This selection, chosen by guest editor Kenli Doss, is from Astronautsby Amy Miller (Beloit Poetry Journal 2022).
Basement
When my sister came back home, she brought Earth, Wind & Fire. Brought polyester dresses, size 0. Brought pills in a circular pack, suede wedge heels, leather choker, blue eye shadow. Left her boyfriend in California. Left his white hands, her black eye. In our basement, I crashed on her bed on my stomach, feet up and waving, while we listened to Roberta Flack, Harold Melvin, lyrics on the liner sleeves. She brought Janis Ian . . . murmured vague obscenities. She weighed 90 pounds. Brought some kind of sickness that made food sad. Found a new boyfriend in a tequila sunrise, brought him home to our parents for dinner just once: quiet, polite, big fro, tight shirt. We never saw him again. She brought bottles and bottles and bottles. She stored darkness in the empties. At night they stood on her dresser, singing old soul songs as the air moved over their mouths.
Amy Miller’s poetry and nonfiction have appeared in Barrow Street, Copper Nickel, Gulf Coast, Narrative, RHINO, Terrain, Tupelo Quarterly, and ZYZZYVA. Her poetry collection The Trouble with New England Girls won the Louis Award from Concrete Wolf Press. Recipient of a 2021 Oregon Literary Fellowship, she lives in Ashland, Oregon, where she works for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and is the poetry editor of the NPR regional listeners’ guide Jefferson Journal.
Kenli Dossholds a BA in English and a BA in Theatre-Performance from Jacksonville State University. She is a freelance writer and actress based out of Alabama, and she spends her free time painting scenes from nature or writing poetry for her mom. Ken’s works appear in Something Else (a JSU literary arts journal), Bonemilk II by Gutslut Press, Snowflake Magazine, The Shakespeare Project’s Romeo and Juliet Study Guide and A Midsummer Night’s Dream Study Guide, and The White Cresset Arts Journal.
This selection, chosen by guest editor Kenli Doss, is from How to Start a Coven by Deirdre Danklin (Variant Lit 2022).
content warning for sexual assault
Dream Sequence
In my dream life, I walk up a moss-covered spiral staircase to the top of an opalescent tower. I'm a princess in my dream life, there's a white owl with a flat face perched on my shoulder who coos cliches in my ear. Shoot for the moon, the owl says, even if you miss you'll land among the stars. In my real life, there are glow-in-the-dark stars attached to my ceiling fan and a spider stuck weaving a web between the glass of my bedroom window and its screen. I go to school, and I'm not a princess. I have a dog that my family found skinny, starving, tied to a tree. Nothing flies. In my dream life, I catch my teeth in a bloody pile in my hands, and that's how I know something is coming to invade my kingdom. I'm not a princess but a king. So, I wear a crown made of bloody teeth and ride a white owl to the battlefield. There, I fight the falling debris of exploded stars. I win. In my real life, I grow up. I wear a school uniform that makes me look like Lucy from Peanuts. I make a few good friends, but we grow apart. In my dream life, they call me the toothless king, a destroyer and creator. There is peace in the gardens of my kingdom, and pink roses with blue eyeballs at their centers unfold and make the world smell like freshly cracked pistachios. In my real life, I go to a small college in Pennsylvania and every single one of my new friends gets drunk and wakes up with a boy's fingers inside them, or a boy's body on top of them. Twice, I carry a smaller girl home while she cries. In my dream life, a gray mist creeps over my kingdom. I grow a mouth full of baby teeth that scream when it rains. I banish slippery-smiled people from my kingdom, the ones who throw parties and tell me I'm pretty. I tell them to wrap their belongings onto their backs, tie them up with a linen sack, and leave, go, be gone. I sit alone in my opalescent tower and the gray mist shuts all of the flower eyes. In my real life, I get a grant from the French department to study abroad. I eat lavender-flavored gelato and watch jugglers on unicycles maneuver ancient alleyways. I'm old enough to drink in the south of France, so my new friends and I buy cheap wine that tastes like vinegar and dance sur le pont d'Avignon. In my dream life, the mist trembles a little, and I can see flashes of color behind it. The remaining inhabitants of my kingdom, the talking animals and plant poets, say there is a possibility that the gray days may be lifting. They talk about me, shut up in my tower, like an ancient evil. My white owl tries to preen me, but I don't have any feathers. In my real life, I go to Myrtle Beach and I lose track of a friend at a party. In the morning, I get a call from the local jail. They lead her out in shackles and an orange jumpsuit. A boy ripped her clothes off on the beach and she ran away naked and the cops threw her in jail for being indecent. In my dream life, the lightning comes. It irradiates the mist and kills the green grass and turns the toads reciting Shakespeare to stone. The lightning strikes the tower over and over again, and all of my baby teeth scream. In my real life, I meet the man I'll marry at a party, I move to Berlin, I move back, I get married, I work long hard jobs that don't require me to use my brain. I get called sweetie and sunshine and bitch by various bosses and people who call the office on the phone. In my dream life, the earth is scorched, but all of my screaming baby teeth have fallen out. I add them to my crown, which drips with blood. There are words banging on the doors of my opal tower, begging admittance to my abandoned kingdom, so I let them in. Vowels who aren't afraid of me, but sing loud low tunes of mourning and love. Consonants that chuckle and skip all around me. I smile a gummy smile. In my real life, my husband and I move from the worst apartment in the world to a better apartment, and I get into grad school. My boss gives me a nice purse as a parting gift. Our new apartment is overrun with mice, so we adopt a cat. In my dream life, the vowels and consonants weave themselves together in a pattern that becomes people. Characters, they tell me, and I will write about them. I feel a new set of teeth, big and strong, like a horse's teeth, grow in. I smile a fat white smile and order the revived toads to fetch me a pen. We float up to the top of my ancient tower until our heads brush up against the bioluminescent mushrooms that sprout from the roof, glowing pink and green and blue. I write my name on the toads' skin and they shiver with happiness. In my real life, my cat purrs, my husband makes me pancakes, and there is sunshine coming through our bay window in the mornings. In grad school, my professors tell me not to write about dreams.
Deirdre Danklin holds an MFA from Johns Hopkins University. Danklin’s novella, Catastrophe, won the 2021 Clay Reynolds Novella Prize and was published by Texas Review Press. Danklin’s nonfiction has been published in The Ploughshares Bog and CRAFT, among other places. Currently, Danklin is an adjunct professor of writing, and she writes editorial letters for Fractured Lit, The Masters Review, and Uncharted Mag. She won a 2022 independent artist grant from the Maryland State Arts Council. She lives in Baltimore with her husband and two cats.
Kenli Dossholds a BA in English and a BA in Theatre-Performance from Jacksonville State University. She is a freelance writer and actress based out of Alabama, and she spends her free time painting scenes from nature or writing poetry for her mom. Ken’s works appear in Something Else (a JSU literary arts journal), Bonemilk II by Gutslut Press, Snowflake Magazine, The Shakespeare Project’s Romeo and Juliet Study Guide and A Midsummer Night’s Dream Study Guide, and The White Cresset Arts Journal.
This selection, chosen by guest editor Kenli Doss, is from How to Start a Coven by Deirdre Danklin (Variant Lit 2022).
Father Whatawaste
He was handsome like a 50s superman. Hair so black it was almost blue. Eyes the color of Listerine. Our mothers called him Father Whatawaste. This was before we knew about the things priests do to children. We still thought the collar meant close to God. God’s mouth on earth. We went on a trip to the woods. Father Whatawaste and Sister Theresa and thirteen girls from St. Lucy’s Preparatory School. In the woods, we were told, we’d feel closer to God.
On the bus ride to the woods, we were silent. Watching Father Whatawaste talk to Sister Theresa and envying her habit, her marriage to Jesus, that let her lean in, pretending she couldn’t hear the things he murmured to her. We watched her neck flush pink with blood. At night, in our tent, Annabell Hurley said she’d like to take off Father Whatawaste’s cloak and sink her teeth into him. She’d bite him all over until he was purple with her bites. We nodded, we agreed. We, hot-headed catholic school girls, conspired with Annabelle Hurley to consume him whole.
I got up, pretending I had to pee, but really looking for a spiritual experience in the dark. At that age, I thought God was just waiting for me to be alone before he’d show me a sign or grant me His favor. I walked to the edge of the lake, looking for a bolt of lightning or a burning bush. Instead, there was Father Whatawaste, his cloak hiked up to his hips, tentatively trying to walk on water. I believed that he could. He, so handsome, so authoritative. I would have believed he could fly. He stepped once, twice, into the cold water and sank. I watched from the shadows of the trees as he lifted his befuddled head to the sky, searching, like I was searching, for any sort of sign.
Back in the tent, Annabell Hurley was still talking about the things she’d do to Father Whatawaste. She’d tie him up in her father’s toolshed and feed him birdseed out of her hand. Yes, yes, the other girls nodded. She’d encase his feet in cement and bury them in her grandmother’s garden and train peas to vine up his legs. Of course, of course, the other girls said. Listening to them plan their pagan rites, I heard the clarion bell of my vocation. I thought: he is looking for favor in the wrong place. We girls are the priestesses with violent visions. He, his feet wet with failure, should come home to us.
“I know where he is,” I said.
The girls’ eyes shone in the dark.
So, when Sister Theresa found him the next morning, strapped to a tree with ropes taken from our tents, his naked body bedecked with flowers, a bird’s nest resting like a crown on his head, blood running like vines down his legs, her first thought was that it was a beautiful tableau. The center of an Italian triptych. Out of habit, she sank to her knees.
The thirteen girls from St. Lucy’s were nowhere to be found, even though our parents searched for us, we’d heard a higher call. We wait, teeth sharp, for the next group of children led by a beautiful man to the forest, looking for a sign, trying to get closer to God.
Deirdre Danklin holds an MFA from Johns Hopkins University. Danklin’s novella, Catastrophe, won the 2021 Clay Reynolds Novella Prize and was published by Texas Review Press. Danklin’s nonfiction has been published in The Ploughshares Bog and CRAFT, among other places. Currently, Danklin is an adjunct professor of writing, and she writes editorial letters for Fractured Lit, The Masters Review, and Uncharted Mag. She won a 2022 independent artist grant from the Maryland State Arts Council. She lives in Baltimore with her husband and two cats.
Kenli Dossholds a BA in English and a BA in Theatre-Performance from Jacksonville State University. She is a freelance writer and actress based out of Alabama, and she spends her free time painting scenes from nature or writing poetry for her mom. Ken’s works appear in Something Else (a JSU literary arts journal), Bonemilk II by Gutslut Press, Snowflake Magazine, The Shakespeare Project’s Romeo and Juliet Study Guide and A Midsummer Night’s Dream Study Guide, and The White Cresset Arts Journal.
This selection, chosen by guest editor Kenli Doss, is from How to Start a Coven by Deirdre Danklin (Variant Lit 2022).
Mother Love
When my husband and I went to the fertility clinic, the doctor said we could build our own baby.
“What do you mean, ‘build?’” my husband asked.
“There are all sorts of genetic improvements, listed here…” the doctor handed us a glossy brochure. Babies with shark skin, babies with lemur eyes, babies with the bioluminescent glow of deep-sea creatures. We could build a baby that flew through the air, a baby that could make itself invisible, a baby that, when threatened, emitted a noxious poisonous cloud from its tear ducts.
“We’ll discuss it,” I said.
That night, my husband and I had sex again (just in case) and I put my legs up in the air.
“If your parents built you,” I asked, “what would you have wanted them to include?”
My husband hummed off-key and kissed my unsightly moles.
“A singing voice,” he said. “I’d want to sing like a nightingale.”
We ended up choosing a lichen baby. Half-algae, half fungus, our baby would be the strongest, most long-lived baby the world had ever seen. Our baby could live in space! Our baby could thrive for a thousand years after all the nuclear bombs went off.
When our daughter was born, I wrapped her in a moist towel and pulled her spongy body to my breast. She didn’t need me for food, she ate rocks and photosynthesized, but I liked to hold her close and coo a mammalian song.
“Is there still a part of us in her?” my husband asked.
“She’s what she needs to be to survive,” I said.
So, we loved her.
In nine thousand years, the sleet gray rocks of the earth will be crawling with green lichen. There will be nothing left of humans, but my baby will thrive under the silent sky.
Deirdre Danklin holds an MFA from Johns Hopkins University. Danklin’s novella, Catastrophe, won the 2021 Clay Reynolds Novella Prize and was published by Texas Review Press. Danklin’s nonfiction has been published in The Ploughshares Bog and CRAFT, among other places. Currently, Danklin is an adjunct professor of writing, and she writes editorial letters for Fractured Lit, The Masters Review, and Uncharted Mag. She won a 2022 independent artist grant from the Maryland State Arts Council. She lives in Baltimore with her husband and two cats.
Kenli Dossholds a BA in English and a BA in Theatre-Performance from Jacksonville State University. She is a freelance writer and actress based out of Alabama, and she spends her free time painting scenes from nature or writing poetry for her mom. Ken’s works appear in Something Else (a JSU literary arts journal), Bonemilk II by Gutslut Press, Snowflake Magazine, The Shakespeare Project’s Romeo and Juliet Study Guide and A Midsummer Night’s Dream Study Guide, and The White Cresset Arts Journal.
This selection, chosen by guest editor Kenli Doss, is from How to Start a Coven by Deirdre Danklin (Variant Lit 2022).
Attraction
My cousin moved to a forest in the Pacific Northwest.
“There are no other Jews in those woods,” I told her on our weekly phone call.
“No, but I can hear the darkness breathe,” she said.
I didn’t understand the appeal of breathing darkness or mossy trees or being all alone, but I had to admit that my cousin’s voice sounded happier over the line. She liked branches so thick that they blotted out the sky. She liked shadows so deep they could hide a body. I, in the illuminated city, was anxious in a way that made me feel virtuous. My street was flooded with lime-sulfur safety lights. I never stood in the dark. I worried that my cousin was lonely.
“No, a man comes to visit me sometimes,” she said.
“A man?”
My cousin had never had a man before. Or a woman. She’d been solitary by choice, I thought. The kind of person who doesn’t feel incomplete on her own.
“Well, he’s made out of moths,” she said.
The man made out of a cloud of white moths visited my cousin’s cabin on evenings when the darkness felt most alive. She waited for him, naked in the night. The woods around her breathed out a darkness so black she couldn’t see her toes. She knew her man was on his way when she heard his body flapping its wings in the still air. He, so white, appearing like stars. His touch like a flower petal falling over and over on her skin.
“So, he’s elusive,” I said.
“No, he comes pretty regularly and he stays a while. White satin moths, specifically, is what he’s made out of. Leucoma salicis.”
We weren’t the kind of cousins that talked about our sex lives. I, long-married, she, uninterested, we talked about our dreams instead. Maybe, I thought, the moth-man was a dream.
“I had a dream that you died in a wildfire,” I told my cousin. I often dreamed that my cousin died, or my husband died, or I died. All of my dreams were little nighttime catastrophes. She, wearing a long gown of white satin, died in a landslide, in an earthquake, she was carried out to sea, she was swallowed up by darkness. I told her every time I had one of these dreams as if by relaying it I could prevent her death. Shine a light. My cousin told me about her dreams too. She kayaked across still waters. She floated in a blue orb of pulsing calm. She was alone in her dreams, but safe.
“It’s too wet here to burn,” she said.
“Would your moth-man fly you to safety?” I asked. “If something terrible happened?”
“I don’t think his wings are strong enough to carry me. Mostly, he just hovers.”
“Why does he keep coming back?” I asked, suspicious of the softness of these visits, of the tranquility of their nights. “What does he want from you?”
“You know, I asked him that,” my cousin said. It was raining on her end of the line. The soft pat pat of water on leaves. The dark green light of her midday. She paused to listen, maybe she forgot I was there.
Deirdre Danklin holds an MFA from Johns Hopkins University. Danklin’s novella, Catastrophe, won the 2021 Clay Reynolds Novella Prize and was published by Texas Review Press. Danklin’s nonfiction has been published in The Ploughshares Bog and CRAFT, among other places. Currently, Danklin is an adjunct professor of writing, and she writes editorial letters for Fractured Lit, The Masters Review, and Uncharted Mag. She won a 2022 independent artist grant from the Maryland State Arts Council. She lives in Baltimore with her husband and two cats.
Kenli Dossholds a BA in English and a BA in Theatre-Performance from Jacksonville State University. She is a freelance writer and actress based out of Alabama, and she spends her free time painting scenes from nature or writing poetry for her mom. Ken’s works appear in Something Else (a JSU literary arts journal), Bonemilk II by Gutslut Press, Snowflake Magazine, The Shakespeare Project’s Romeo and Juliet Study Guide and A Midsummer Night’s Dream Study Guide, and The White Cresset Arts Journal.
When winter break started this past December, my mother fixed me with a pointed look and told me that I needed to do something about The Piles. What she was referring to, of course, were the small islands of books I have accumulated and scattered around my room over the last few years. Of course, I told my mother, I will do something about The Piles. And I did—I made them into stacks instead.
My current collection of books is a well-loved time capsule of where I have been and where I want to go. Thrice-owned and annotated poetry collections and classics for past coursework, a few choices that evidence my work in the field of psychology (spot the APA style handbook, if you can), and a variety of books that I have sought out, and continue to reach for, as a lifelong reader and striving writer.
Upon closer inspection, you’ll probably notice my affinity for Russian literature and Anne Carson, as well as my absolute distaste for sensical organization or, well, bookshelves. I do have some shelf space above the office desk in our home, however there’s something a little less archival, and a little more active, about having all these piles of books splayed around me. Maybe this is me retroactively justifying The Piles, but I enjoy the feeling of living in and amongst my books.
Memories of friends and loved ones are held within the bindings of the books I own. Poetry collections passed between attentive hands and talked about late into the night, stories that sparked flurries of text conversations, and works given and received as gifts. For me, reading is a deeply communal activity, and as such my books are steeped in my friendships both current and past.
I consider myself to be an omnivorous reader, and my collection of books reflects that. I have a particular sweet spot for translated works and discovering what linguistic choices have to be made to preserve the meaning of the original text, and lately I find myself drawn to visceral writing exploring subjects related to grief and motherhood as well (I highly recommend Olga Ravn’s My Work if you’re interested in similar themes).
I will say that my problem with The Piles used to be much, much worse, though a few moves have helped to pare down my collection. These days, I try hard to frequent the library more than the bookstore, and even so, I seem to end up with a perennial pile that changes characters every few weeks when I have new holds available, little slips of paper alerting me to their due dates sticking out of the tops of said books. Yes, I am that person you see at the library struggling to carry all their holds in their arms. Progress over perfection, right?
While I do my best to prioritize going to the library, my local secondhand shop has a way of beckoning to me, and so The Piles continue to grow. Although I’m not too torn up about this persisting phenomena, it comes as no surprise that when I told my mother I had done something about The Piles and proceeded to show her piles turned to stacks, she was not impressed, and reminded me that in the very near future I would have to pay for shipping for these piles turned to stacks to wherever I move this summer. Let the record show that I am aware and ready to pay for the shipping, because these piles turned to stacks are both a tether to my past, and a line cast into my future.
Addie Dodge is a student at Colorado College pursuing a BA in Psychology with a Minor in English. She is a writer currently working as an editor for her college’s literary magazine, Cipher, and is also a clinical intern at a domestic violence shelter in Colorado. She fills her free time with hiking in the mountains and lots of reading.
Katie Manning’s 28,065 Nights (River Glass Books,2020) is beautifully both elegy and ode, prose and poetry. Through twenty pages of patient reflection, Manning honors one of the most special people in her life, her Granny. As someone who recently lost her own grandmother, I found these poems remarkably relatable; their emotions ring true and universal. And still, Manning’s chapbook is very much uniquely hers, with honest details and nuance that brilliantly navigate grief and love with grace.
28,065 Nights functions on a steady heartbeat, with each prose poem a neat block on the page and with little variation in form. This safe rhythm allows writer and readers alike to settle in and more closely examine the complex aftermath of loss. The chapbook begins with an explanation, indicating Manning’s desire to make sense of something. In “Your Death Explained in Birds,” Manning looks towards nature for answers, though at this point the reader doesn’t know who the “you” is yet. She writes, “Death is the great egret at the swamp, picking newly hatched green herons from their cypress nest…Death is the egret dropping fresh young birds into the swamp with barely a ripple.” (Manning 1). Such disheartening imagery points towards not just the circle of life, but an insignificant and commonplace quality of death. Other lines aim to define the self amongst such loss. Manning states, “I am the pregnant woman standing horrified and helpless. I am the mother heron shrieking and snapping on the branch below. I am the smallest green heron in the nest” (1). The ability to place oneself in multiple positions, to know oneself literally and metaphorically, demonstrates Manning’s dexterity as a poet and provides insight towards the keen self-awareness to follow in the chapbook.
Manning paints a vivid picture of Granny for readers to care about and grieve for. One of the strongest poems from 28,065 Nights, “How to Use Vanilla,” has a didactic title. In the midst of loss, it’s natural to look for directions in order to move forward. Manning learns not only how to make syrup for waffles, but also about the type of woman Granny was. She shares:
“You told me that when you were young, poor girls used vanilla extract as perfume…You’d save it for secret dates, for sneaking off to carnivals. One drop for an older boy, two drops if Daddy disapproved of him for driving too fast.” (Manning 3)
For so many folks, it’s hard to imagine familial elders as people living their lives before their roles as grandparent, parent, etc. in relation to our existence. For example, a later poem, “I Sniff Your Socks,” includes a tender description of Granny: “They smell like you—clean soap, a light blue smell. I handle them carefully and keep them folded” (Manning 13). On the surface, such details are fitting for a grandmother or matriarch. “How to Use Vanilla,” on the other hand, is a delightful celebration to a young woman’s ingenuity, resourcefulness, and rebellious nature. Even though the poem ends on the domestic image of homemade waffles, Manning has flashed an entire life in the previous lines.
At times, Manning’s speaker admits to the struggle of actualizing her main subject in words. When one is first the listener and later becomes the storyteller, details are forgotten, reshaped, or given different significance. “Thomas Anthony,” an example of this phenomenon, is a sad poem about a stillborn child. While the poem ends with an admittance, “The last time you told me this story, I realized I’d never asked the baby’s name” (7), the title reminds readers that Manning, at some point, did learn. Manning uses a seemingly simple format to house her poems, and yet such play with suspense and timing has me rereading them over and over.
Throughout 28,065 Nights, Manning’s speaker acknowledges the passing of time with a tone that’s mature and also saddened. She asks in the middle of the chapbook: “Can the memory of you stay in these things…?” (12). Even without grief or trauma, memory is challenging to control. Poems, objects, stories, places, and familiar faces all help us retain beloved moments in our minds, but ultimately, like nature’s circle of life for the egret in the swamp, there is loss and new birth. One of the later poems in the book, structured as three prose blocks, is organized around three basic understandings that relate to the past, present, and future: “Your house is the setting of my earliest stories…Your house is also my mind’s blueprint for every other house…Your house is someone else’s house now” (16). Once again, Manning reveals information in the title, “The New Owner Invited Me In,” that readers then understand more clearly once they reach the last line.
28,065 Nights is touching and honest portrayal of losing a matriarch. Manning’s details of the past and questions for the future show all the nuances that come with grief, including laughter, joy, and healing. She ends the chapbook with the title poem, which emphasizes the necessity of stories. 28,065 Nights, therefore, also functions on the whole as a set of instructions, encouraging readers to hold onto stories as tightly as possible, that they are as vital as breathing to keep moving on, to continue living life to the fullest.
Livia Meneghin (she/her) is the author of the chapbook Honey in My Hair and the Sundress Publications Reads Editor. She earned a Writers’ Room of Boston Poetry Fellowship, Breakwater Review‘s 2022 Peseroff Prize, and Second Place in The Room Magazine‘s 2023 Poetry Contest. Her writing has found homes in Gasher, Thrush, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. She earned her MFA from Emerson College, where she now teaches writing and literature. She is a cancer survivor.
I’m not joking when I say I’ve had several mothers and fathers, mountains of people that roll through my life like the hills I know as my home. When I say I’ve lived everywhere in Knoxville, I’m not kidding at all, and I know I can’t trade it for the world. But oh boy do I try! My place in this world is one to learn, that’s about as much as you can ask from me as an early-twenty-something. What better way to learn than to read the works of others?
As it has grown over the years, I find myself more and more attracted to my hometown’s book scene. McKay’s, estate and yard sales, as well as any secondhand book store, are the most likely places to find me. So many accessible books! From a very young age, I found myself pouring over textbooks, almanacs, encyclopedias, memoirs, and the mythology series we all read as kids.
I have not met many people who have walked my path before me. But I have met many people whose perspectives I cannot get enough of, as well as people who I talk to once and never again that I remember. I know people have told me it is important for me to share my story, as a child of immigrants passed through foster care’s many hands.
I know it is important to share the works of others. I’ve always needed them to feel like someone walks beside me. These things, as well as the popular morning sun and waning moon in every college poem, are what have compelled me to dream of writing.
I’ve worked odd jobs since I was fourteen; coffee shops, retail, hospital work, and research, sometimes multiple at once. However, my passion really lies in digital archives and preservation. Have you ever held a work of art older than you are? It’s what I’ve chosen to work in for now. People have always praised my work ethic or the way I meld smoothly into whatever’s thrown at me, and now I think to myself, “What if there’s something more? Something left to do I haven’t yet?”
I don’t want to write about what makes other people happy or what is the most productive. I want to write about the laughs between construction workers when the birds wake and a pole falls into the snow. I want to write about a girl in her car, working the grind in fast food, winning the lottery. I want to write the morning sun for someone who thought they’d outgrown learning. I am so, so grateful to write for Sundress Publications because of the doors I know it will open for my future and all of the reading I am sure to do more of this semester. Whenever I read, I learn to write, and whenever I learn to write, I learn how to live a life well-penned.
Brendon Blair is an Appalachia-borne writer born and bred on trailer living and warm Mexican cuisine. Having a dual major in Psychology and English from the University of Tennessee Knoxville, Brendon enjoys intertwining the experiences of queer and fostered people in poetry and prose. They also hold an administrative assistantship at the Office of Science and Technology Information in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. When not writing or working, Brendon enjoys playing strategy games, and dreams of owning a cat to call Eggs Benedict.
This selection, chosen by guest editor Kenli Doss, is from How to Start a Coven by Deirdre Danklin (Variant Lit 2022).
Tortoises
Centuries ago, my love, you and I were a mated pair of giant Galapagos tortoises. We lived our lives shelled into slowness. I stretched my neck out towards a plant. You stretched your neck out towards a plant. The waves lapped. We had no natural predators. Far away from us, people got into boats and murdered each other and spread like lichen across rocks. You and I were nothing but slow love and warm sun for one hundred years.
Today, we’re going to Home Depot to buy a new toilet seat. The toilet seat our landlord installed in our apartment was too big for the toilet and cracked when we sat on it.
“What about the kind with a cushion?” you ask, holding a toilet seat up so that it makes an oval around your face like a frame.
“But how much is that one?”
That one is $25.99 and we feel like we shouldn’t pay that much money for a new toilet seat. When we complained to our landlord, he replaced the cracked toilet seat with an identical $7.99 toilet seat. It was also too big and also cracked because our toilet is too close to our tub to sit straight on. Our apartment is small. There were mice, but we got a cat. We are nothing more than married humans this time.
“What if we got the same one as last time?” I ask.
“But we’ll just crack it again,” you say. You’re frowning in earnest at a row of toilet seats and my heart fills up with love.
“But shouldn’t the landlord replace it again?” I ask. I am already thinking about the Asian supermarket we’re going to after this and the $1 Korean face masks I can buy for every woman in my life to hand out like little sheets of happiness in the weeks to come. I like to get cucumber for my mother, gold for my sister, peonies for my friends. Life is hard, sit still for a moment with a mask on your face. I remember the virtue of slowness from our past life.
“I just don’t want our lives to become a battle about a toilet seat,” you say. “Let’s get the nice one.”
“What are we millionaires?” I ask, but my eyes are already lit up at the thought of sitting on a comfortable toilet seat, the kind that fussy old ladies have. It seems like a silly thing to spend $26 on, but we never make silly purchases.
“We can always take it with us when we go,” you say. I like it when you say when we go, eyes to the future, like a sailor on the prow of a ship.
I clutch the toilet seat to my chest while we wait in line to pay. You pick the line that’s moving the fastest because spotting the fastest cashier is one of your talents.
“This is a nice one,” the cashier says, holding the toilet seat up to the overhead fluorescent lights.
“Thanks,” you say.
My eyes are dazzled by the light on the toilet seat cover, glinting like the tropical sun off of a hard brown shell.
Deirdre Danklin holds an MFA from Johns Hopkins University. Danklin’s novella, Catastrophe, won the 2021 Clay Reynolds Novella Prize and was published by Texas Review Press. Danklin’s nonfiction has been published in The Ploughshares Bog and CRAFT, among other places. Currently, Danklin is an adjunct professor of writing, and she writes editorial letters for Fractured Lit, The Masters Review, and Uncharted Mag. She won a 2022 independent artist grant from the Maryland State Arts Council. She lives in Baltimore with her husband and two cats.
Kenli Dossholds a BA in English and a BA in Theatre-Performance from Jacksonville State University. She is a freelance writer and actress based out of Alabama, and she spends her free time painting scenes from nature or writing poetry for her mom. Ken’s works appear in Something Else (a JSU literary arts journal), Bonemilk II by Gutslut Press, Snowflake Magazine, The Shakespeare Project’s Romeo and Juliet Study Guide and A Midsummer Night’s Dream Study Guide, and The White Cresset Arts Journal.
Sundress Publications is pleased to announce that the readers for our 2024 AWP off-site journals reading, which include beestung, Rogue Agent, Doubleback Review, and The Wardrobe, include KB Brookins, Cat Ingrid Leeches, Crystal Odelle, Jess Sifa, Caitlin Cowan, Amy Haddad, Lenna Jawdat, Atia Sattar, Madeleine Barnes, Mary Hawley, Ania Payne, Remi Recchia, Asa Drake, and Jae Nichelle. The reading will take place on February 9th, 2024, from 6:00 PM to 8:00 PM at Nimble Brewing Company 1735 Oak Street Kansas City, MO 64108.
beestung readers
KB Brookins is a writer, cultural worker, and artist from Texas. They are the author of How to Identify Yourself with a Wound (Kallisto Gaia Press 2022), Freedom House (Deep Vellum 2023), and Pretty (Alfred A. Knopf 2024). How to Identify Yourself with a Wound won the Saguaro Poetry Prize, the Writer’s League of Texas Discovery Prize, and a Stonewall Honor Book Award. Freedom House has received praise from Vogue, BookRiot, Autostraddle, and others. KB is a 2023 National Endowment of the Arts Fellow with writing published in Poets.org, Teen Vogue, Oxford American, and elsewhere. Follow them online at @earthtokb.
Cat Ingrid Leeches is a writer, editor, and adjunct. Their collection, I Wander the Earth, Hungry For Semen, is forthcoming from Carrion Bloom Books.
Crystal Odelle (they/she) is a queer trans storyteller and author of the chapbook Trans Studies (Gold Line Press, 2024). Their stories have appeared in Black Warrior Review, Split Lip Magazine, beestung, manywor(l)ds, Strange Horizons, and elsewhere. Crystal was a Tin House Scholar and Lambda Literary Fellow, nominated for Best of the Net, and anthologized in We’re Here: The Best Queer Speculative Fiction. She writes RPGs at Feverdream Games and serves as academic and administrative coordinator for the Department of Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at Washington University in St. Louis.
Jess Silfa is an Afro-Latine writer from the South Bronx. They graduated with an MFA in Fiction from Vanderbilt University and are currently a PhD student at the University of Cincinnati as a Yates Fellow. Jess is President of the Disabled and D/deaf Writers Caucus and has been published or has work forthcoming in ANMLY, beestung, Transition Magazine, and others.
Rogue Agent readers
Caitlin Cowan is the author of Happy Everything (Cornerstone Press, 2024). She has taught writing at UNT, Texas Woman’s University, and Interlochen Center for the Arts. Caitlin works in arts nonprofit administration for Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp, where she serves as Director of International Programs and as Chair of Creative Writing. Caitlin also serves as Poetry Co-Editor at Pleiades and writes PopPoetry, a weekly poetry and pop culture newsletter. She lives on Michigan’s west coast with her husband, their young daughter, and two mischievous cats. Find her at caitlincowan.com.
Amy Haddad is a poet, nurse, and Professor Emerita at Creighton University. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals, including Journal of Medical Humanities, Touch, Bellevue Literary Review, Pulse, Persimmon Tree, Annals of Internal Medicine, Aji Magazine, DASH, Oberon Poetry Magazine, and Rogue Agent. Her first chapbook, The Geography of Kitchens, was published by Finishing Line Press in August 2021. Her first poetry collection, An Otherwise Healthy Woman, was published by Backwaters Press in 2022. The collection won first place in the Creative Works category of the American Journal of Nursing 2022 Books of the Year Awards. You can learn more about her work at: www.amyhaddadpoetry.com.
Lenna Jawdat is a D.C.-based writer and psychotherapist. Her writing, which explores trauma, identity, and resilience, has appeared in Poet Lore, Passenger’s Journal, Rogue Agent, and Koukash Review, among others. She was a 2023 Sundress Academy for the Arts summer resident and 2021 Best of the Net nominee for her poem “Ode to the Psoas.” She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts, where she is Poetry Co-Editor for Chapter House Journal. Lenna is currently working on a book-length visual documentary poem.
Atia Sattar is a Pakistani-born teacher, scholar, and meditator living in Los Angeles. Her writing explores the embodied intersections of gender, race, mindfulness, and motherhood. Her work has appeared in various publications, including Rogue Agent, Lion’s Roar, Tricycle, and TheCambridge Quarterly for Health Care Ethics. She is Associate Teaching Professor of Gender and Sexuality Studies at the University of Southern California.
Doubleback Reviewreaders
Madeleine Barnes is a writer, artist, and PhD candidate at The Graduate Center, City University of New York. Her debut full-length poetry collection, You Do Not Have To Be Good, was published by Trio House Press in 2020. She is also the author of four chapbooks, most recently The Memory Dictionary (Ethel Press) and Women’s Work (Tolsun Books). Her dissertation-in-progress explores how women use textile work to survive and respond to violence. She earned her MFA at New York University. madeleinebarnes.com.
Mary Hawley is a fiction writer, poet, and literary translator. Her short stories have appeared in magazines such as Hypertext, The Saturday Evening Post, and Doubleback Review, and she received an Illinois Literary Award for fiction. Her translations (Spanish to English) of poetry and prose have appeared in The Common, TriQuarterly, and Deinos, and she is currently translating a trilogy of novels by the Uruguayan writer Sergio Altesor Licandro. She lives in Evanston, Illinois.
Ania Payne lives in Manhattan, Kansas, with her husband, Great Dane, husky, two tiger cats, and two backyard chickens. She teaches in the English Department at Kansas State University and has an MFA in Creative Nonfiction. She is the author of the chapbook Karma Animalia. She has previously been published in Bending Genres, The Rush, Panorama: The Journal of Intelligent Travel, Whiskey Island, The Rumpus, and elsewhere.
Remi Recchia (he/him), PhD, is a trans poet, essayist, and editor from Kalamazoo, Michigan. A five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Remi’s work has appeared in World Literature Today, Best NewPoets 2021, and Prairie Schooner, among others. Works include Quicksand/Stargazing (Cooper Dillon Books, 2021); Sober (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2022); Little Lenny Gets His Horns (Querencia Press, 2023); From Gold, Ghosts: AlchemyErasures (Gasher Press, 2023); and Transmasculine Poetics: Filling the Gap in Literature & the Silences Around Us (Sundress Publications, forthcoming). Remi has been a Tin House Scholar and Thomas Lux Scholar. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Bowling Green State University.
The Wardrobe readers
Asa Drake is a Filipina American poet and author of the chapbook One Way to Listen (Gold Line Press, 2023). She has received fellowships and awards from the 92Y Discovery Poetry Contest, Tin House, and Idyllwild Arts. Her poems have been published with The Slowdown Podcast, The American Poetry Review, The Paris Review Daily, and The Georgia Review.
Louisiana-born and Portland-based Jae Nichelle is the author of God Themselves and the poetry chapbook The Porch (As Sanctuary). She was the inaugural poetry winner of the John Lewis Writing Award from the Georgia Writers Association, and her poetry has appeared in Best New Poets 2020, The Washington Square Review, The Offing, Muzzle Magazine, and elsewhere. She is also a slam poetry champion, and her spoken word poems have been featured by Write About Now, Speak Up Poetry Series, and Button Poetry.