Period PieceClare Marsh

ardgadg

The scullery is Mum’s domain, where the infernal boiler powers our house, heats bath water, dries laundry to crisp cocoons pupating on the ceiling rack. Glow Worm Model B33 demands daily devotion from her acolyte. She forces Mum onto painful Sunday knees to coax sparks into flames, to empty the overflowing ash pan – whose glowing cinders give off diabolical fumes – forces her to lug scuttles of anthracite from the bunker, to graze knuckles on its concrete hatch. In the domestic division of labour Dad regards this all as women’s work. He excuses himself from these essential chores, citing his recent heart scare.

Mum acknowledges my burgeoning hormones with re-luctance, arranges for brown paper bag packages to be smug-gled into the scullery for disposal. She draws the lid off with the handle and the furnace roars as Dr. White’s stained ham-mocks feed the boiler goddess with my menstrual blood. Sister Joseph of the Incarnation is delegated by Mum to inform me about periods with her booklet My Dear Daughter – handed to me in embarrassment – to indoctrinate me that there is some-thing not quite nice about my monthly flow. Dad, of course, isn’t to know as men need to be protected from female matters – yet any impure thoughts I might have must be confessed to a celi-bate priest in a darkened wardrobe on a Saturday

With Women’s Lib in the ascendant, we three sisters con-gregate in front of the boiler to make a votive offering. We cackle like Macbeth’s hags, while Mum giggles at our daring. I dangle my pink gingham 32 A First Bra over the orifice, drop my sacrifice into her sooty yawning hole. It catches well, flares, then melts as Dad comes in to see what all the fuss is about just in time to witness the triumphant flames.

Root 66Mark BliCkley

When I was alive, my favorite joke to tell was the one about the woman who was arrested at a cemetery for pee-ing in public on her husband’s grave. When the arresting cop said she must have really hated him, the woman was shocked. “Hate him? I was crazy about him. I’m just cry-ing from the place I miss him most.”

Yeah, I know. The joke’s vulgar and silly. But guess what? It always cracks me up when telling it, and truth be told, most people at least giggle if not outright belly laugh. So, if it offends you, get over it.

My name’s Craig Luzinsky and I recently died at age 66 of what my liberal lesbian daughter calls Covfefe-19. Zoe’s a smartass, but I don’t blame my President. I blame China. Both my parents died at 66, though 4 years apart. Who’s to say I wouldn’t have bit the big one at age 66 any-way? I did have diabetes. To quote my favorite President about the hundreds of thousand recent American deaths, “It is what it is.” Not wearing a mask or social distancing didn’t kill me, it was my heartbreak over the loss of my God-given right to protest those fascist restrictions that did me in.

I am honored to have my favorite leader’s signature on my Presidential Memorial Certificate, issued by the ardgadg

sitting Commander-in-Chief to all veterans who died with an Honorable Discharge. God knows what my lefty daughter will do with that noble document. Hope he won re-election.

I’m a Navy veteran with three years submarine ser-vice. I earned my dolphins, and am proud to be called a Bubblehead, the Navy nickname for sailors who serve on underwater boats. My wish was to be buried in a Na-tional Veteran’s Cemetery, lying in proud solidarity with my military brothers, although I don’t have much use for those Air Force vets who consider themselves mili-tary. Most of them were a bunch of wusses, except for the combat pilots. Or if not planted in a military cemetery, I wanted to be cremated (the VA pays) with burial at sea, a proper end for a Cold War warrior.

Neither of my requests were honored. Here’s a tip for those of you still walking above ground—avoid seriously pissing off your kids for long swatches of time. I was es-tranged from three of my four kids and as luck would have it, the only child who continued to have contact with me was my self-proclaimed “progressive” youngest child, Zoe. I have her to thank for the horrible place I am in to-day. I can only dream of being buried in a proper grave-yard where anyone who feels the need could piss on my grave if they want. I learned in the Navy that urine is ster-ile.

Every night the news would run sob stories about how all we Kung Flu victims on respirators have to die alone, without the comfort of family beside them. For Christ-sakes, we’re all born alone and we all die alone. Suck it up. Who needs a bunch of “loved ones” crowding around your bed, gawking down out at you as you rattle out a final breath and lose control of your bowels? Give me a break. They pay people to clean up that kind of mess.

Zoe and her angry what she calls “wife” would often visit and argue current events with me. I think I did an ad-mirable job defending myself, as they usually stormed out of my apartment, speechless. I may have won those bat-tles with Zoe and her girlfriend, but damned if they didn’t win the war. My environmentally zealot daughter is turn-ing me into a tree. And believe me, it couldn’t be further from a green peace. It’s humiliating.

Zoe had me stuffed into this biodegradable plastic pod that looks like a giant egg. To fit me inside, I was placed into a fetal position. You believe that? A powerful, manly person like me going out like some helpless naked baby. Hope she’s enjoying her last laugh at my expense.

Here’s her plan. As my burial pod disintegrates, the surrounding soil gets nutrients from my decaying body and the tree sapling they planted above me begins to take root. I’m so lucky to have died in one of the 33 States that

allows this burial mockery of patriotic, God-fearing men like me who served this nation. I went from a proud former First-Class Petty Officer to a goddamn eternal tree-hugger.

I must be planted in some kind of left-wing pod forest cemetery because there are a bunch of other people down here and we are all connected in some kind of crowded, twisted network. Most of them look like brown and beige freaks, but some of the women are still pretty hot, though I could do without the smell of our evaporating gasses. In a weird way it reminds me of being close quartered in a below ground submarine.

A pleasant surprise is how really sweet it can get down here, an added treat for a former diabetic. Every root pumps out a sugar hormone into other roots that often leaves me feeling like a young sailor on shore leave. I did get upset at first when other guys were pumping me full of sugar and not just the ladies, but it’s executed with such organized harmony I can’t help but admire its mili-tary-like precision. Sue me.

Don’t get me wrong. This place is no hippy-dippy par-adise like my daughter probably believes it to be. Actual-ly, Zoe’s not such a bad kid. She’s just mixed up. I don’t really buy that she buried me in a fetal position to humil-iate me. She probably figured it was something joyful. I used to get tired of her always asking me, “Pops, don’t you feel any joy or passion? What gets you excited or cu-

rious?” I told her I haven’t felt any of those things since her mother died.

When I was a young sailor, I used to eat magic mush-rooms with my buddies. I liked them very much, espe-cially all the intense, colorful visions during sex. But the fungi down here (that’s what they like to be called), these mushrooms, are truly magical. In between my sugar rush-es I get crackling jolts of electricity from this internet of shrooms. These flashes of energy pinpoint exactly how we’re feeling. Trust me, it’s not euphoria and bliss puls-ing in and out of my body. It’s most often a melting anger alongside cackling surges of fear.

We are all wired.

And uncertain.

Yet none of us are alone.

Before I Was Grownlynn Magill

Before I was grown, not tall enoughTo see above the walls of iceBuilt by my uncles, farm boys then, shoveling a tunnelTo the grey wood privy on the edge of the bean field; so we would not get lostForever In a snowbankThirty feet from the shanny porch with the grey woodShowing through the bubbled white paintDeath by OuthouseOur obituaries would readLike a little hillbilly Shackleton partyIn search of adventure and reliefSlamming the screen door openShoving back their knit wool caps to allowTheir sweaty dark curls and the testosterone to escapeThe smells of their unwashed canvas coatsOld hay, manure, tractor oilSour milk from feeding the calvesBlowing in past them with the coldSmirking at a dirty joke told on the steps, out of earshotDropping their wet clothes on the speckled linoleumGrandma in blue foam slippers, reaching for the mopAre matriarchs born, made, or elected?Heir apparent, incumbent, feet planted apart, arthritis fire warming, pulling metatarsal bones

SlicingI enshrine both promise and conflict in artificial sweetnessGlass housesSanitized for consumptionPreserving secondhand memories formed by pressureThings that will never be fresh againAbundance is always tethered to obligationThe bruises severed with a paring knife; saving the best to give awayAnd displayMuseum of inheritance and of the harvestEven the discarded scraps make jelly, at least sweet if not pureWith enough sugar you can pretend almost anything is good for a little while, to get byIf you wrap it in strifeAs if labor and sore backs were rounded, loopy bowsDressing up hindsight so if you look backYou might not even recognize itBecause in those days it wasBefore I was grown, not yet tall enoughTo see above the walls of ice

Jessica Lloydangela hiBBs

of sex slavery, then a film and a book.

He was comforted

He tells his good news For himhappiness offered from the box

Stockholm step aside, this is Oregon

it starts with a box on the head, a knife on the throat Insert argument for determinism here.

the invention of “the company”, the captive believes is watching the watching is true, the watchers are not[Insert previously held beliefs here]

shaved legsPut to bed hungry Choose a book to read

The wall testified the flicker of light A body that movedA body that did not

Colleen Stan: Girl In The Box

angela hiBBs

Compel propel compel propel compel propel.

you saw to it she was dead?

begin to touch her with the intention of killing herHow many blows beforeCan you rememberand speak. Dispose of the body. Wrap and hide the body so close to her home. Efficiency excusedindignity to a human body; boxes stacked in a lawyer’s office do not bear guilt or innocence. The fanfare of the confession. The fitness of the investigator.

Behold his training: unfurl knowledge of guilt, don’t make him skittish, reveal the location as a friend, validate his concern for his wife

1,579 convicted defendants were exonerated by DNA and non-DNA evidence from 1/1/89 through 4/12/15.

Chains of Resistancelisa Mary arMstrong

These hands of men that bind me[yet] I have all this strength inside meThey defend the right to protect meand the right to oppress me

Undressing me with their eyesCovering me with their liesStealing my lightand thunderwatching as I go under

I extricate my sense of selfI liberate, emancipateand hold on to my little wealthas they leave mere scraps on a plate

You’ve gone astrayrogue womanexpanded your mindbow downand accept your fatedon’t botherwith the pearly gates

Is it wrong to hope for better?for our daughtersand our sonsI only know how to resistaren’t they the lucky ones!

Previously published in The Indian Feminist Review Unchained Edition

Thunderbirdslisa Mary arMstrong

Got a slow punctureor lost the keys?Hey MamacitaStep off the gas will you please

One day a waitressand docile housewifewalked into a barknock knock they saidWho’s there? the punters askedMs O’GynyMs O’Gyny who?Misogyny RisingIt was the day the patriarchy fell

An Ode to Thelma and Louise

Middle Fingerlisa Mary arMstrong

I use my handsto expressmy displeasureUsually in theform of a one fingeredgestureTo a worldmanufactured bythe male gazeLooking for cultish followersEnamoured by their sexist ways

To Bob on the building site,Man in the white vanThe guy who grabs my assat the train stationbecause he thinks he canIf we could swap livesjust for one dayYou’d never survivethe patriarchy

ElusivesalaM adejoke

She stood aside like a bright yellow Daisy,Uniquely different and proud of it,Her beauty shinny and improving daily,Amazing soul bright and gaily.

Her hair cut short, you can call it prim,Her face painted plain yet gorgeous,Manly short on loose a Tee's,Colourful sneakers adore her feets.Beautiful dimples on rosy cheeks.

Manly thought on feminine frame,Her entrance grand like the rays,Perhaps someday she might change her ways,Display soft and gentility in some ways,'Be feminine', like they often say.

Perhaps she was her own kind,Like a sun among the stars,Shinning brighter than others.

A Woman’s Smiledauntless

The world is filled with picturesIn good visageMaking the world more beautifulAnd a pleasant place to be

The sky above is just an ordinary fleeceWithout the sun to smile during the dayAnd the moon gracing the nightAccompanied by the stars

The forest is just another plain siteWithout the trees donning itAnd an ocean wouldn’t be a worthy viewWithout its breeze to soothe

Without the childrenA playground is just a dumping siteWhere junks are dumpedAnd the world wouldn’t be all funWithout a woman face wearing a smile

The smile on a woman’s face Make the angels elatedBecause therein lies pure beauty

The saddest picture there is to seeIs a woman’s face devoid of its smile And losing all its charms to sadness.

The Blood Skirt aMy BoBeda

menstrual rag, a red tag upon our honorfalda rojo—is a talking horse beheaded in The Goose Girl,

After losing her mother’s menstrual rag in the river, a princess loses her identity tends geese like a peasantreclaims her voice in the womb of an iron stove.

Each fairytale, a fragment of our cosmology.

Tree Root People Belinda suBraMan

War Against NatureaMy BoBeda

more than 50% of cases not healed in a single round images of hysteria our most feared disease

sometimes they kill a loon who dances like a mad woman

in psychogenic fugue bacteria does as it pleases the problem it seems not maddening disease

western myth suggesting man overthrow nature aim for serenity beyond sinning body

war physical form companions and invaders

temperatures rise inside & out

stay complicit to enculturation

Day 743aMy BoBeda

Many days I did not bleed, and the woman asked, “If you are not pregnant, why do you care.”

All the while, iron deposits collecting pebbles dip between medicine and poison—The solūtiū of progress, a veces weaves moon string out of time, lining dusty interior we pray for the copper kettle

to resume fire.

 After six months without menstruating, my menses finally came back April 1st, so I painted my menstruation. No one ever paints menstruation, or shitting because they are idiots.  Can there be anything more beautiful than those red threads of  

blood? Clots of  blood of  surprising colors and shapes? Like abstracting paintings, Dekoonings and Pollocks coming out of  the vagina? To see them is fascinating and 

not speak of  them, hiding them is a forbidden act. To live in secret. – Cecilia Vicuña

Mother Nature ComethFran-Claire kenney

Hand GardeningFran-Claire kenney

ardgadg

Baba Sule has beaten his wife again, and as usual, she has brought the dispute to Mu’alim to mediate. The assailant stands, puffing, his arms crossed, his fists hiding under his armpits. He is shaking his head and squeezing his face, stamping one foot as though if he had the chance he would beat her again.

The assaulted, Iya Sule, is curled on the floor like a dirty sack, a distance from him, sobbing, her head and long hair naked. From behind the small high window in the red clay wall where we hide and watch and eavesdrop, the naked hair is how we know it’s a serious one.

People come to settle quarrels here all the time, mostly well dressed. But when we see a fight or beating that tears off the woman’s veil, leaving her head bare and her hair naked like this one, we know it’s the worst kind. We press our ears to the redness of the wall in the semi-darkness and climb on our tiptoes to peep. Our ankle beads clang as we push ourselves to get the best view.

We feel pity for Iya Sule, but more than that, we feel jealousy for her. We feel jealousy because we also get beaten — one of us is still on the ground away from the window, like Iya Sule, huddled like a dirty sack, face covered in tears

ShredsiBrahiM BaBátúndé

and her veil shredded, but no one knows this except us and our children. We can only report a husband for someone to mediate if that someone is superior; a person the husband could never dare raise his voice or hands to.

There’s no such person to Mu’alim for us. After God in this life, it is him. Not even the colonial master, the white man, dares bother our husband. Such is his might.

He just finished talking, addressing Baba Sule.

“It is wrong to hit a woman, I always tell you,” he shouted, looking from the crying woman to her husband and shaking his head. “Idiot!”

We raise our noses — the gesture when you catch a lie. We argue in quiet murmurs and move away from the window to console Aisha, the one of us who is sobbing on the floor, wet from tears and sweat, brown from rolling in the dust, her hair naked.

Then, we hear a fourth voice begin to speak. It is soft like a child’s, a frightened child. Our eyes widen and we rush back to the square window, tripping over ourselves and tumbling into the wall. We climb on our tiptoes again and peep, this time wearing bruises from scratching our bodies against the roughness of the mud wall. We do not mind the bruises, as long as we see from whom comes this fourth voice. The voice is thin, breaking and shaking from behind

a purple veil on one side of Iya Sule, even farther from Baba Sule.

“I-I want t-to go home,” it cries, her voice shaky, just like her body. “I d-don’t want t-to b-be with him.”

We do not see her face, but already we can tell she’s like us — iyawo sara.

We, too, had cried, although some only inside of us; we, too, had wanted to return home, although some could not say the words; we, too, had not wanted to be with the man we were gifted to, but this was a deal about us in which we had no say.

There are women who live out puberty and have charming suitors come to ask for their hands in marriage. That’s not us. Our fathers either owed, or needed a loan, or wanted protection, or wanted to please a powerful person, or just could not afford sto feed everyone anymore and had to give some away.

For us, womanhood arrived the day those decisions were made, at whatever age it met us, chests still as flat as the back, yet to experience blood leaking between our legs. It didn’t matter. We struggled through the first couple of weeks, and then we were sunk in. We became a part of the setup, bearing sons that might take an iyawo sara, too, someday.

There’s something about this one’s voice; the gentleness, the absence of fight, the surrender, the lack of the stubbornness that made us run back home only to be bundled and sent back by our fathers. This something, we hear it in Aisha’s voice, too. It is one of the things that make her different from us. We do not understand why this iyawo sara has it, though in Aisha’s case we understand perfectly.

Unlike us, Aisha is not an iyawo sara. In fact, she doesn’t even know she’s an iyawo at all. She’s our husband’s fourth wife even though no one gave him her hand in marriage. It’s been six full moons since she arrived, three days after the moon ate the sun out of the sky in broad daylight. She was sitting on a white horse and turning heads as she rode past. We were under the big shed of bamboo and thatch where Mu’alim is mediating between Baba Sule and his wives. We were backing babies, splitting wood, grinding pepper, fanning fire, pounding yam, but we stopped and stared like everyone else, at the first woman we had ever seen ride a horse by herself and on her own.

We were still staring when the horse strode onto the footpath leading to our husband’s earthen palace and stopped before us. Our mouths were still agape when she greeted us. We only heard it the second time.

“Eku ile o,” she said.

“Ekaabo o,” we responded in a chorus.

“Please I ask of the renowned Alfa Nla, the solver of all problems, Alhaji Shehu Ige Mu’alim.”

Her voice was soft like a child’s, a frightened one. There was a shiny black veil draped over her head, strands of hair spilling into her face from beneath it. She was ebony-skinned, big-eyed, narrow-nosed, thin-lipped, and had layers of white powder covering her round face. Still, we raised our noses to how she’d described our husband. We rolled our eyes, planted our soiled hands on our waists, stamped one foot like we were bracing for a fight, and queried: “And why do you ask of our husband?”

It was then that Mu’alim emerged from the darkness behind the doorway. We fell to our knees and decorated our faces with fake smiles. “This woman asks of you, Mu’alim.”

She was already climbing down from the horse. She quickly went on her knees, too, creasing her white-woman gown in the soil, also the bottom of her fancy handbag. Mu’alim’s lean face wore a smirk that reeked of mockery. Ignoring us, he greeted her, helped her up and led her inside. Our eyes were still on the empty doorway, our minds heavy with the weight of jealousy when the horse neighed loudly, jolting us and startling our back-strapped babies.

We went back to splitting wood, grinding pepper, fanning fire, preparing a meal from which this strange woman would eat even though we didn’t plan for her to, wondering who she was and why she was here. We packed moulds of pounded yam on a clean sheet of cooking leaf,

and egusi soup with assorted meat in a calabash. These we served to Mu’alim with another calabash containing water to wash his hands. He sent us back with the food for not bringing any for his guest. We were bitter, and we raged inside. Why did we have to labour to make a meal for a proud, pompous, spoilt little girl who couldn’t even greet us properly? We masked our anger behind straight faces as we brought back the thoroughly beaten yam and soup with layers of red oil floating on top, for him and for her.At first, this pretty woman who arrived on a white horse bothered us, but with children to watch, gossips to catch, lovers to sneak to, we soon forgot about her. It was a surprise when we came back to make dinner at sunset and the horse was now tied to a far corner of the shed, the same spot where it is lying now, beating its tail around, listening to Mu’alim and the feuding family.

After Isha’a prayer that night, Mu’alim stopped by the doorway when he came back from leading prayers, looking like walking holiness in his tall turban and flowing jalabia. He said as he pulled at the beads on his tesbir, “Prepare a place for my guest to sleep.” We murmured our grievances

under our breaths, never loud enough for his ears. We registered our displeasure on our faces, never bold enough to hold his gaze. But for the strange woman who was the reason for this, we weren’t so shy.

We walked into her, pretending not to know she was there. If she put a foot wrong, we met her with a chorus of admonishments. But still, she smiled, and curtsied, and offered to help with our chores. Later before we all went to sleep, we sat around a fire with our children, telling them tales of ijapa in the moonlight. She sat with us and listened with the children. Soon we were clapping together, and laughing together, and holding hands with her as we all sat in a circle.

“Who are you and why have you come here?” We asked.

Then she told us a story, sad and strange.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the big war, the white man’s war.”

We chorused a nod.

“Forty-five thousand Nigerian soldiers were enlisted for the war. One of them was my husband, Akanbi.”

She showed us the image of a man like the ones we see in front of The Yoruba News, wearing soldier cloth and cap. The story was a little confusing, but we liked this handsome man, so we listened.

“He was sent with some others to fight against Japan in a place called Burma.”

We did not know this Japan, and we had never heard of Burma. Still, we listened.

“Many of the men have returned since the war ended in 1945. The wives of some who didn’t return have received letters or uniformed guests telling them their husbands died as brave men. This is 1947. I have neither seen Akanbi nor received any letters or guests. In fact, the stipends they used to send stopped coming, too, a long time ago.”

“Haaaa...” We held our mouths apart to her tale.

“I have bought every edition of The Yoruba News to see if anything will be said. Now my savings are drying up. This horse, Egbin, is all that is left. She is special to him and I fear I might be pressed to sell her before his return. This is why I have come, so Alfa Nla can help me talk to God to bring him home quick.”

“And why would such a fine man go to fight in the white man’s war, another man’s war, leaving his beautiful wife behind?”

“He wanted the rewards they promised. He wanted to be able to give me a good life.”

By now she was crying and we were wiping her face with the edges of our wrappers, pulling her head onto our shoulders, and rubbing our palms against her back. We went to sleep hoping she finds her husband. She seemed so in love with him, a feeling unfamiliar to us. And so we also wished it was us in her place, having a handsome, strong and loving husband who would do anything to give us a good life; having no use for side-lovers. We were jealous that she could read The Yoruba News. Our parents didn’t think we were good enough for school, so whenever we saw this newspaper, we could only glare back at the black and white images.

After Subuhi prayer the next morning, Mu’alim summoned the guest.

“Aisha!” He called her.

Together they set out on Egbin’s back. They didn’t return until a little before sunset.

She seemed tired and didn’t greet any of us. When Mu’alim asked for his food after saying his prayers, he said, “…and hers, too.”

At first we didn’t think much of this, but many times we checked the mat we had laid for her, we found it empty. At midnight, when we couldn’t take it any longer, we met ourselves in the courtyard before Mu’alim’s door, each

tiptoeing out to see if she was indeed sleeping with our husband. There was no clearer answer and none as soul-piercing as her moans and groans, and the familiar creaks from the wooden bed within.

The next morning, we were back to walking into her, pretending she wasn’t there, and meeting her with a chorus of shouts if she put a foot wrong. But still, she smiled, and curtsied, and offered to help with our chores. When we declined, she sat our children by a corner, cane in hand, and began to teach them how to read The Yoruba News. A while later, she was standing before us, eyeing the horse sitting behind.

“Why would anyone put a horse so close to where they cook, with its urine and dung smelling so badly? Shouldn’t it be in a stable?”

“Stupid question. Is it not your horse?”

“Whose horse?”

“Your horse!”

“Not me!”

“Egbin?”

She furrowed her lids, stretched her arms out by her sides and lifted her shoulders. We peered into one another’s faces, puzzled. Then we turned back to peer in hers.

“Who is Akanbi?” We asked.

“Who is that?” She returned. We exchanged looks again, sighed and smacked our palms in disbelief. The young woman from two nights ago was gone. This one standing before us was now one of us; a new wife for Mu’alim; an iyawo sara that he has gifted to himself with no one’s consent.

“Do you even remember your own name?” we asked.

“What is my name, please?” She asked.

“Aisha!” We chorused, going back to our chores and her going back to teaching the children.

She was bubbly and excited reading to them, betraying no sign that she just learned she was amiss at her own name. One of the children asked a question about what she was reading and she put down the newspaper to answer. We, too, listened as she explained why the moon ate the sun in broad daylight, and we wondered why she came to Mu’alim for help in the first place, because even he did not know why this happened.

We felt pity for her, but we felt even more pity for ourselves. We would share the same reality — a marriage in which our consents were not sought, but unlike her, we were well aware of our situation, yet we couldn’t do anything about it. We had birthed children for the man and for their sakes. What really could we do?

Sometimes we wonder if somewhere deep inside, Aisha still remembers or longs for her Akanbi; if she still hopes he comes back to her. But these days she’s been sneaking away to a new lover.

Members of the town council paid Mu’alim a visit earlier in the evening today. Among them was a young, slender man with neatly shaved hair, cute in the thick bottle-glass his eyes stood behind. He had recently returned from studying in the white man’s land, contested in the new local elections, and won. The visit was to seek Mu’alim’s support for himself and other new members.

When we filed in to greet the guests, our hearts jumped into our mouths whenever this man’s eyes locked with Aisha’s. While he didn’t give much away, Aisha curtsied a dozen times and couldn’t rid her powdered face of a naïve teeth-revealing smile. Mu’alim’s face was long and grim, his eyes narrowed. We could already tell what would come after. When he got in after Isha’a prayer, riding on Egbin’s back, the horse wearing a neatly trimmed mane and an ornamented mask over its head to disguise its ill-health, he called her in and within seconds her thin voice rang out in screams, contained within the mud walls and lidded by the thatched roof. We knew we couldn’t stop him, but still, we pleaded and pulled at his clothes.

By the time we heard a different scream from outside, stopping him and making him rush out to find out what was happening, her veil was in shreds. Through the window, we’d seen Baba Sule with his back bent, one hand on one knee, the other to his chest. Iya Sule had her two hands raised, wailing. Egbin was lifting herself on her hind legs, neighing, punching her fore-hooves feebly into the air.

It must have been Egbin’s fit that made us miss the new iyawo sara, the owner of the fourth voice. Now, Mu’alim is sitting on a raised stool. Baba Sule is folding his hands behind his back, his head bowed. Iya Sule, like Aisha, is still huddled on the ground, shaking with sobs. Egbin is lying on a bed of elephant grass in her spot, throwing her tail around and grinding her teeth. The new iyawo sara is kneeling, thanking Iya Sule.

“He-he b-b-beat her because she-she wouldn’t le-le-let him when he tried to f-force his way on me.” Her sobs stutter her words.

“That is very bad,” Mu’alim said, running his long fingers through his greying beards.

We were tired of peeping and eavesdropping, watching and listening to our husband pretend to be what he wasn’t, so we left the window and returned to Aisha. This was when we noticed the blood pooled between her legs. How did we not know she was pregnant? This is the same thing we’d all endured, happening to her, too. This was full circle

and we were one now through the entire length of the dark, suffering loop.

At some point, a man dressed in soldier uniform like the one Aisha showed us walked in. Egbin staggered from her bed, kicked her fore-hooves in the air and neighed, the loudest we’ve heard her.

“That is my horse, and I’m looking for my wife,” the man said, his frowned face moving from Egbin to a fear-gripped Mu’alim. This was Akanbi, finally here to break the censor his wife was trapped behind. But this part happened only in our minds.

It will be real another day, maybe, but tonight one of us will wait in our familiar stranger’s creaky bed, bathed and naked, prepared to endure his boring pleasures. The rest of us will care for our new family, Aisha. We will clean her up and dab her bruises with long-soaked agbo. We will give her some to drink and tuck her in for the night. Then we will go to bed wondering if the meek councillor will do anything with all his power or simply save his own head and leave her to suffer like our own lovers always do. We will think of how likely it is that the new iyawo sara succumbs tonight. We will imagine how long it will be before Mu’alim mounts his high stool to mediate another dispute. We will wonder if we will continue to fold our arms and allow this same life of shreds befall our daughters.

Previously published on 11/29/20 in The Shallow Tales Review

1. And unto the Earth She fell. She fell onto its rolling grasses and wept. She beat her fists into the dirt of the Earth, cursing Earth. 2. Unto the Earth, She cursed. She cursed the Earth for indifference. 3. She cried unto the Earth, “I

curse you Earth! I curse you so that you can no longer bring forth.” 3. She tried to end the life from which She had sprung but the sun shone through her

eyes, revealing the sight of cattails; seeds. 5. At once, She stood close to the edge of a pond where cattails in the fall stood. 6. She cupped her hands around

them, touching them unto her face; large and soft; fragile for a wind to carry them to soil. 7. Seed; She was seed; bore seed. And unto the Earth, She and

cattails in the fall stood. 8. And unto the Earth a mountain lion and her cubs stood, a coyote and her cubs stood, and cattails in the fall stood.

Cattails in the Fall

tiFFany lindField

1933

That was one of her visions. She had them often. Sometimes in her mind, sometimes in the dust—maybe her mind was dust, too, she thought. The whole place was dust. She’d walk about the yard as if walking through a vast sandbox. And sometimes she’d see visions right there in the dirt.

Dirt. Dust. Sand.

It wasn’t all the same was it? She’d scoop some of it in her hands, wondering from where this batch blew in from. Someone at the feed store had said it was Topeka dirt. That was why when the clouds came up it was black, they said. In other parts they said it was a brown color; others talked tones of orange.

This day she laid right out in it, her skin a burning crimson, open blisters on cracked hands, hoping for the next dust storm to blow her away. Let the wind carry her like it carried those seeds but it was a calm day.

The wind was strangely absent and still no rain. Laying down on the ground, looking up, she saw a crystal blue sky, white puffs of clouds drifting in a lazy stroll. She saw a bird or two take off, flaps in the air. It was funny, she thought. Grounded, birds were miraculous in detail. Down to the fuzzy holes on their beaks. Were those noses? Intricate claw beds and songs to sing. But up there, far away, they barely had a shape against the blue canvas of sky.

She remembered the time she saw a hawk carrying a snake. The serpent’s body violently twisting, trying to escape the grips of a tenacious beak—escape fate; the inevitable. In another vision the snake fell. What happened? She didn’t know. Did the hawk let go by accident or did it grow weary of carrying? It’s a thing—growing weary of carrying.

No matter, that devil fell right beside her, his body a thud in the dirt, the impact throwing dust in her eyes. She was used to the dust and did not even blink. The snake stared at her with two small eyes, black beads and let out a red tongue, still worked up. That was the body’s way. It keeps going on, laboring, revving up—after things like that. Near death and all. It fascinated her. The way the body grips and holds onto life. She saw it in her husbands’ hands—hands still toiling and wrist deep in the dirt—yet not one damn drop of rain.

She felt it in her bones, life tugging to remain. She was too stiff to move but still piddled in that sandbox, hunger stabbing at her sides, and her throat dry with a voice catching on dust, suffocating her words. She felt her whole-body shriveling from death, like grapes under suns, no shade.

When would the next storm come and carry her with it? She closed her eyes. Soon, she thought. The storms always came now, roaming the countryside, settling in the creases of old woman’s fat, in the lips of their vaginas, the wombs of their bellies, in the cereal and the cracks of their kitchen tables.

And she saw it again. Cattails in the fall. This time on the slope of a mountain where a mountain lion with a supple, brown coat stood, grounded on large paws. The lion’s coat was the same color as the swaying cattails. The lion’s long tail curled at the end—lest it drag the ground—as she preyed upon someone to eat.

“Mary Bell, you just gonna give up, huh?” Timothy asked.

She turned to see her husband on the porch, petting a small dress over his knee; he was watching Mary’s flapping arms and legs make angels. Mary and Timothy had seen children do this in Kentucky’s snow—before leaving. It snowed there, and rained so hard people would say, ‘It’s raining cats and dogs.’ They had trees and mountains and wildflowers in Kentucky, too.

1928

She carried some of those wildflowers with her—to Oklahoma—in the family bible when Timothy and she made the drive from Kentucky.

Timothy and she had just got married. How could she refuse? He was a tender-hearted man. Gentle as balmy rain. She could sit for hours listening to him talk, content as his words tumbled out slowly, cautious with pauses to make sure he was saying the right thing. She was lucky and she knew that.

He had run home one day, revved up with a brochure in his hand. They didn’t have to stay in Kentucky, in the backwoods, among the mountain folk mining, he had said. They could pack up and drive to Oklahoma and be farmers, have their own piece of land. Everyone they really loved was dead or stupid anyways, she had thought and there was something bewitching in his eyes. He had talked quick about it, without a single stutter. She knew he had caught a hold of something wild, by the tail; It was a dream.

So, they packed up the little they had. He helped her climb in the truck and held his hand on her belly, swollen with child as they etched closer to dreams of wealth and ease. She held up that brochure, sleek finish, as their beat-up truck bounced along the road to new places, new land. They would grow wheat, golden wheat in the heart of Oklahoma and prosper—the brochure read.

“I think we’ll get in trouble out there,” she said, sucking on the bottom of a weed.

“Why you think that?”

“Just so many people digging up all that land. Don’t the land need what we might be digging up?”

“People farm in Kentucky.”

“That was different. You can’t really dig up a whole mountain. But look here at this picture. It’s all flat. We’ll be diggin’ up all they is to dig.

People are okay with you takin’ a little or some of what they have. But we thinkin’ of taking everything She has.”

“She?”

“The Earth.”

Timothy laughed, then smiled with endearment. “You really got some strange notions, Mary Bell.”

***

First two months in Oklahoma with her back bent to a flat Earth, the sun beating against it, she miscarried their first child—right there in the wind-slapped grass—watching as the green blades seemed to wave her comfort. She screamed as her body forced death from the womb. She yelled for him, but Timothy was riding on a borrowed tractor, ripping the soil, in a straw hat with a pipe in his mouth, fresh tobacco.

By the time he made it home, the sun resting behind him, she lay naked in their marital bed with her legs open, staring at a red spot in the sheet, crying; her body shaking.

He instinctively put his hand on her belly. “Mary. No.”

“No baby in this belly. She’s out there in the yard. In the grass…She…She was a girl,” Mary said with blood swiped across her cheeks.

Timothy placed his face in the space between Mary’s arm and shoulder. Mary could feel his hair wet with sweat, smell the fortitude in his weakness.

The next day, he dug a hole and laid the baby in the ground, wrapped in an old sheet. He went to cry but wiped his face. “She up in heaven with Jesus. Ain’t no need in me fussin.’ Lord, I ask that you look after her, now,” he said, tears streaming down his face, despite the prayer.

1929

Lindsey was born in the summer of ‘29, this time right in the middle of their plot of field. Mary was carrying something to Timothy when her water broke. And she squatted under the same sun, on the same Earth and gave birth—this time to a live baby girl who came out roaring, howling like coyotes. As the child broke from her body, a vision of mountain lions chasing prey pierced Mary’s mind.

Mary could see Timothy running to her, his hands flapping. His face widened into a dazzling smile, under a lambent sky when he saw the baby. He placed an earth laden hand on the baby’s head, mixing blood and dirt. And husband and wife walked back to the house, Mary holding the baby and their umbilical cord.

Late 1930

Sam, a stubby man from church, was passing around the town’s paper. The front page read: ‘The Great Depression.’ Timothy couldn’t read or write, but Mary could have been taught by her grandmother, and she read it cover to cover while Pastor Tom bellowed about hell and fire, sweating, and wiping it away. Maybe he was already in hell, Mary thought.

“That man could find sweat in a snowstorm,” she whispered to Timothy, who flagged her off, intent on the preacher’s words.

Later on: “What that paper say, Mary? Timothy asked, as they sat by a fire she had made with chicken in his teeth.

“Says the Depression is coming.”

“We’ve heard about that,” he said.

“It’s coming to Oklahoma. And we ain’t getting’ no rain either. The crops gonna die.”

“It ain’t.”

“It is,” Mary Bell said, wrapping Lindsey tight in a pink blanket the Havemeyer’s had given her. It was soft, all the way from New York, Mrs. Havemyer had said.

Baby cooed.

“Lindsey says it’s coming,” Mary said.

Timothy reached for the baby and put his face to hers. Timothy was like that with things smaller than him. Mary would catch him in the hen house, petting the heads of their chickens with just one finger, bent down to see them—to see their eyes.

Early 1931

Maya’s General Store sat in the town’s square, and of all things it was run by an old widow woman, named Maya. Maya’s nephew, John, helped her with the store’s busy work. Mary Bell loved going to the store, watching how Maya told John to do this or that and he’d hop this way or that in the prettiest skin she had seen on a man.

“Oh, now nothin’ stays the same. Things always changin,” Maya said, handing Timothy change as Mary noted all the lines on the widow’s face, like chicken scratches across dirt.

Another store patron, June spoke up. “Ya’ know I heard that all that rain that was a comin’ was nothing but a fluke. My husband heard it from some Indian man whose family been livin’ on these plains for more than any of us could count backward.”

“Woman, what ya’ mean a fluke?” Mr. Massey, sitting near the store’s heater asked.

John chimed in with a bag of potatoes slapped across his back, “hog pussy. We just goin’ through a lil’ dry spell. A small spell and well, no harm in that. That rain is just around the corner. Bet your bottom dollar on that. Yep, come the end of this month and this area will be flooded.”

“We ain’t been on this land long enough to know what it gonna do or not gonna do and even if we got a sense of what she’s aiming to do—that when She’ll change on us. Like I said, things are always changin,” Maya said.

Timothy and Mary listened to the chatter, then walked out into a windy breeze, as Lindsey waddled behind with a sucker in her hand. “Pa, look!”

Lindsey held the red pop up to Timothy who saw it was now spotted with black soil. Ain’t nothing but a bit of dirt. Lick it off. Won’t hurt you none.”

Lindsey put the candy in her mouth.

***

The end of the month came and the next, but John’s flood never came—or even a light shower. Timothy was a sight to see, with his shirt undone, sweat slipping down his neck, and chest. An old, dirty hat sat crooked on his head, his face tilted to the sky, and his eyebrows furrowed. “You think it will rain?” He asked Mary Bell. “Looks like it wants to.” He pointed to the sky. “I saw lighten’ earlier. Yonder up.”

Lindsey pointed her finger up to the same sky, snug on her mother’s hip.

Mary Bell swung herself around in a circle, whirling Lindsey around who grabbed her mother’s shoulder. “Weeee.”

“Weeee,” Lindsey repeated with a bright smile, dimples resting in new skin.

Dinner came and went and still no rain, despite the lighting. And then late in the night, they all heard it. Thunder roaring and crashing against their one-room house. Timothy jerked out of bed and ran right into the yard.

Mary followed, and the toddler waddled behind them both. “Ma Pa.”

“It’s gonna rain. Baby told you it would,” he said with sweet relief, his grin showing teeth unattended to.

“You gonna get struck by it,” Mary said.

“God ain’t gonna do a good man like that.”

“Ain’t no rain coming, Timothy.”

He stopped awing the sky and stared dead at her, in saggy underpants, the elastic worn. “Why do you go and say somethin’ like that? Maybe you want us to die out here?” He walked right past her, with his bottom lip tucked under crooked teeth.

He was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands when Mary and Lindsey walked back into the house. His shoulders shrugged, and his fingers were dirt black; He knew the land, could feel wind before it came, and smell rain before it fell. He knew the buffalo grass; it’s root. The feel of it in his hands, turned over in calloused palms. He knew the chickens in the yard; knew all their names: Lucy, Lucky, Betty, Boop, and Tom.

“I can only tell you what I think is all,” Mary said.

“Mary, somethin’ is changin.’ Somethin’ coming like we ain’t ever seen,” he whispered as if speaking above would give the dreaded thing nearing Godspeed.

“I told you we done took too much from Her.”

Timothy jumped up as if a ghost conjured poked him in the rib and he ran outside, and again his family followed him.

“Pa, lookin’ for?” Lindsey asked, watching him dig barehanded in the ground.

He looked up, with his eyes reflecting the moon. “Y’all ‘member when we first got here? Remember we could dig deep as ever, and the ground was wet?”

Mary sighed. “I remember. The grass had those deep roots that kept the water locked in the ground. But we done dug them all up.”

The dry dirt crumpled like small rocks in his hands. “Well look here, it’s all gone. Dry as a bone,” he said.

Mary Bell leaned her head on his shoulder; his face still bent to the Earth.

“I’m scared we’re gonna starve out here. The wind blows the damn seed right out the ground and what we do grow ain’t worth nothin’ now, “ he whined.

“Timothy, we done took too much from her.”

He pushed her and walked away, towards the field, cursing Her under his breath.

1932

They were driving back from town when the first real dust storm came and decided to set up house. Her and Timothy and the baby girl had been sitting outside the feed store, sharing a coke and some caramel for Lindsey’s birthday. Getting in the car, the sunlight seemed to dim—just a tad—but as they began to drive, they saw it. Hell, they were driving right into it. A large black cloud enveloped them.

Timothy got wiggly in his seat, pointing, “What’s that...that rain?”

Mary Bell craned her neck, straining her eyes. Timothy stopped the car and got out. Mary Bell put her head out of the car window, feeling grits of sand hit her in the face. She then got out of the car, too, telling Timothy, “It’s coming.”

Timothy stared ahead. “What’s comin’ Mary? What the hell is coming? Just say what’s coming!” He screamed, spit flying from a mouth twisted.

They all got back in the car, as another motorist headed their way.

Mr. Paul from the feed store pulled beside them, rolling down his window. “It’s the end of the world. Calvary is coming!”

Mary Bell held her tongue as Timothy stared on.

“It ain’t rain, you think?”

“That ain’t rain, son. That’s the end of the world,” Paul answered, then sped off.

“Does he expect to beat it? The end of the world?” Mary asked.

Timothy started the truck back up, driving fast, saying he would get them home and keep them safe. One hand was on the wheel and his other went from Mary to Lindsey, making sure to touch their face or pat their knees. But the dark cloud grew closer and swallowed them, like a heap of moving tar, stealing the light from the sky.

And then it fell, the dust—all a sudden—in a frantic whoosh, stopping them dead in the road; like a blanket being pulled over their faces, smothering them in heat and darkness. They could barely hear anything but the rage of it and covered their ears, then their mouths and eyes as the dust blew in sideways through a window stuck open.

Mary Bell and Timothy hovered, in obscurity, over Lindsey who was squealing, trying to shield her. It seemed like hours before it passed over, but it was only minutes. The same cloud of dust that had moved over them, was now rushing behind them, as they started the truck and drove home in near darkness, wiping dirt from their faces. Lindsey cradled, knobby kneed, in Mary’s lap. Timothy shook so hard, relief and fear, that his hands barely kept the steering wheel steady. When they got home, they saw the cow turned over in the yard, only hoofs sticking out, and the chickens clucking wildly, flapping dust off their bodies.

Inside, their fingers felt a thick sweeping of dust over everything in the house. Mary made a fire and in its glow their faces lit up like charcoal drawings, eyebrows fixated in shock.

“God done forsaken this place,” Timothy said.

“We did this,” Mary Bell responded.

1933

Timothy, Mary Bell, and Lindsey stood on the porch of the Havemyer’s nice white house, removing the makeshift masks they had been wearing, but Lindsey cried when Mary tried to remove hers, saying, “I need it, mama.”

“We safe here,” Timothy said, but Lindsey held the knot from being untied with small hands.

Inside, Mrs. Havemyer ran about the kitchen, talking, chattering. You couldn’t get a word in. And Mary Bell didn’t have many words to get in. Her stomach ached as the smell of biscuits and a pot of greens stewed. Mary Bell watched Havemyer glaze a ham, slowly, methodically as if she were painting some masterpiece to hang on the wall. She had fancy things like that all over her house: Pictures, glass animals, books, even rugs, a housecat, and a small yellow bird sitting in a cage.

Lindsey sat in Mary’s lap whimpering like a rag doll. The child hadn’t eaten anything but a potato in two days and now a glass of cold milk.

Mrs. Havemyer handed the child a cookie. “Let’s go ahead and give this baby somethin’ to eat.”

It was only then that Lindsey let Mary take the mask off. Mary Bell stared at the yellow bird, wondering what it must feel like to have flown once, perched in trees, to now sit behind copper wire.

“How old is the bird?”

“Oh, Birdie…Birdie is, well, honey, I don’t know. She came all the way from Tennessee. Forgot what they call them now. Mr. Havemyer may kn—”

“--He doesn’t sing much,” Mary said with a blank stare.

“Oh,” she said, surprised.

Mr. Havemyer, followed by a few other locals, including Timothy walked in. “Hole is dug,” Mr. Havemyer said, with a clap of his hands, proudly.

“Oh, dear. Poor little souls,” Mrs. Havemeyer said in habit.

Chairs pulled out, and people gathered around the dining room’s large oak table. Mary knew it was the biggest meal many of them had seen in months—years, or ever, except for Mrs. and Mr. Havemyer. Lindsey stared in awe at the food before her, timidly bringing food from bowls, platters, and trays to her plate.

“I just can’t understand burin’ good meat when so many starvin’?” Jefferey said, without a bit of shame in his low status.

“Like Wallace said, we can’t go around nursing pigs til’ calvary. But everyone sittin’ here…everyone helpin’ me with this will get a hog a piece. Okay, Mary? If you can feed more, you can have more,” Mr. Havemyer said.

Mrs. Havemyer smiled wide, moving her eyes along the faces of the men, sternly. “How about that preachin’ this morning?”

“Ya know some people are packin’ up now. They say it better to leave now, then stay here and wait on somethin’ that may never come,” Thomas, a young buck from Alabama said.

“Where can they go?” Jefferey asked. “The depression is worse in other places.”

“But they have rain,” Jean said.

Everyone looked at Jean, who rarely talked, and noticed his eyes were swollen from tears held back.

“I’m so sorry about Helena,” Timothy said to Jean, who nodded.

“She’s in glory, now, right next to the golden throne!” Mrs. Havemyer sang out, clasping her hands to the ceiling.

“Right, she is,” Thomas said.

And then everyone went on about the bread, the butter, the ham and all the fixings as Mrs. Havemyer glowed. Then the frenzy of forks on plates settled, and everyone pushed back their chairs to make room for their guts.

Mr. Havemyer said, coolly, “It’s time.”

Mary watched as the men stood up, Jean last, adjusting hats over heads, and mask over their faces.

“Oh, dear. Poor little souls,” Mrs. Havemyer said.

Mary Bell could hear the pigs squealing outside as the men rounded them up. Did they know? She was sure they did, and she sat, holding back what she knew to be rage,

as Mrs. Havemyer went on and on about passing through Nebraska, her sewing circle, and something Ruth said from the bible.

Later that night, lying side by side with Lindsey wedged between them, Timothy told Mary about the burying of those piglets and sows alive; said that he and the other men shot as many as they could, so they didn’t have to die—like that—so slowly, dust-covered. He said the babies screamed, that the sight of their legs, tails, the flat part of their noses, their mouths opening—revved up, hanging on, begging for mercy—for life—was tormenting his mind. Mary put her hand on his cheek, and he spoke the truth of it, passing it to her so he could sleep.

“It was nothing short of a crime,” the preacher man said a week later. “Killing off good meat, when people all over God’s Earth are starving,” he went on.

But Mary knew his cows had died that same day, and in the same way as Havemyer’s pigs. The paper passing around the church that day read, ‘The Great Culling.’

That night, after Sunday’s sermon, Lindsey’s cough worsened, rambling them awake through the night like thickets brushing against the bodies of birds. Lindsey was dying the same way Jean’s wife and many others in the town had died—were dying. Ammonia from breathing in all the dust.

Mary and Timothy sat with her through that first night, the next and on the third night, her last night. Mary Bell felt that same revving in her daughter’s hands, hands refusing to let go. Lindsey tugged weakly on her mother’s dress, pulled at her own mouth, crying as death called, taking what it could. Mary thought of Oklahoma sand choking her daughter, fragments, pieces of old life lodging in her daughter’s new lungs.

As Lindsey wailed against death, the sow the Havemyer’s had given them hollered from the yard, her screams echoing off wind and it was in Lindsey’s eyes that Mary saw all mother pigs calling out with mouths wide open, when Lindsey finally let go. Death came and took everything; it takes everything. Even the memories fade. She let the child flop down on the floor as a vision of a coyote in the mouth of a mountain lion seared her mind.

Timothy threw his hands down to catch the child, asking Mary, “What you doin’ woman?” but she didn’t hear him. She watched the mountain lion walk back with a kill, blood on her face, to a den of two hungry cubs, and the cubs pawed the body of the once powerful creature, devouring its flesh. Timothy held the dead child, limp in his arms with his head leaned back on its atlas, mouth wide open, spit at the creases and the rot in his teeth showed.

Mary didn’t move for hours as Timothy mourned in fits and grunts. He slapped Mary, leaving a print of his hand across her dirty face, and still she sat seeing vision of this and that. He called her crazy and said maybe if she had kept Lindsey out of the storms, she’d still be alive.

Mary stood up and went outside at that. “You did this,” she said bluntly.

Mary sat under the stars, cursing every one of them, sometimes more than once until she fell asleep. She awoke and cursed some more.

Fall of 1939

And here she was, only days later—or was it months or years—laid out in the yard, her mind held captive by visions, flapping her arms and legs. Timothy watched from the porch with Lindsey’s dress in his hands.

And then it rained.

And she could finally let the tears roll from her eyes. She wiped her face, but the tears kept slipping. And tears, rain and dust covered her face. She didn’t know when Timothy came to her side, but he did. He had her in

his arms, holding her to his bony chest, heaving, the rain soaking them both wet.

“Mary Bell don’t die on me. If you give up, I’ll have to give up, too. Don’t you see that?”

They raised each other up, onto the Earth, and stood tall. She realized—Earth—was strong and that She could go on for a while longer; a little while longer.

#NotAllMendiana FletCher

Hey #NotAllMen We never said it was all men. And if you heard that, it’s not the majority. But the majority wants you to shut up.#NotAllMen You have not earned the privilege you think you have; to mansplain every fucking thing to us. Even our own realities. Especially our own realities.#NotAllMen Stop interrupting us; stop inserting your voice into our conversations. Your mouths need to close.#NotAllMen You must stop with your ridiculous need to not-let-us-get-a-word-In-when-we-have-something-to-say-and-you-think-you-know-better-about-everything. Shut up.That is, if  you truly believe your #NotAllMen statements and want to learn.#NotAllMen You have not protected us. There is this false idea that men protect women. They don’t. You don’t, so shut up.#NotAllMen Have you sent an unsolicited dick pic! You know what? You suck.#NotAllMen Have you laughed at jokes about abuse, rape, or do-mestic violence? (Of either male or female victims). If so, you suck.#NotAllMen It is not enough to be a good man who has never assaulted, harassed or disrespected a woman.#NotAllMen It is not enough to not make misogynistic or racist comments.#NotAllMen It is simply, not enough.#NotAllMen Nobody’s perfect but you caN do better.#NotAllMen We need you to try to understand what we are telling you.

#NotAllMen When we tell you statistics about male violence to-ward women, we aren’t starting a contest to decide who has it worse.#NotAllMen We are telling you because we are angry and fright-ened.#NotAllMen Every fucking day of our lives, we have to be scared of male violence.#NotAllMen Every fucking day of our lives, we have to ready to respond/not respond to male comments, touches and oh yeah---THE UNASKED FOR DICK PICS!!#NotAllMen Every fucking day, we are interrupted, talked over, and told in all sorts of ways to shut up. So now, I’m telling you. I’m speaking for all of us who are so very tired--YOU need to shut up.#NotAllMen We need allies and it’s going to have to be good men who step up. And it will be damn inconvenient.#NotAllMen You will have to shut up. You will have to stop your-self from bursting out with EVERYTHING YOU KNOW TO BE RIGHT!#NotAllMen You will have to listen, really listen and learn. (learn!)#NotAllMen We need allies. And don’t write to me and mansplain why we don’t.#NotAllMeN you caN however write to me for tips & strate-gies oN active listeNiNg.

Castration Culturediana FletCher

Imagine this: The danger is not to women. Rapes don’t hap-pen in society, but surprisingly, dicks get cut off quite often. At an alarming rate. We call this Castration Culture.

Men complain but there is nothing society does to stop it. The newspapers describe what the man was wearing and doing at the time that may have influenced him getting his dick cut off. The reporters get complaints about titillation in their reporting. People make jokes about it, men are afraid of everyone and especially dark alleys. Sometimes, women tease men and hold a knife near their lower region, and pretend they are going to hurt them, then they laugh. People make jokes and references to this part of their body and men feel uncomfortable. When the men don’t laugh, people make fun of them and tell them to lighten up.

Groups of women are suspect, but they are easily avoidable if you walk in safe places. Men are given lists of things they can do to avoid castration. Don’t wear clothing that allows easy access to pe-nis. Don’t go places where you are alone and defenseless. Carry keys between your fingers, and perhaps take a self defense class.

Many times though, the violence happens in the home. It is surprisingly common that many dicks are cut off in the home. It’s often cut off by someone the man knows. This is called Date Cas-tration.

This is especially difficult to prosecute as the men, well, you know they were asking for it. Every movie and television show has a

hint of danger for men. Castration is seen as entertainment. Isn’t it exciting to know this could happen to any man at any time in any movie or television show? There is always a danger of their cock getting cut off! There is always a scenario when they need to worry about this. The detectives arrive at the scene, and they are told it’s a male victim. First question: has he had his penis cut off?

Now we get a brief look at the dead body and the male de-tective winces, because there it is again, a penis cut off. We may also get to look at all the body parts left during the autopsy be-cause again, this is entertainment. Sometimes we even get to see torture scenes with the man tied up and naked.

The suspense, the sexual tension, the entertainment!

Oh, one more thing. Many people do not go to prison for this, because it’s usually the man’s fault. (C’mon. We all know it!)

Wouldn’t men get tired of this?

Her Voice Megha sood

Her voice thickens with gravitaswhen she speaks of love, honor,dignity and determinationher chest heaves, her bosom rise, and fallswhen they utter the raging strength carved in womanhood Her voice gets the metallic tastethe afterburn;when she talks about her recovery and the painriddled with the victory marks and the scarstime has meticulously embroidered on her suppurating skin Her voice is the beaconcarving the path for millions to follow scratched in the skin of the timerefusing to fit in the cookie cutternot morphing her voice to please the millionsher victory is self-defined.

“Fight for the things that you care about, but do it in a way that will lead others to join you.”

-Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Her voice reflects her burnished wounds of her trailblazing journeya path making her notoriousA life meant not just for herself But for the greater good of mankind

Her voice trembles with disgust and angerwhen men claim their rights to a body, a false ownershipan atrocity undefined.

Her voice an absolute war crya bull horn for the naysayers;a language that needs no interpretation reckoning with magnitudeas she said rightly,placing the women on a pedestalis a metaphor for caging them alive. A great dissenteran epitome for truth and determination;a force to reckon with, My RBG,a shimmering beacon for justice and equalityforever etched in the folds of time.

First Published in Oddball Magazine

False Ownership Megha sood

This is strangely annoying.when you see arrogance insomeone who doesn’t own a thingCan’t conjure a thing out of thin airlet alone a human being.

You are just the renter here. You don’t own shit.you are born from this wombwhich cradles your existence for monthsa sliver away from called a being

Nothing but a pulsating existence in a foreign bodySometimes the body treats it like an infectionto keep away the contaminationself-purging, an act of reclamation

Sometimes it acceptscups its own palmsupports you, carries it to termIts the body,the arrangementthe unsaid understandinga solemn promisebetween the body and its identity

Your existence is slowly moldedlike a ball of sagging clay onthe potter wheelmorphed and moldedto be called a human being

You don’t own the womb.You definitely don’t own our bodies.You break the arrangementjust like to possess the things

Let me clear thisfor the sake of your understandingthe body is not for your takingThere is a thin line betweenThe choices we make and your wanting.

First Published in “War Cry from the Uterus”, Wide Eyes Publishing, NY

The Foolsinéad delaney

My palm lines are a mess. I couldn’t even count them all. There are too many and I can’t see where one begins and one ends. They’re vaguely uniform in places, hun-dreds of parallel lines crossing over long crooked lines. Lots of crosses and squares. Under my middle finger, is a deep misshapen star, straggling onto three horizonal lines. It’s deeper than the other markings.

My friend tried to read my palm and she couldn’t find any of the things she had taught herself to look for. I asked what does it mean, that my palm is so full of lines.

“It just means you’ll have an interesting life,” she said.

I’m not sure what she means exactly. In my thirty years, there have been no shipwrecks, no quicksand, no swashbuckling pirates. I studied science and then became an accountant. I love books and I write stories. Boom. Pow. The End. I’ve had betrayals but all of these ended without any assassinations. Not even a shoot-out. I’ve had joy, but no epic love stories. My life would never make a Spanish Novella.

One theme that has been running throughout my life, is a lack of settling. I’m constantly changing direc-

tion, always pushing forward, but often facing different directions.

My mother would say “Our Sinéad is a force to be reckoned with.”

She thinks anyone who underestimated me has re-gretted it. I’m not sure she’s right. I can’t assume anyone who has thought badly of me, regrets it. Not because they shouldn’t, but because people think all kinds of things. People often believe things that don’t even make sense. My Dad says that some people are too stupid to realise they’re idiots. I’m lucky then, because I accepted my idio-cy quite young.

I remember walking past a man that bullied me in school when we were teenagers. I waved at him to be po-lite, and he blanked me. He had his nose in the air and a smug smile on his face and I found it pathetic. He was a grown man in his thirties but mentally, he was still outside Woodwork, telling one of the shy girls without brothers, they were ugly. I remember thinking, I’m glad I know I’m an idiot, or I would be marching nose first through Tesco and having people pity me. Whichever way I’m pushing, at least I haven’t stayed still.

I have grit, but not much direction. If I don’t settle, the opportunities won’t reduce, so I just push forward, always. I like to picture myself as a mountain goat,

climbing up, even though the stones are falling under my hooves. This makes my smile, but I am aware that ro-mantically, no-one wants a mountain goat. Unless they take the mountain goat, and try to make it a lap dog and mountain goats can’t be lap dogs. They’re an entirely dif-ferent animal. I don’t wonder what would happen if I ran out of mountain, because I know the answer. I’d find an-other one.

I’m both independent and gentle, which people find confusing. They think you are one or the other. I don’t want to be mean, but I also don’t to be an appendage of someone else. I don’t want someone deciding where I go, and what I can say, planning out all my days on my be-half. It’s funny. My friends in school worried about dying alone. I worried about being erased.

I hate lad jokes, because they aren’t real jokes. Punch-lines should be surprises, not repetitive vitriol. It always seemed to me lad jokes exist to dehumanise. Make wom-en into caricatures so it’s easier to attack them. I don’t want to have my personality invented.

Sometimes when it’s raining, I like to open the win-dow a smidge, so I can hear the rain, and hopefully dream I’m on a ship.

Years ago, I had a different dream. Druids turned me into a wolf and left me in the woods. I caught a rabbit and

shook my head side to side to break its neck. I sank my teeth into it, and tore its flesh into bits so I could eat it. I howled at the moon, and galloped over logs, racing head first through thorns. The dream ended with me finding the druids so they could break the spell.

Soon I’ll be married. To whom I don’t know, but that’s how it goes. We’ll probably have children too and I’ll need to stay still. No ships, no mountains, no thorn bush-es, and definitely no pushing forward.

I’ll show my husband all the lines on my palm. I’ll tell him I think my thought lines are like my palm lines, mak-ing crosses, squares and stars. He’ll sigh and get an iron to smooth them out. Then he’ll kiss me good night and tell me to focus. And . And I’ll cry salty tears. Because I used to have dreams about being a wolf, and eating a rabbit raw.

shook my head side to side to break its neck. I sank my teeth into it, and tore its flesh into bits so I could eat it. I howled at the moon, and galloped over logs, racing head first through thorns. The dream ended with me finding the druids so they could break the spell.

Soon I’ll be married. To whom I don’t know, but that’s how it goes. We’ll probably have children too and I’ll need to stay still. No ships, no mountains, no thorn bush-es, and definitely no pushing forward.

I’ll show my husband all the lines on my palm. I’ll tell him I think my thought lines are like my palm lines, mak-ing crosses, squares and stars. He’ll sigh and get an iron to smooth them out. Then he’ll kiss me good night and tell me to focus. And . And I’ll cry salty tears. Because I used to have dreams about being a wolf, and eating a rabbit raw.

Feminine Mystique Encomia

gerard sarnat Deck The Halls Deck The Halls

Puerto Rican born Haroldo Santiago Puerto Rican born Haroldo Santiago Franceschi Rodriguez Danhakl AjzenbergFranceschi Rodriguez Danhakl Ajzenberg came from Miami F-L-A, came from Miami F-L-A, hitchhiked across the USAhitchhiked across the USA plucked eyebrows & shaved legs plucked eyebrows & shaved legs on the way, became Lou Reed’s sheon the way, became Lou Reed’s she then walked on the wild side then walked on the wild sideto star in Andy Warhol’s to star in Andy Warhol’s Trash --Trash -- boughs of Holly Woodlawn boughs of Holly Woodlawn passed from our shrunk pantheon passed from our shrunk pantheon yesterday, 6 December 2015, at 69. yesterday, 6 December 2015, at 69.

Janis’s Mask Janis’s Mask

Port Arthur little girl blue Port Arthur little girl blue no no Sports IllustratedSports Illustrated swimsuit model, swimsuit model,Big Brother & the Holding Company Big Brother & the Holding Company Avalon Ballroom singularity, Avalon Ballroom singularity, Down On Me tombstone qualityDown On Me tombstone quality you are what you settle for you are what you settle for reaching toward the Daedalus expressreaching toward the Daedalus express only to get burned by that last fix only to get burned by that last fix -- 19 January 2016, Joplin woulda been 73-- 19 January 2016, Joplin woulda been 73

We’ve decided to re-edit a certain poem to create a more pleasant experience for the reader as Well emphasize the importance and attitude of the Writ-er concerning our theme, feminism, Which in most instances is intersectional. if you are confused,

upset or sad by our edit, please refer back to our guidelines as Well as our neW page, inclusion. like Wise, feel encouraged to read public posts, blogs

and tWeets pertaining to each contributor.

#saferlit

Rebeccajohn grey

Maybe I’ll write for Harlequin, she sighed.Maybe I’ll write for Harlequin, she sighed.All it takes is one good storyAll it takes is one good storyfilled with anemic passion,filled with anemic passion,trite characters,trite characters,ridiculous plot devicesridiculous plot devicesand sappy endingsand sappy endingsand then for follow-upsand then for follow-upsall I’d have doall I’d have dois change the namesis change the namesof the places and people.of the places and people.

And maybe I’ll ignoreAnd maybe I’ll ignorethe indignities,the indignities,the supplications,the supplications,that come with living with a manthat come with living with a manand pretend that Arthur and Iand pretend that Arthur and Iare Clint and Priscilla,are Clint and Priscilla,the youngest children ofthe youngest children oftwo warring familiestwo warring familieswho find true lovewho find true lovedespite the obstaclesdespite the obstaclesplaced in their pathplaced in their pathand, with their example,and, with their example,even soften the heartseven soften the heartsof former foes.of former foes.

But she wrote serious novelsBut she wrote serious novelsand she finally left the guy.and she finally left the guy.

Motel Towelsjohn grey

His and Hers, they say.No glass ceiling here though.The towels are exactlythe same color, the same size.

I promise myself that,just this once. I’ll grabthe Hers when I slip out,dripping, from the shower.

I’ll brandish my feminist credentials.I’ll show whoever’s in thebathroom mirror, that I haveno time for labels.

But too late. She beat me to it.The Hers is damp. She’s used it.The letter R has dried her breast.The H has mopped up her thighs.

So His it is. No gender busting martyr I.I wipe my chestwith man, masculine, guy,I towel my groin. I take my lumps.

Frida Kahlo, On Exhibit

Penn keMP

Watch me tear this painting. Watch me rip it up or paint another, better or worse. It matters, from my eye’s eye.Body parts. Body parts to open the red sea of despond. Circling upon her track, the hunted seeks the hunter out.My body is mine to display, mine to mind. Mine to cram in open pits of roiling, wicked pigment. Watch me dye.Wracked without ruin, with no easy room to manoeuvre on thin bed rack, her mind stretches beyond skin to easel.Palette splashed in fury, cast to contain a febrile agility, might avoid the looming void beyond fervent defiance.Moods thicken. Tint hardens to stone. Medusa glints, solidified, just as snared as any light caught in her eye.Sex springing from her head glitters seduction. Form- al ribbons of snakes coil like a Spanish Infanta’s dress by Velasquez. Wild vein through white leaves’ ruff. A flat surface of sheer rock powdered to outlast flesh. Frida draws her hair as whip lacerating her throat. Such vegetation, grown long, twists to vengeance when shorn. Linked chain around her neck, cadena. Monkey’s paw protective. Then jackal’s inquisitively pointed ears, no—just a black dog gone murky when eyes swim sea-green, spark dashed with pain, or pills swallowed to kill pain.

* Above her ear an amorphous, androgynous couple floats turning in amniotic thought cloud. What nostrum must be murmured over and over tumbling through such froth? She-he-we. El, ella, nosotros. Confessions of mute rage flickering phosphorescent over Sargasso’s obsessed sea.

*

Her heart opens like a sacred heart of Jesus to reveal Diego, Diego Rivera. Her third eye, a bronze medallion of Maria,gleams so curiously blind to its own reflection before that ongoing inquisition of other eyes, eyes she sought so long.Just try to forget me now. I dare you, double dare. Already my art has outlived all you onlookers of this ostensible life.

The Samhain Invocation Penn keMP

Come and say hello, women. The veils are still thin and we welcome your presence. We recall you and all those disappeared you stand for.

Welcome into our realm for a moment, held.

As if you were now in the prime of life. As if your daughters bloomed full-grown around you. As if your mothers were crying delighted tears.

And if you were here to see what has changed and what has not. Would you hide your eyes in shame for what has been done and what has not?

Come into the light and tell us how you are. As if you have life beyond what we recall, remember before this dark November claims its own again.

My FlowerMary anne ZaMMit

And so they tried to snatch my sacred flowerThey put on irons, to silence my thoughts,Then condemned me to death by fire.

But I came out, from the fire,Kept my soul, my mind.Because I am a woman

Her Orbit of EllipsisPenn keMP

My granddaughter is going as Wonder Woman for Halloween. She’s practised swinging her Lariat of Truth so I’m reading up on Artemis,

protectress of young girls and the archetype for our current Wonder Woman. Arrow to hand, she alights on the mark, drawing her bow on intruders.

Artemis herds young artoi, girls of eight or so away from polis, the city, into wilder woods where she reigns Queen and they her willing apprentices stay

snared till puberty. Artoi, little Bears, they follow their Great Bear into the chase and Orion hides, the hunter hunted and flung out to constellation.

My granddaughter will go trick or treating and return with a gleeful sack full of eternal returns.

Previously published in Goddess Pages, #27: Summer ‘15

No Shades of GreyPraMod suBBaraMan

It is not really that hardIt is just how we live it

They have similar challengesThey have had a similar journey

We have fought for our freedomThey have fought for their liberties

We still have a long way to goThey still have a long way to go

They have some advantagesWe have some advantages

They are white womenWe are black men

We can help each otherWe must help each other

But my black brothersForget not our black sisters

They suffer the worst of both worldsWe owe them our everything

When we win as black feministsWe can never lose anything again

Born a female, I was handed a manual of low expectations,and warned to adhere to them.A bullseye of shame on my backmarked me a target for arrows ofinsults, regrets, obedience, demands.

I was offered tools of my trades,choices they called them: a typewriter and steno pad a starched white hat and thermometer a blackboard and a ruler

But the manual didn’t list them all. It never warned me about my appearance my dry cleaning costs my ignored voice my few publishing options my diminished reproductive rights Here I stand and wait.

Half the hurricanes bear our names,a step up from having them all blamed on us,

Half the Hurricane

evie groCh

but that is where equality ends.Resentment planted a seed in me.It fed on bitter nourishmentand thoughts of wrongs replayed.Justice is a victim of inequityand vengeance is its mate.

I’m still here and waiting.

When you try to mansplain to methe stench of double-talk risesand wakes me out of love.We’re overdue for new Thou Shalts and Shalt Nots.Laments sent up to heaven’s doorevaporated on the way.Are you with me? Not yet?

I’m still here and waiting.

You’re being addressed.Don’t look away.Face me, tell me why this is,and then tell your mothers, wives,sisters, daughters, nieces, granddaughters .Answer carefully as you squeeze outwhat is left of your words from an almostempty vocabulary tube.

But I am still here and waiting.

You know what’s coming.A look of mortification kidnaps your faceas you reach to cover the chinks in your armorbracing for a joust.

I am here still and waiting.

Your stale advice of “give it time,”“it’s God’s way,” and “look how faryou’ve come” attracts sneers likedecomposing clichés. It’s mean-spiritedand deserves to shrivel up like a slug in salt.

Yet I’m still here and waiting.Are you ready yet?

Heed my words. They crescendofrom a whistle to a roarand become deafening when unheeded.Take them not in vain.They are my legacy.

Stop battering me with your fistsdipped in self-righteous confidenceof knowing what’s best for me.I invite you to stand by my sideand call me friend, sister, peer, equal,

names you would want the womenin your family called.

I’m still here and waiting. I’ll come round again whether you are ready or not,like the hurricanes which bear our names

Now that normal has been evicted it’s up to us foraging sisters to step out into the fear to gather foodsustain the clan,restore humanity and humility,unite the citizenry, dispel the lies.

We speak softly with thoughtful words,tread lightly against threats,lure insults back from the brink,plan a path toward a pandemic of trust. We know what others still must learn:Fires, tornadoes, tsunamiscannot be bullied into submission.Neither can viruses.

So let us put on our hardship boots,lift our shields, march out with compassionand an outstretched arm to show what caring, intelligentleaders can do.Lace ‘em up, ladies.

evie groChThe Gathering Gene

With a wink and a grin he’d always say to meYou’re like the son I never had.I basked in those words,so proud my father elevated meto a status most daughters couldn’t reach.

I earned that praise – accompanied him to work sites, helped him clean vacated apartments,went on walks with himto visit friends on the corner.

I even wielded a hammer, sanded wood, painted walls,learned to drive the Chevy at fourteen under his keen eye,a secret just between the two of us.

He conveyed to me there was nothing I couldn’t doand I believed him.I endeavored time after time to keep myself worthy,to stay in his graces as I thought I should.

And then, after becoming a mother of two girls,I started to wonder.Why hadn’t he appreciated me for the daughter I was?It was too late to ask, but he could have said,You’re the daughter I always wanted,and that would have sufficed.

evie groCh

The Son He Never Had

evie groCh

Ruth Weiss, a poet introduced to me by way of her obituarypublished in the SF Chron on August 4, 2020child of Holocaust escapeesdubbed the Beat Generation Goddess by Herb Caena lone woman in a crowded field of menon the North Beach circuitshe wrote in jazz rhythms creating a new performance artthis five foot giant delivering her words like a locomotivefueled by notes of jazz and beerrising in spontaneous fashion

listeners glued to their seatshypnotized by her deep voice’s timbredipping her chords in German, French, Englishtitle of her next poem at age 92 already chosenyet she never got to write ‘The Muse is Back’passing childless in the nightensures her progeny of poems will passas her heirs to continue her lineageI shall assist in that endeavor as I acquaint myselfwith ‘Ten Ten’ - one of her most popular poemsand respond in words to notes the music mendidn’t want to hear.

Ruth Weiss

To humankind’s benefit, the nobelists Ghez, Charpentier,and Doudna turned a deaf ear on this comparison, putting it swiftly to shame.Not relegated to simply nibbling on the Milky Way,horoscoping, clearing dust as a domestic,getting her hair waved at certain lengths,Ghez pioneered a path in Physics, was justawarded a shared Nobel Prize for her discoveryof a black hole in our galaxy. They call it Sagittarius A.

She imaged infrared wavelengths,visible light once blocked by heavy dust,now seen by her. An advisor has been schooled.

Once considered girls who playwith building blocks ,soft science literary pundits,seamstresses with shearson which to practice,

evie groCh

The Greatest Benefit to Humankind

Girls doing science are like bears riding bikes.Possible, but freakish. (from a graduate school advisor to his female student in The Overstory)

Charpentier and Doudnasplit the Nobel Prize in Chemistryto correct disease-causing mutations,applicable to building blocks of life.Their discovery of clustered regularlyInterspaced short palindromic repeats(Crispr) offers genetic scissors to snipout damaged DNA molecules.

Reverberating messages to young girls:Help rid the circus of bicycle riding bears,and teach the naysayers that the wordfreakish now describes them.

Clare MarshIn 2020 Clare Marsh was published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Flash Flood, Pure Slush, Places of Poetry. A Pushcart nominee (2017) she graduated M.A. Creative Writing (Uni. Kent) 2018.

ardgadg

Mark Blickley is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His latest book is the text-based art collaboration with fine arts photographer Amy Bassin, Dream Streams. https://www.claresongbirdspub.com/featured-authors/amy-bassin-mark-blickley/

Belinda Subraman is a mixed media artist as well as a poet and publisher of GAS: Poetry, Art & Music video show and blog. Her art has been featured in Flora Fiction, Unlikely Stories, Eclectica, North of Oxford, Raw Art Review, El Paso News and Red Fez. She sells prints of her work in her Mystical House Etsy shop.

Belinda suBraMan

Mark BliCkley

lynn MagillLynn Magill lives in Western Washington with deep Iowa roots that influence many aspects of her poetry and visual art. She is scheduled to graduate in March of 2021 with an MA in Professional and Creative Writing.

ardgadg

Lisa Mary Armstrong lives in Scotland with her children. She tutors law and researches women and children’s experiences of the criminal justice system. In her spare time she likes to read poetry and fiction, play the piano and drink lots of tea. You can find her on twitter @earlgrey79_lisa.

Angela Hibbs is the author of four books, most recently Control Suppress Delete (Palimpsest). Her work has been translated into Russian and French. She was awarded the 2010 Joseph S. Stauffer Prize. She was a runner up in the 10th annual IFOA Battle of the Bards.

angela hiBBs

lisa Mary arMstrong

salaM adejokeSalam Adejoke is a Nigerian Writer, Architect and Poet who loves nature, landscape and interior design. When she’s not busy playing Scrabble or trying DIY’s, she’s painting for fun. Her works have been featured on nantygreens, upwriteNigeria, Lucky Jefferson’s ‘awake’ webzine, Meliora, Floresta magazine and others. She can be reached via Twitter @salam_adejoke, Facebook @KingAdejoke, Instagram @king_helixir, or via mail salamadejoker@gmail.com

ardgadg

Amy holds an MFA from the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics where she founded Wisdom Body Collective.

He is a science student who seeks to travel different spheres of life using words with hidden treasures

dauntless

aMy BoBeda

Fran-Claire kenney

Fran-Claire Kenney is a Queer writer and photographer with work in New Pop Lit, Drawn Poorly, and other publications. She studies literature and the social sciences at Sarah Lawrence College.

Tiffany Lindfield is a social worker by day, trade, and heart advocating for climate justice, gender equality, and animal welfare. By night, she is a prolific reader of anything decent and a writer.

Ibrahim’s is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with works published in Ake Review, Door is a Jar Magazine, Agbowó Magazine, Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine, Subsaharan Magazine, and more.

iBrahiM BaBátúndé

tiFFany lindField

Priyanka srivastava Priyanka Srivastava is a writer based in Singapore, her poems are often about her life in India and Singapore. When she is not lost in words, she loves to read specially non fiction books. She also loves to play with colours

ardgadg

Megha Sood is Pushcart Nominated Poet and Editor.National Level Poetry Winner 2020. Poetry Editor for Mookychick(UK), Life and Legends (USA), and Literary Partner with “Life in Quarantine”, Stanford University.

Diana Fletcher is a writer, activist, life coach and speaker. Her international bestseller, Happy on Purpose Daily Messages of Empowerment and Joy for Women revised and expanded edition, is available on amazon.

diana FletCher

Megha sood

sinéad delaney Sinéad is 30 and from rural Ireland. She enjoys languages and writing. She also enjoys stargazing when cloud cover allows. She loves to read and enjoys many types of genres, believing it’s important not to restrict yourself of different ways of seeing the world. After lockdown, she hopes to go to beer gardens in the sun, and walk around the shops without fogged up glasses.

ardgadg

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.

Gerard Sarnat MD’s won prizes/authored four collections; published by Gargoyle, Oberlin, Brown, Stanford, Harvard, Main Street Rag, New Delta Rev, Brooklyn Rev, LA Rev, San Francisco Mag, New York Times.

gerard sarnat

john grey

Penn keMPPenn Kemp has published 30 books of poetry and prose, 7 plays and 10 poetry CDs. The League of Canadian Poets acclaimed Penn as Spoken Word Artist and Life Member.

Zannit is a graduate from the University of Malta in Social Work, in Probation Services, in Diplomatic Studies and in Masters in Probation. She has also obtained a Diploma in Freelance and Feature Writing from the London School of Journalism.

Pramod Subbaraman is a dentist who returned to poetry during the first 2020 COVID19 lockdown in England after a long absence and has since been published in the U.K and the U.S.A

PraMod suBBaraMan

Mary anne ZaMMit

evie groChEvie Groch has been in education all her life. Now retired, her love of travel and writing lured her over to the creative side where she’s published in many genres.