put inside picture frames. Like the ones my father passed down to me. Thick mahogany frames holding West Indian maps of where we lived when I was a child, and pictures of his parents— the only grandparents I’ve ever known. His framable memories strike a disturbing opposition to my mother’s past. Her parents only ever existed in dark descriptions. Sadly, to my knowledge, nothing about my mother’s past is framable.  

But she has reasons for her infectious unhappiness. Her father’s suicide leaked into my life in slow moldy drips. He shot himself in the head with his policeman’s service revolver when my mother was sixteen, one month into her teenage pregnancy. The newspaper article said his wife, my maternal grandmother, had filed for divorce that day. 

On the other hand, my father was older and, from what society would call a “good family,” dutifully married his teenage bride. She was the oldest of nine from the other side of the hedges. Her mother was callous and miserable. I recall her cheekbones so high and sharp she looked like a skeleton wrapped in industrial strength nylons from a plastic egg. But that memory faded, gratefully, when my father moved us to a simple cement house in the Caribbean. 

From the age of five, my life sat on the edge of a peaceful sea that looked like a vat of melted emeralds and sapphires. But it was juxtaposed with my mother’s desperate anger. She shouted at my father in ways that created insecurity, sending me to imagine a different world with my father’s books and the maps in those wooden frames. Or down a path to the beach, hiding from the uncertainty indoors. I registered memories like an intake clerk as if I knew I would need them later. Like the feeling of saltwater burning my sinuses, and watching my father’s blue eyes underwater, framed in a black rubber diving mask. 

Now, in Collioure, as I watch the man with his dog and his book on a Mediterranean promenade, I wonder if my father would have traveled farther without children and the required marriage. Maybe have taken a book to a café in a small coastal town and read it with a glass of beer. He could have gone to all the places on the maps in those wooden frames that, as a child, hypnotized me with their symbols. I thought they could tell the future. I believed the maps were filled with places where the air had no anger, and the people were full of love and care. They were imaginary and invisible but so real to me that if I’d thrown flour around the room, I’m sure their outlines would have appeared.  

Maybe my mother also stared at my father’s maps and wondered how to get to those places. But I doubt it. Perhaps she wanted to end her life like her father. I doubt that too. What I never doubted was that she loved me, albeit in a dysfunctional way that wove inadequacy, instability, and a massive lack of self-esteem into the fibers of my being. As the anchor that tied my parents to the life they were stuck in, I can pinpoint my first desire to leave this world when I realized they were miserable because they were saddled with me. 

When I was old enough to move out, I put new maps on my own walls and hung some of the old ones my father gave me. They allowed me to picture the future and keep tabs on the past where my guilt thrived. They’ve helped me learn that my parents’ unhappiness was never my fault. They had the power to change their course, anchored or not. Staring at what I’ve chosen to frame helps me contemplate the unframable. It allows me to write the truth.  

The dreams always started in the acacia bushes, where I dodged thorns and goat dung, sneaking down to the clear blue water in front of our house. I would pick limes and let the skins burn my lips before walking into the sea with no footprints. A voice underwater would tell me I could swim out towards the blurry void and stay forever, or return to the island. The water calmed me so entirely that I fought to stay in the dream when I woke, to stay immersed in the waters I still see on the maps. I didn’t want to be stuck in the limitations of a body. I didn’t want to be present. I was obsessed with finding a different future, even if it meant drowning myself to get there. 

Even when I couldn’t sleep, I imagined that I was underwater, looking out into the blue. I pictured my straw blonde hair drifting in an apparition around my head, looking up to watch the underside of the calm waves rolling onto the sand. They would recede and wash the shore, again and again. I think about that dream now when I can’t fall asleep, forty-five years later.   

My parents long broke from each other and somehow still remained stuck in different places, anchored by different things. But I’m grateful that they gave me the means to return to that same sea whenever I choose. I swim into the same blue water now in my much older body, sinking and squinting into the same void. I find a strange solace in knowing I can hand myself over if I swim far enough. As if I will cross some watery membrane into a new world like my mother’s father did, and others I’ve lost who took their lives. They chose to step inside the picture frames forever. 

Unlike them, I would rather find the parts of me I’ve left behind living in all the places I’ve visited on those maps in the wooden frames—where I can emerge from beneath a calm wave and enjoy walking up onto wet sugary sand. Maybe to another café in Collioure. Or to places where hummingbirds slurp hibiscus flowers as the sun sets into the sea at the edge of the earth—to all the places I haven’t had my fill of yet.  

As for the thoughts and dreams, I believe death will release me into the blue void when I least expect it, and it’s something for which I choose to wait. I observe my memories of the dreams by writing them down now in places like this café. I look through the blurry membrane on paper, watching it separate this world from the next, confident in my choice to remain in this one. 


About the Author:

Sola Damon is the pseudonym for a recovering trial lawyer with four unfinished novels in her bottom drawer. She also writes personal essays and poetry, most recently, “Love, Naturally” and “Evolution,” appearing in the Penumbra Literary Review (Spring 2022). She is the author of Namaste at Home: Positive Thinking and Meditation During a Freakin’ Pandemic. She splits her time between South Florida, Laguna Beach, California, and her childhood home in the West Indies, where she’s polishing off those novels for publication.


For Me–Desideratum by Amy S. Lerman

For Me–Desideratum | Amy S. Lerman


I carry it like an Epipen, this phrase that’s zippered
into my purse pocket, a graduate class residual
extracted only when no transliteration or alternate 
diction works. What patience these two, gray-blue 
words have evinced, sentenced at times to years 
of dormancy, like the too-heavy-to use crystal 
goblets we keep in their original box, plus
such pedestrian cohabitants—
ChapStick, pennies, tampons, crumpled receipts—
and few travel opportunities. I cannot recall 
their last application, perhaps a library wing dedication 
when the college president wore a hard hat, held
an oversized, gold shovel, or our first meeting 
new neighbors, her French accent, my sycophancy.

How unexpected now—amid potato salad, ankle-
spiraling mosquitoes, the great bend of the Arkansas 
river—to unzip here, release in my in-laws’ backyard. 

I am a mother untucking her child, readying 
words, as my husband’s mother produces
a shoebox housing flashlights, Gatorade, granola bars, 
all the emergency supplies they will keep 
while my father-in-law details the delivery, 
how a huge crane lowered the bunker’s six tons 
next to his linoleum shed. This storm shelter so enthuses
them, they wave us in, demonstrate how they will sit
facing each other, and I understand, can feel

the winds’ momentum merging cold and heat, blowing 
them to take cover, vortexing, my breaths are so quick 
and noisy, I can’t calm them, the words rising
spiraling and burning up my esophagus, and I can’t stop 
them, me, sound the sirens, here they go—

“Beton arme,” I scream, that memorized phrase meaning
“reinforced concrete,” so validating, perspiring my neck,
leaving me winded, and I long for my French teacher,
someone to compliment my accent, but as I turn 
to my relatives, they say nothing, just slightly nod at me
and stay seated, seeking refuge in their new purchase.

About the Author:

Amy S. Lerman was born and raised on Miami Beach, moved to the Midwest for many years, and now lives with her husband and very spoiled cats in the Arizona desert, so all three landscapes figure prominently into her writing. She is residential English Faculty at Mesa Community College, and her poems have appeared in or are forthcoming in Willawaw Journal, Stonecoast Review, Broad River Review, Radar Poetry, Rattle, Slippery Elm, and other publications. Her poem, “Why Is It?” was the inaugural winner of the Art Young Memorial Award for Poetry.


Statistically Speaking by Emdash AKA Emily Lu Gao

Statistically Speaking | Emdash AKA Emily Lu Gao


About the Author:

Emdash AKA Emily Lu Gao hopes you try free 24/7 resources like NYC Wellness Line  and The Trevor Project if you need any support. (She has used both personally.) Emdash is a multi-genre writer, poet, and teacher. She is also the daughter of Chinese immigrants. Her writing is propagated from Spoken Word Poetry and Ethnic Studies, primarily grappling with queerness, mental health & healing. Publishing wise, her poems can be found in The Agave Review, Curious Publishing and Queer Rain. Currently she is a Poetry MFA candidate at Rutgers University-Newark. She splits her time between NJ and SoCal. When not writing, she is likely snackin’, rescheduling therapy, or telling one too many jokes.  You can send platypus GIFs to her on IG @emdashh or Twitter @emdashwrites. (she/they)