ISSUE 33 - JUNE 2026

CONTENTS

Rebecca Solnit: “By redefining whose voice is valued, we redefine our society and its values.” 

Alice Oswald: ”At the heart of the poetry I am interested in there is a metaphysical idea of democracy. By democracy, I do not mean politics in a narrow sense. I mean that in my poems I try to give everything a voice, from the human to the tree to the insect. My deepest principle in a poem is listening and transmitting the voices of marginal characters.”

Zadie Smith: “The authority of tone. There is much in Didion one might disagree with personally, politically, aesthetically. I will never love the Doors. But I remain grateful for the day I picked up Slouching Towards Bethlehem and realized that a woman could speak without hedging her bets, without hemming and hawing, without making nice, without poeticisms, without sounding pleasant or sweet, without deference, and even without doubt. It must be hard for a young woman today to imagine the sheer scope of things that women of my generation feared women couldn’t do—but, believe me, writing with authority was one of them. You wanted to believe it. You needed proof. And not Victorian proof. Didion—like her contemporary Toni Morrison—became Exhibit A. Uniquely, she could be kept upon your person, like a flick knife, stuffed in a back pocket, the books being so slim and portable. She gave you confidence. Shored you up.”

Rainer Marie Rilke: “If the Angel deigns to come it will because you have convinced her, not by tears but by your humble resolve to be always beginning; to be a beginner.”

Christopher Ricks: “Gratitude is among those human accomplishments that literature lives to realize. Art enjoys the power not only to voice gratitude but to prompt it, even to restore us to a state in which grateful might come again to mean at once feeling gratitude and feeling pleasure—as though it once was, and ought always to be, impossible to be granted something gratifying and not be grateful for it.”

Helen Vendler: “There’s nothing more interesting to me, whether in an old poet or a new poet, than figuring out why something has come alive, why somebody has been able to take a blank piece of paper and make something excitingly volatile and surprising all the time, where you don’t know what is going to happen next.”

Kafka: “The truth is always an abyss. One must—as in a swimming pool—dare to dive from the quivering springboard of trivial everyday experience and sink into the depths, in order to later rise again—laughing and fighting for breath—to the now doubly illuminated surface of things.” 

Simone Weil: “One thing alone mattered in the world today: the revolution that would feed all people on earth.”










ISSUE 33 - JUNE 2026 - CONTENTS


POETRYART
JOY LADIN
Fifteen Years Later 

DALLAS RAQUEL KLEIN
Cataloging, But We Never Spoke, Opera House

KIM ROBERTS MEIKLE
Ghazal for Two Biddies

SARAH HORNER
Sunday Light with a Trace of Erotica

ALICIA SWAIN
Alone in the dark, Perhaps We Must Begin Again

CAROLYN GEVINSKI
After the Storm 

CAROL DORF
Who Built That Closet?

STEPHANIE E. GLASS
my little firefly

MARINA TSVETAEVA TR. SERAPHINA POWELL
Girlfriend, 1

NORAH BOWMAN
Fist

M. FROST
After School with the Raven

BETHANY WHITE
A prayer

ELLEN MILLER-MACK
Celebration Cento

SANDRA YANNONE
From the Folds of the Technicolor Dreamcoast

SARAH CORBIN
Sarah Corbin

MARISOL
Blackbird Love (1980)

MARISOL
Lick the Tire of My Bicycle (1974)

MARISOL
Women's Equality (1975)

MARISOL
Untitled (1982)

MARISOL
Lizard Kiss (1979)

MARISOL
Untitled (Two Embracing Figures) (1978)

MARISOL
Leaf Woman (1980)

MARISOL
Rainbow People (1979)

MARISOL
Pocahontas (1976)

MARISOL
Fire (1983-84)

MARISOL
Untitled III (1979)

MARISOL
Banner (1972)

MARISOL
Budding (1980)

MARISOL
Untitled (Woman with a Flower) (1982)

MARISOL
Untitled (Hands) (1979) 














Joy Ladin

Fifteen Years Later

These days, what is there to talk about
but love,

the curve of your cheek,
the curve of your head,

the curvature of planet
glimpsed when I was too young to understand

that love, like Earth,
is always curving back

to kiss its origins:
your blue gaze brushing

my smitten lips
while I ramble on about Emerson

to keep your gaze from swerving back
to the ex chatting on your left

as a bead descends
your untouched glass

and I realize you’ve begun to seem
less like a stranger

and more like a dream
I’m starting to remember

as though we’re flirting
in the past

of a future we already share
from which love

like Earth
has circled back

to begin in us again.


link to video


Joy Ladin has published eleven books of poetry, including her latest collection, Family; National Jewish Book Award winner The Book of Anna; and Lambda Literary Award finalists Transmigration and Impersonation. She is also the author of three prose works: Once Out of Nature: Selected Essays on the Transformation of Gender; National Jewish Book Award finalist Through the Door of Life; and Lambda Literary and Triangle Award finalist, The Soul of the Stranger. Her work has been recognized with a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship and a Fulbright Scholarship, among other honors. 



Blackbird Love

 


© Marisol, Blackbird Love (1980)




Dallas Raquel Klein

Cataloging

On Thursday I miss the ember of alone. 
Friday, I wake to lemon juice flooding in
and breathe deep into my pillows dream-praying 
for night to return to me
a woman 
to finally dance with.
And on Saturday I scream at the television 
while orcas drown 
a gray whale calf. 
Sunday I cook dinner 
for two, memorialize 
the leftovers, bury them in the fridge. 
Monday a woman says to me, I don’t want to be rude, but no. 
Tuesday I drive out to work in the small mountain town Skykomish and feel the grizzly 
bear of boredom on my back. There’s always 
a Wednesday, and sometimes, like this one, 
they giggle to a close with a peach fizz sky. 
Come back around, Thursday. I’ve missed 
a phone call. I will write back. I will make plans. 




But We Never Spoke

We’ve been holding the husk 
of a pumpkin seed between our hands for three seasons.
And now, as I walk away, 
I can see the imprint of my half
which I know 
will always resemble your half.
The heart of life aches with most heft
for seeds that never hit earth.




Opera House

Singing is a physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual expression of my breath.
—Jessye Norman

When you were walking on the roof, I was down below 
singing a secret song. I boxed up each beat,
and slept with a symphony—string instruments 
stridulating—under my pillow. You turned 
down the corner of your year, 
but I ripped the sheets off the mattress
to find crooning crickets—cause of our coma, right-angled
night angels breaking body to coo to you.
When you lit the fire—smoke—murk—muck lurked, and I couldn’t breathe. 
We forgot to open up the mouth
of our house to the cold night.
We tried to set the burn free. Instead, suffocating
in our own strain. I could keep a song
hidden for years—hoard
lyrics, hoard perfect dissonance,
hoard skin of the drum.
But chords awake in the early morning hours
cast shadows on the sleepers below.



Dallas Raquel Klein is a queer Chicana poet living in the Pacific Northwest. She received her MFA from Texas State University and her MLIS from University of Washington. Her work can be found in Broadkill Review, Stonecoast Review, ASU's Zocalo and other print and online collections.


Lick the Tire of My Bicycle

 



© Marisol, Lick the Tire of My Bicycle (1974)

Kim Roberts Meikle

Ghazal for Two Biddies

Older leaves protect roots in cold weather when love comes late.
A yardstick needs a subtler measure when love comes late.

I’m trying to learn patience. These lessons never end.
We unearth forsaken treasure when love comes late.

I feel my engine start to ping and turn. The timing-belt’s
often slower than I’d rather when love comes late.

The sight of two grey-hairs kissing at a stop light gives
the next-over teen driver a seizure when love comes late.

Cole Porter’s “You can’t blame me for feeling amorous”
worms our ears together when love comes late.

How do I quantify providence? She decodes my name
into unplumbed pleasure when love comes late.


link to video


Kim Roberts Meikle is the author of seven books of poems, most recently Q&A for the End of the World, a collaboration with Michael Gushue (WordTech Editions, 2025), and two guidebooks, including The District’s Departed: A Guidebook to DC Cemeteries (Rivanna Books, 2026). Meikle co-curates DC Pride Poem-a-Day each June, and co-directs the Pride Poetry Fellowship at the Arts Club of Washington.



Women's Equality


© Marisol, Women's Equality (1975)

Sarah Horner

Sunday Light with a Trace of Erotica

6:14 a.m.
A tease of sunlight slips through the curtains.


6:20 a.m.
I roll over, nestle my body in the hollow of
her silhouette. Still asleep, she pulls me closer.


7:29 a.m.
In my dreams, the mattress is surrounded
by water. This bed is a lifeboat.


8:06 a.m.
Touch, soft and slow. Loose with sleep,
each brush of her fingers stirs something
inside me. She presses harder. My mouth
opens like a flower.


8:13 a.m.
Dew droplets glimmer on the glass of the window.
I shiver into the space between rest and wake.


8:15 a.m.
She pulls want from the back of my throat,
coaxing me through its release. Use your words,
she says. Tell me what you need.


8:19 a.m.
If I can ask for this, I can ask for anything.


8:22 a.m.
I picture a peach, its skin giving way under
her thumb. She takes a bite. Sweetness trickles
down her chin.


8:28 a.m.
Outside, birds sing
their chorus. The day has just begun.






Sarah Horner is a writer from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her poetry and fiction are published in places such as Redivider, Palette Poetry, The Minnesota Review, Door Is A Jar, and Lunch Ticket. In her work, she acknowledges the complexities of desire, queer femininity, and our existence as beings with the intrinsic need to eat, play, touch, explore, and form companionships. She is a recipient of the 2024 Walter Nathan Prize for Undergraduate Creative Writers.


Untitled


 © Marisol, Untitled (1982)

Alicia Swain

Alone in the dark

Shot in the darkness, is night my embrace?  
Bed on the floorboards, is safety a space?  
Pig in the pasture, this body is kin.  
Sin, is it, living in loneliness? Skin,  
hands on the body, is loving a gift?  
Life in the shadows, is love all adrift? 
Stars, is it crickets, the night serenade?  
Sleep in the silence, is solace a blade? 




Perhaps We Must Begin Again

Earth, sharpen your knife and call 
us back so that feet vanish into fins, 
bodies swiftly swim through rainfall,  
 
far from life behind a brick wall.  
Allow the dirt to beckon me with grins: 
Earth, sharpen your knife and call 
 
because mothers forgot Stonewall 
and fathers suffocate babies in sheepskins. 
Bodies swiftly swim through rainfall, 
 
float their way past every golf ball  
left behind by society’s kingpins.  
Earth, sharpen your knife and call— 
 
signs of peace require a long haul 
down the heat of highways, like sins  
bodies swiftly swim through rainfall, 
 
washed down like food from the mess hall 
where no one knows when day ends and begins.  
Earth, sharpen your knife and call; 
bodies swiftly swim through rainfall. 





link to video



Alicia Swain (she/her) is the author of Steel Slides and Yellow Walls (Belle Isle Books, 2025). Her poems appear in publications such as Roanoke Review, the engine(idling, and Vast Chasm. Her piece titled “Return Me to the Womb,” published in FLARE Magazine, was nominated for Best of the Net 2026. 



Lizard Kiss


 © Marisol, Lizard Kiss (1979)

Carolyn Gevinski

After the Storm

I spotted a tattooed girl through the crowd of bar goers and made a beeline. Sue me. And then we were in the bathroom and she was tugging on my lower lip and I’d like to say that we were being quiet to make the hoop earring girls comfortable, but we weren’t. Oops!

In between kisses she called me pretty. I hadn’t been called pretty in a long time. She said other things too. Things I probably shouldn’t write in a fragment like this one. And she gathered my dress in her fists and kneeled on the grimy floor and her eyes were celestite when she asked, “Is this okay?”

Is this okay?
You’re so pretty.
You’re beautiful.
You’re—
Yes.
Yes.
Yes,





Carolyn Gevinski is a poet and journalist based in New York City. Her poetry can be found in Lavender Review, Prosetrics, Across the Margin, and After/Thought Literary. Her journalism has been published in El PaĆ­s, GLAMOUR UK, and Al Jazeera. She has a master’s degree from Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, where she currently works as a postgraduate reporter fellow. For more on Carolyn, please visit her website or LinkedIn.

Untitled (Two Embracing Figures)


 © Marisol, Untitled (Two Embracing Figures) (1978)

Carol Dorf

Who Built That Closet?

If this closet had a window
you would see blackberries

still red and sour barely softening,
their seeds interrupting the little pleasure

they provide. If this closet
had a window you would see the door

of a mail truck sliding shut as clearly
as the sound of the crows that bounced

on the wires this morning and whitened
every one of the car’s windows.

In those days of windows and closets
your child knocked on the door

first polite and then insistent.
How many people get to say me me me

in any one family. When you lived
in the closet under the stairs

and your parents were still alive
you always had a stack of books

to hide in. Then the days stretched
in front of you while your Aunt’s

high voice echoed from the attic.
Once you took candle after candle

out of the closet and lit those candles
for all of your dead at once

having forgotten their dates.
In the cluttered kitchen

the lights shone remembrance
they shone the danger of remembering

the warning of open flames.




link to video



Carol Dorf has received fellowships from the Hawthornden Foundation, Zoeglossia, and the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference. Their writing appears on the Poetry Foundation website, and in Pleiades, About Place, Cutthroat, The Cincinnati Review, and Plume.  They taught math in Berkeley USD, as well as at museums and conferences.

Leaf Woman


 © Marisol, Leaf Woman (1980)

stephanie e. glass

my little firefly

remember the night in the living room
with the orange couch that used to be
ours which is now mine
the night when the killers played
on vinyl
me spinning round and round
and the record too
how i danced around you
asking foolish questions?

saying foolish things.
things like:
why are you hiding
stars in your underpants?
no more mutton chops
for you—if you’re not going
to let that light shine
then you don’t deserve to eat protein
or try fashionable styles of facial hair.
things like:
i love you.

do you remember now:
you wanted to go to the zoo
but we were so busy talking
about our intrusive thoughts that we forgot
even with the keys in our hands we stayed
in our comfortable pajamas
blitzed in the feminist slogans
we were too scared to wear
to the party for fear the monkeys
might see and throw feces at us

do you remember: how
the keys went back
to the raspberry red
bowl, and we went to bed
you touched me with calloused
woman-hands all the while

i could see a seam of light
seeping through the edges
of your boxer briefs

it kept me awake for a while
your touch and that gleaming bright crotch
the crux of you

my little firefly
i wanted to cup you inside my palms
and peek in on you all night

but eventually even the starlight
became a part of the darkness
and rest overtook me





stephanie e. glass (she/her, they/them) lives in rural Nebraska with son, Milo, and partner, Dylan Golden. Together with a constellation of loved ones, and a clowder of cats, including: Jelly Bean, Charlie, Fruit Loop, and Pants, they celebrate the joy that infuses the rhythm of their daily lives. Glass frequently disappears into the Nebraska Plains and Badlands for hiking and backpacking trips. In addition to nature, Glass draws inspiration for her poetry from literature, motherhood, queer identity, political activism, nature, post-traumatic growth following domestic violence, and the healing relationships Glass has built with those they love. Their work has appeared in Rattle, The Quarter(ly) Vol. XIII: This Is Where We Are Now, Writers in the Attic’s Anthology: The Knot, the Moonstone Center for the Arts Anthology: Go Back to Where You Came From, and Lavender Review.





Rainbow People


 © Marisol, Rainbow People (1979)

Marina Tsvetaeva, translated by Seraphina Powell

Girlfriend, 1

Are you happy? You won’t say.
Just barely? That’s good.
If you’ve kissed so many
that you’ve sickened of love
none of them can have been the one.

I see in you all of Shakespeare’s heroines,
now Desdemona, now Lady Macbeth,
yours is the tragic grandeur of a woman
no one could save.

You’re tired of repeating a love recitative
that never soars into aria;
there’s a man’s wedding ring
on your pale hand,
unlovely and cold
as a wagon wheel’s cast-iron rim,
—and this says everything.

I love you, for the way you walk proud
under a storm-cloud of disapproval,
for the way that’s given your wit
corrosive bitterness,
because you’re so much better than them all.

I love you precisely because our lives
took such different directions.
How not? Neither knew where we were going.
But you lure me now like a brilliant inspiration
that can’t end well.

I love you, demon with the lofty thoughtful brow,
because I feel so guilty
that, even though I died trying,
nothing could have saved you!

I love you for the way you make me tremble,
I wonder, did I dream you? Are you even real?
I love the erotic irony,
that you are and aren’t what you seem,
that you can be so magically handsome
without being a he.





Seraphina Powell works as a freelance copy editor and proofreader, which is what one does with a humanities MA with a concentration in Russian. Her leisure is spent rummaging through second-hand bookstores and knitting sweaters for her much-blinking Sphynx cat, Casaubon—Powell is something of a George Eliot fan. In 2024 she became the LGBT and Eastern Europe editor for 96thofoctober.com. Her translation of the complete cycle of Girlfriend poems is available here.











Pocahontas


 © Marisol, Pocahontas (1976)