There’s a Baby Within the Beast words by Kalliopé Anvar McCallillustration by Chelsea Wang For the children of Iran. I wrote this poem after I saw a baby in a demonstration in Toronto while protesting the murder of Jîna Mahsa Aminî . The protest was very difficult emotionally; everyone was crying, screaming, grieving in […]
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The End. words by Rachel Suginphoto by Kelsey Phung It was all so perfect once, I can barely remember it now. Apparently it makes me stronger, “Disaster grows character” But the only thing I see sprouting are weeds. And not even the pretty ones—no dandelions, Just regular old grass. It’s all so gut-punching
all into one words and illustration by Ella Spitzer-Stephan The skin of a peach is so soft, too soft softer than mine, softer than the hair that grows behind a cat’s ear— Humanise the flesh of a fruit recognise it as something equally as living as moving as my legs—your arms. Its blood runs in
pyrrhus retires from war words by Namah Jaggiillustration by Jennifer Fong-Li “If we are victorious in one more battle with the Romans, we shall be utterly ruined.” –Plutarch i love like a broken thermostat. like it has no repercussions, like we have gas to last a lifetime and the winter is invincible. i promise
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PARTY POST-MORTEM words by Brooke Collinsillustration by Natalie Song The party passed peacefully In the late hours of the night. A friend of a friend clinging to the dark, Swaddled by the door. Day breaks And we emerge From Glitter-stained pillowcases, Hanging over each other on the 502, Snaking towards a diner reeking
Consequence words by Ben Murphyillustration by Raquel Lewin The haze is finally gone, Vanished with the bang of a gun And an upset stomach. It twirled and swirled its way through night till daybreak, When the crimson sun arrived again Raining hellfire down on this parasitic host. But it is gone. For now. Until
Junkyard Circus words by Max Leesillustration by Jennifer Fong-Li It begins with a silence beneath the tinted sky where only a word or two tumble out a slot in the door and risk being lost in the wind. Deadbeats wander and pick through immature mountains of debris, old books and warped jeans piled on
petersburg words by Gillian Chapmanillustration by Sharada Mujumdar here it comes— the edges of my frail mind falter and fade. dreadful closet walls, dirty and mangled, sick yellow paper, turn, twist, tighten, swallow whole. through the dingy apartment esophagus i am thrown into the stomach of the street suffocating summer sweat like swirling bile. in the
