“I chinked the gaps in
with mud and slush and snow,
daubed over everything
with fir trees
and colored lights
and train rides to Virginia
you don’t realize things are missing”

—“I Miss the Birds in Winter” by E.M. Anderson ( @elizmanderson)

In Anderson’s poem, sound serves as a portal to memory and to an emptiness that we don’t realize has formed until something begins to fill it. For the speaker, the return of the birds in the spring cracks open this emptiness the way the last of winter’s frost splits as it melts.

. And suddenly the longing for other things bursts forth, the speaker missing “all the splintered pieces of myself when I wore a wedding ring.” I love how this poem touches on the nature of memory. We see that memory can be a valve waiting to be unclogged,

and that sometimes all it takes is something small (like the simple trilling of the birds) to remove the blockage. Then everything rushes forth.

“The lesson is:

nature will kill you eventually, from the inside out
or as another of its incarnations. Still, I prefer its marvels
over myth”

—“Ouroboros” by Gretchen Rockwell ( @daft_rockwell)

Rockwell’s poem is a nature poem, yes, but not in the ways that we are accustomed. Instead of lingering on nature’s beauty, Rockwell instead locks in on the danger of nature and finds strength and power its self-destructive quality. The images in this poem are incredible,

not just in their descriptions, but also in the way that they are connected, how they are all different versions of each other. The phoenix self-immolating in the middle of the poem later becomes the seeds that “can only bloom after being / burned,”

the jewel wasp that eats its prey’s corpse from the inside out later becomes the flower poking through the ground while ash clogs the air. The poem itself begins to produce the very thing it explores; reincarnations of nature.

The poem’s title “Ouroboros” becomes so much more meaningful when we reach the end of the poem, and that is also an intentional move. By cycling back to the beginning, WE form the Ouroboro; we become the snake doubling back to swallow the tail. ( @daft_rockwell daft_rockwell)

“We’re running out of gum, but neither of us is calling it quits just yet. You, reaching under your seat, fingers probing for more ammunition.”

—“You and Me, on a Train, Chewing Gum” by Joshua Starrs

Starss’ flash piece is a really fun and playful moment of connection between strangers, but also an exploration of how far we will go to capture someone’s attention. The speaker finds himself on a train-car sitting across from one other person,

and the two begin trying to blow a larger bubble with their gum than the other person. The voice in this piece is compelling and humorous, narrating this impromptu gum-chewing competition with the dedication and passion of a sports commentator. And the competition itself is silly

teetering into the absurd as the speaker and the stranger begin to collect left-behind gum from the train to add to their bubbles (I KNOW, I know) until their bubbles are so big that they touch. But through this outlandish competition, behind the bubbles,

we can see ourselves at one point—nervous, out of our element, but looking for something (anything) as a way to connect with someone else.

“I am a wet finger slowly moving
down the curve of the glass.
I am the head dissolving on my tongue;
The bitterness mingles with my own
then melts.”

—“End of My Shift” by E.V. McLoughlin

McLoughlin’s poem finds us on the cusp of relief after a long day’s work, writes a cold beer into our hands. I love how this poem simply allows the speaker to exist comfortably and confidently within her sweat, her hands covered in callouses and burns.

There is a pulse of self-love beating in this poem that really resonated with me. But I think McLoughlin takes it a step further—not only is there an acceptance and love of the self, but there is even a sexiness here, something sensual about the speaker’s messiness.

The end of the poem confirms this in its final couplet, “Now come, hold my hand, / and take me home.” Whether the “you” is the reader or someone close to the speaker, there is a final suggestion of intimacy and comfort in returning home together.

“He knows
this is hell he’s in, no doubt of it
with all the treasure here, the brightness

dragged down from the upper world and spread
out like scattered flowers”

—“Sisyphus Decides” by Ciarán Parkes

I love this poem because it tricks me for a moment, and I think it’s really wonderful when poems can catch you off guard. Parkes uses Sisyphus, a figure from Greek mythology who has been punished to roll a huge boulder up a hill eternally, as the speaker of the poem.

And finally, Sisyphus has decided to give up on pushing the boulder, finally lays down in the grass and watches the boulder tumble down a new hill and into a new area. This feels like a relief and a rebellion; “Finally!” we think as readers. Somehow Sisyphus will break the curse.

But this temporary relief is only Parkes pulling the wool over our eyes. Sisyphus looks around and begins to describe how he knows he is in hell, which includes “all the people, / doomed to torment, misery, the loss / / of everything they’ve ever loved but still /

looking, for the moment, almost cheerful.” And the realization hits—we’ve caught Sisyphus in his cheerful moment, and shortly, he will return to misery, and will meet the boulder at the bottom of the hill and begin again.

“I think true power comes from offering God or the gods, whoever might be listening, blood slowly. Over years. Decades. Years and years’ worth of nicked fingers and cut hands…”

—“A Candle in the Darkness” by Kara Race Moore

Moore’s story is told from the perspective of Maid Marian of Sherwood, the love interest of Robin Hood in folklore. Moore’s storytelling is sharp. The beginning of the story is brimming with suspense, as Marian bribes her way into a convent in the wee hours of the night

to visit her mother who is a nun there. But that tension gives way to tenderness when Marian is reunited with her mother, who is genuinely happy to see her. This story really resonated with me because of its message,

the ode to women and the work of women that lies at its center. We are treated to this really wonderful speech by Marian’s mother, in which she argues that women understand the true nature of sacrifice, understand that giving life takes time.

Marian and her mother also participate in a candle lighting ritual, one that they used to do with the rest of the women in their family, and the memory of that candle-lighting becomes symbolic for a passing on light and life. This story argues that women can do it all,

and we see that even in the main characters—Marian, an outlaw serving her people, participating in a sort of revolution, and her mother, a nun who is fiercely wise and maternal. Moore reminds us that women are at the center of change, of revolutions, of sacrifice.

“A body—

Wooly brown bushes;
willful coats;
Scythes that shear
this adipose earth.

A harvest—

Blood swims on this chin”

—“Anthropic Transceiver” by J.T. Gwiadzowski

The language and succinct images in Gwiadzowski’s poem are really stunning. A short poem made up of fragmented sentences, this piece really leans in to the concept of the transceiver. The poem both transmits its own perceptions of the body

“hills of flesh, / small, fresh & tense” and receives another set of images about the body that seem to come from an external place “liberated mines / with deep veins; / surveyors scream, ‘They’ve been / misplaced.’” I also love how the body and the earth are nearly inseparable

in this poem, so much so that they are interchangeable. This is also an exercise in anthropic transception—we often transmit images of the body and receive images of nature (and vice versa). At the foundation of this poem lies a reminder that

the body and nature will always be connected.

“His whole face softens when he sees me, and his mouth twists, and he almost misses when he reaches back to the bar to set down his cider. A single star burns through the darkness in my chest”

—“Love Songs for Circumnavigation” by Hannah Lamarre ( @alluringskull)

I must start with the admission that this story made me weep. The main character Alma finds herself at a concert alone, and we learn that this is because she has been avoiding Bel, the man she is dating. The reason? Alma is asexual, and grapples with feeling that it is unfair

to ask Bel to be in a relationship without sex. Lamarre’s ability to render Alma’s internal conflict is fantastic. We see Alma struggling to come to terms with her decision to essentially “ghost” Bel, while also realizing her desire to be with him.

But a conversation with her friend Molly prompts her to realize that her anxiety stemmed from an internalized belief that something was wrong her. To witness this transformation on the page was really wonderful—to see Alma realize that it was a matter of asking Bel

to respect her sexuality was an empowering and moving moment. But interspersed with these meaningful realizations are also these tender moments (cued by the songs playing during the concert) of Alma falling in love with Bel in flashbacks.

Bel and Alma’s final confrontation didn’t fall victim to cliché either; I felt both Bel’s vulnerability and fear of being dumped, and the physical tension Alma held in her body as she braced for rejection. But Bel validates Alma’s sexuality and wants to be with her.

The final image of them running up to the front of the stage together completely RUINED me.

@alluringskull

“At Hebrew school, we sang great
Green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts.
She loved horses and lying and wine.”

—“The Girl Who Taught Me To Eat Bacon” by R.D. Landau

Landau’s poem is an adventure, chock full of lines so sonically playful that they almost tongue-twist the reader. The speaker recalls memories with an old friend who is now distant, which the speaker clearly attributes to the friend “finding God.”

The speaker looks back with fondness on times when the friend engaged in what may be considered “sinful” behavior—throwing candy at the rabbi, loving lying and wine. Yet the friend’s devotion to religion has changed her.

I love how Landau only begins to uncover the true emotion running beneath the silliness at the poem’s end—there is pain and grief over the loss of a friendship. The final lines are both hilarious and heartbreaking; “Maybe I’m jealous of her and God / maybe I’m (her words) a basic

bitch.” These last two lines are so brilliant because I think they really reveal how deep the speaker’s pain runs—the speaker can’t even linger on her jealousy, so she must quickly return to safe territory (humor). And even in the last line,

there is that longing for an older version of the friend, the version that would have called the speaker a “basic bitch.”

“Then he left, clicking the door shut behind him, leaving Jen alone with the light of the monitor, which showed the silent images of two people she feared she had killed long before they even had a chance to be born.”

—“Images Across a Shattered Sea” by Stewart C. Baker

Baker’s incredible story has one foot in the present and one foot in the future. The story begins with two characters, Fatima and Driss, who encounter a “message bubble” on their hike. We quickly learn that these are supposed to carry some sorts of trinkets from the past,

but when Fatima and Driss open theirs, they only see their own faces. Baker then takes us to the present, where Jen, an engineer, is using the message bubbles to track changes in the future as her boss (nicknamed “Hog”) tries to plan some sort of military action

which will affect the future that they are monitoring. When Jen begins to see Hog’s decisions beginning to affect Fatima physically, she panics and decides that she doesn’t want to participate in potentially ruining the future. But Jen’s decision doesn’t matter—

Fatima figures out what the message bubble is for and reverse engineers the process somehow, sending message bubbles back into the present that will hold information to stop the Hog’s plans. Baker’s story is both a warning and praise of technology,

a reminder that what can ruin us can also save us. This message resonated with me, especially as we find ourselves in an sociopolitical environment where technology can both misinform and educate, can spread hate but also, love.

“The sunrise will come. Grip
the steering wheel. Watch
for merging traffic. Breathe.
On dark nights, carry a flashlight
And learn to tell green leaves from brown ones by touch.”

—“Understanding Dorothy” by E. Jade Lomax

Lomax has two poems in this issue but I wanted to zero in on this one, because this one stayed with me. Lomax’s poem is a succinct reminder to slow down and take the world in, to give it permission to be beautiful.

The poem opens with the speaker driving through the sunset without even noticing its beauty, the speaker stating “It’s funny, how we don’t notice things like that.” Then the rest of the poem breaks into these repeated statements and reassurances

as the speaker attempts to pull us out of our routines and out of the monotony of the every day. This is a message of hope, especially now. When everything feels drained of it’s color, Lomax reminds us “the sunrise will come.”

If we just look around and let ourselves feel, the world can be beautiful again.

“Moving in exhausted you, but it did not take long. The boxes found themselves to their proper rooms. You figured one of your girlfriends moved them while you brought more into the apartment. They did not.”

—“How to Live with the Monster in Your Apartment” by Lily Wasserman

Wasserman’s piece is a hilarious instruction manual on how to live with and get along with a supposed monster in a new apartment. Catered to the new tenants, this pamphlet is meant to ease the tenants (and even better, US) into this transition. I love how this piece uses the form

of the instruction manual to its advantage and how it essentially makes me a participant. But also, you find yourself getting increasingly invested as you get deeper into the manual. Wasserman brilliantly plays into what is already familiar (new noises when you move

into a new apartment) and manages to twist it into an absurd reality. But when it DIDN’T seem that absurd by the end, I realized that I had completely stepped into the Wasserman’s world as a tenant simply trying to figure things out.

I also found myself checking for odd notes on the walls, but that’s neither here nor there!

“When my teeth
sink into a plum
and juice erupts
in my mouth,

I wish the taste
away.”

—“Of Plums and Cacti” by Tonya Streeter

Streeter’s poem is a short, image driven poem about preferences. On the surface, the speaker simply states they dislike the taste of the plum, hate the feel of a cactus grazing the skin. But these simple statements give way to a firm command at the poem’s end,

the speaker insisting that that others stop trying to convince them that their feelings are wrong. This poem is wonderful because I think it really opens up to a much broader context, and much heavier argument—

how we feel IS fact. Especially now, when there is a huge societal push to distinguish between opinion and fact, this poem argues that there is another important thing to remember. The way we feel should not and CAN NOT be dismissed.

“I acquired another man, and let him stay awhile, until he grew grey around the edges and yearned for company that changed as he did, who creased about the face in that human way, until he left.”

—“Aeaea on the Seas” by Hester J. Rook

I absolutely love this story and the way that the slow reveal of information really works wonders. Rook writes from the perspective of Circe, a witch/enchantress from Greek mythology. The story opens with her on the phone talking to a friend, annoyed that someone has

come knocking on her door. Seems innocent enough right? Of course not. We know that Circe is an enchantress, and as she opens the door and examines the man standing there, we quickly learn that she is known for turning her visitors into animals.

But this man comes prepared, with a protecting plant in his pocket to keep Circe from changing him. And so they begin a relationship. But over time, the man ages and Circe does not, which we find has happened to Circe more times than she can count.

But as we learn more about Circe’s female friend, we slowly learn that Circe’s friend is REALLY Medusa, and that the two women are actually in love. Of course, loving Medusa comes with its risks. But what was so beautiful about this story was seeing Circe and Medusa work

around that danger; Medusa sending a sketch of herself, Circe blocking out the eyes of Medusa picture on her phone. Finally, Medusa shows up on Circe’s doorstep in dark glasses, and I audibly screamed in celebration.

The term “happily ever after” takes on a literal meaning here (Two immortals together? A dream!)

How are we holding up out there?!?! We good???? Okay good!

“Asking:
How sour will the citrus be today,
Exploding off the tongue after
careful separation? How carefully

will incisors slice into delicate
beads of flavor, savoring the smile?”

—“An Afternoon Snack” by Macy Davis

Talk about STEAMY. This poem uses the image of the speaker’s mother peeling an orange at the sink as a euphemistic substitute for sexual intimacy, the speaker’s lover praising and devouring the body like fruit. The language here is to die for.

Davis brilliantly juxtaposes the tender and the violent to communicate the lover’s urgent need and desire (“careful separation,” “slicing / delicate beads”). I’m a sucker for some visual overlay, and this poem masters it—

we begin to see the lover’s hands and the image of the citrus cutter at once, we see the quartered orange and a part of the speaker’s body in the mouth simultaneously. The final two lines of the poem hint at future repetitions,

the cyclical nature of this ritual and of sex. “I ask him when he thinks he will be full. / When eating stops feeling like unwrapping a present.” The lover’s need will never be satiated.

“It is a midwife’s work to open the doors to life. It is not such a different thing top open them, one last time, from the other side.”

CW/TW: pregnancy/miscarriage

—“The Weight of Her World, And Another” by Aimee Ogden

Told from the perspective of Josya, the midwife to the goddess of creation, this story examines how women are beholden to one another, and how we may deal with helping to give life and losing it as well. We find Josya traveling to the goddess to help her give birth

birth after having four unsuccessful deliveries in the past. Josya is stricken with fear and anxiety, and the presences of a new “intern,” Ato, doesn’t lessen the load. But when the goddess delivers another baby Josya believes to be stillborn,

Ato takes over and somehow manages to speak life into the child. Then, the goddess disappears. In the conversation afterwards, Ogden reveals what lies at the heart of Josya’s anger—she realizes that this successful birth means that she will no longer be needed,

and fears being replaced by someone younger. Yet Ato reassures her that there will always be a goddess of creation to serve, that Josya will always have a place. This moment between the two also translated to a need for a purpose for me, a need to help and serve

other women. I love how this story casts women as each other’s greatest allies, how this story argues that we will always need each other.

“I could say they don’t respect me, and this lands closer to the truth. But the hard part, the real kicker, is that they really love me. They are trying so hard to save me.”

—“Far Beyond the Stars” by Shelby Lynne

Lynne’s story is a beautiful story about sexuality, a young girl slowly coming to terms with being gay while also navigating a conservative family. The list of things to love about this piece simply doesn’t end. Lynne uses the speaker’s love for Jadzia, a Star Trek character,

as a point of entry into the speaker’s sexual awakening. And yet we see why this is so difficult for the speaker, as the tradition is also tied to an intimate and unique relationship with her father, as they bonded watching the episodes together as the speaker grew up.

What is so heartbreaking about this piece is how clearly Lynne renders both the father’s love for the speaker alongside his inability to understand her identity. The man who let the speaker stay up past bedtime to watch Star Trek as a child is the same man

who the speaker cuts contact with by the end of the story. And yet this story isn’t an unfamiliar one. But through this heartbreak emerges the triumph of the speaker choosing herself over her family, deciding to enforce healthy boundaries and to protect the self

even with the knowledge that she is loved.

“One long autumn’s night, I knew,
she left me beneath a fading tree.
I think she had a choice.”

—“Journeys” by Mari Ness

Ness’ poem is a snapshot of intimacy and then loss. I really admire how this poem uses the seasons and these really striking images to communicate the dynamics of the relationship between the speaker and you beloved. The first stanza suggests that the beloved has revived

the speaker somehow, as “my once-grey tears turn gold.” My the beloved continues to change the speaker and is perhaps unsatisfied with who the speaker is. Ness also makes an interesting choice by repeating “she said” in the first and second stanzas,

which then changes to “I knew” in the final stanza. This shift suggests that the beloved wasn’t being sincere or was even manipulative. The final stanza holds sadness as we realize that the beloved has left, but there is also a reclamation of power.

With the beloved gone, the speaker can finally see the relationship for what it really was, and this new agency outweighs the loss.

“and sky
the largest hole
I can’t fall into.
The one constant still
mutable, blue to black
to bleeding dawn, not like
the sea, a faceless mirror.”

—“Only Treading” by Hal Y. Zhang

Zhang’s poem is written from the perspective of someone treading water, only their heads right above the surface. And while that seems normal enough, Zhang takes this regular occurrence and distorts it, honing in its potential terrors and uncertainties.

I love how Zhang plays into the form of the poem. Split into two long stanzas, the first stanza can be seen as what is above the water—the beauty, the safety. But once we hop across the stanza break,

we go underwater (figuratively and spacially) and suddenly we can see what is hidden in the water’s depths, the danger that lurks beneath the surface, “only yourself, / broken” on the other side.

“I am breath winding
through branches, I am moonlight glinting
on open eyes, I am egg and decay
and a careful record of magic
born from mortality.”

—“Body of Knowledge” by Jennifer Crow

Crow’s poem is a stunning ode to the body, praise for the body’s ability to give life and keep record of it. This poem is spilling over with confident acceptance of the body’s beauty, even pride at how the changes with time and experience.

But I think my favorite thing about this piece is how Crow labels the body as storyteller, which is brilliant and true. What we ourselves cannot remember, the body displays. The time that our minds cannot recall,

the body still keeps track. And in seeing the body as storyteller, we can show a greater appreciation for the body’s individuality and uniqueness. Each one has a different story—and suddenly, we want to hear them all.

“Bruise purple, smudged high tide lines
Parallel the waves—dead debris, bleached
Crepe paper bits, tattered by breezes.”

—“Velella Velella” by Pat Tompkins

Tompkins’ poem is one that is fascinated with nature and its ability to mimic other things. The velella velella are jelly-like sea creatures nicknamed “by-the-wind sailors” due to their appearance and shape, using a sail structure to drift across the ocean. And Tompkins plays

plays into the similarities between the velella and a boat, describing the creatures like a ship—“wind directs the flotilla: / triangular fins, diagonal on flat ovals, a lesson in physics and navigation.” I love the simplicity of this poem,

how it is both in awe of the creatures yet mourns for them as they wash ashore and die. And yet Tompkins leaves us with a common connection between us and these boat-like creatures—we are all travelers, all being blown along until we wash up on our own shore.

“He turned to me, and when I saw the red dripping from the sides of his mouth, I knew I had to leave. I told myself, Never again. I’m done. The wine looked far too much like blood.”

CW/TW: abusive relationship, sexual assault

—“Endlessly” by Daniel Garcia

Garcia’s piece is another one that left me in tears. The speaker recounts an abusive relationship with a man, one in which he was physically and sexually assaulted. Garcia skillfully captures the web assault victims can sometimes find themselves in;

the cycle of wanting to run while also wanting to be loved, letting go but then going back and hoping for things to change. The comparison between the speaker and Icarus is so beautiful, as we can imagine a boy intoxicated with the love of flying,

so enraptured with the sun’s beauty that he did not realize it’s danger until it had already burned him. And this is how we see the speaker of the poem—flying headfirst into the sun of his abuser.

This portrayal of the relationship is so intricate that as a reader, I too experienced the surges of hope and betrayals just as the speaker does. I too found myself holding my breath when the abuser was tender and kind,

when he lifted the speaker up and spun him in his arms. And I felt the world pitch when the speaker was hit, as I was also left reeling at the sudden change. This story got to me because for a moment, I was Icarus too.

I saw so clearly the appeal, and even when I so clearly saw the danger, I wanted to only see the good. But Garcia reminds us that we come first, and that to truly survive, we have to let go.

“I planted my heart in the long grasses,
soft against my bare calves,

watered it with joy and sorrow.
Let it steep in the sunlight.”

—“Bloom” by Alice Fanchiang

Fanchiang’s poem is about healing, how to love again after heartbreak. The use of seasons here is both beautiful and telling. Fanchiang opens the poem by comparing heartbreaking to a cold and wet winter, and alternatively spring is seen as a time to love again,

, to water the heart/love and watch it bloom. But as we know, the seasons are cyclical in nature, and this informs how we see grief and healing. Fanchiang argues that both will return, that both are destined to come back around.

But if we can begin to see hurting and healing as regular parts of our lives, we can handle both processes with more preparation and more grace. There is no need to worry, we will always be returned to the “fields of gold.”

“Show me the lights
growing brighter every second.
Show me the marvels
of hello.”

—“Eulogy for Arrival” by Rae Rozman

Rozman’s poem, the final piece in the issue, ironically serves as a really tender ending and goodbye. The three stanza of the poem repeat the same beginning “Show me,” which indicates that the speaker is no there, can no longer access the beloved and the home that they speak

so fondly off—we understand that love and home have been lost. But this serves as a perfect exit to the issue as well, as we want to be shown again the pieces that have stuck with us along the way. But the good part is, we can be shown the way back.

All we have to do is turn the page.

And THAT will bring my live tweet thread to an end! 150 pages of poems and stories mini-reviewed for YOU.

This was a kick-ass issue, and I cried. Multiple times (good thing I showed you guys my #litmaglook BEFORE we kicked things off). You should 100% buy a copy of this mag.

Also, there is some beautiful artwork in this issue (including really cool comics)! CHECK IT OUT!

Again, a special thank you to @LiviDol and the entire @wzrdsinspacemag team for this beautiful issue and for wanting to be a part of #LitMagLiveTweets!

Signing off my live tweet thread for the day! This girl needs a NAP!

Thank you all for your continued love and support. See you next time!