essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
To celebrate International Women’s Day, we have collated eight of our most accessed posts by women.
My friend the tarot reader repeats,
but she is a little drunk,
translucent fingers unfurling,
while shade, levered by branches,
We toured the backstreets of the old town,
inside the bright cinema of midday sun.
In the plaza, edgy restaurateurs
offered squid ink and pickled meat,
and the households of grand families
competed in a war of bougainvillea.
make it prescient like fried curly hair
and bold image
warhol-bright so your eyes explode
in a glimpse of ba-ba-boom
we keep walking
maybe fearful of touching
in front of others
unable to be completely who we are
two men with love
happily growing older
together
the genre of god
is locksmith and that’s
why neon is always
looking for a sign :
You caught me, Foxglove, with your upright colour. You turned me from the river thinking I had been alone. I liked your pale and speckled belly, and the tiny fragile hairs guarding your mouth.
“For most of us living in Europe or the US, we’re so used to seeing altered rivers that we don’t know what a wild river looks like.”
Most of my life-years,
you were already dead. Even in our brief overlap
you were not known to me.
It’s hard being a poet in 2020
Which is when this will be published
If you have the GUTS to publish it
Which I doubt
Being bitter & twisted
In response to your suicide letter, I write that I now order a bowl of vegetable ramen from the local Izakaya whose waitlist fills up twenty minutes before its five pm opening.
C.S. Barnes reflects on her complicated relationship with food through the years, from comfort eating to comfort starving. Features discussion of eating disorders.
Porridge 