GASTROPODA

Editor's note: "moon jelly..." is fueled by curiosity and imagination. What I love about it is what I love about many of the poems I love...

Leave the Light On Thank you for loving me even when I was easy to love. Did you think I was going to say thank you for loving me when I...

my girl, when you grow, if for no other reason to admire how her trousers can still be clipped seven to a row on the drying rack, how...

the margin snails the margin shells edged serrated not a knife they have not split flesh spilt blood and...

My sister and I drive home in the desert on Lone Mountain Road. We approach a dip in the street as a sea of hornworms—Manduca...

I've been watching Dad suffer all weekend in Yellowstone National Park. He hasn't been the same since the divorce. Our campsite is on a...

Editor's note: To read "Slugged" is to experience a certain kind of obsession that is so specific it becomes universal--the hunt for that...

Indigo keep trying to fill the space between cigarette breaks with whatever makes you feel alive and I’ll be there carving my name into...

Now all we eat is words. We used to eat sorrel and pawpaw and hen of the woods. We used to grow our own galangal and hot peppers and...

It’s different when a witch is dreaming. So, I’m careful to think of the future in what-ifs and vascular networks. Transient, diverging...

In my childhood, snow was magic. As the days grew shorter and the temperatures dropped, I became dizzy with the prospect of bright eyes,...

free to move between earth and sky, playing among the stars, never once considering the positions of the sun and moon in relation to my...

When the gorilla arrived at the front door the last thing Edna expected was this desperate hollow feeling inside. She lived day to day...

(they/she) is a queer writer & author based in Seattle, Washington.

We have come here to walk, convinced that a change of scenery and aimless miles are the answer, or the beginnings of an answer. An...

after James McNeill Whistler She stands at the window hair tucked away hands on stone still. Morning light gold through tapping young...

My newborn is blue, not breathing, her umbilical cord wrapped three times around her neck. “Is she okay? Is she okay?” My voice catches...

Editor's note: I was drawn to this piece because of that opening paragraph - dreamy, flowing images counterbalanced with a cold, hard...

-for franklin k.r. cline the snow shut the woods up for once & now everything is wet my boots & socks my cute little gloves all afternoon...

The old neighbor lady passed on a hot Monday morning. No one found her until the Mobile Meals breakfast and lunch stacked up against the...