Intelligence Has Nothing to Do With This

There is nothing natural about this
--------.-- --- ..-
Heaven knows why I click
-------.- .-. .
Every time. Watch to the end
---------------. --- -
-------Heart in my throat, pixels drop
--------------.. -.
-------Under and over to an image
---------------.-. --- -. - .-. --- .-..
-------My mother, it could be my mother
--------------.-- .... —
-------Another person, it could be any
--------------- .-. .- -. ... .-.. .- - . …
-------Number of people they fed into the machine
---------------------- .... . ... .
--------------Slithering and writhing, fingers and teeth
---------------------.-- --- .-. -.. …
--------------Press and meld, unnaturally, this thing was not made
----------------------. --- -
--------------In the image of any God it can’t be
----------------------.-- --- ..-
--------------Red pours through my veins
----------------------. --- -
--------------It has no veins but it has a voice
----------------------.-- --- ..-
--------------The things it says it says
----------------------------..
---------------------I can’t remember why we wanted this
-----------------------------.-. --- ..- .-.. -..
---------------------So many numbers, so many
----------------------------- . .-.. .-..
----------------------------Rattling wires likes bones
------------------------------------.-- --- ..-
----------------------------Only it wears our faces now
-----------------------------------.- -. -.--
----------------------------They wear our skin
------------------------------------- . ... ... .- --. .
----------------------------They were given no we gave them
------------------------------------.-- --- ..-
----------------------------I didn’t, did I?
-----------------------------------.-- --- ..- .-.. -..
----------------------------Nothing in me was born to resist
------------------------------------... . .-.. .. . ...- .
----------------------------God made us to be shepherded
-----------------------------------.- -. -.-- - .... .. -. --.
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Written by Molly “Vinny" Worsley.
Vinny Worsley is a young Texan writer studying languages at Butler University. She writes fiction, plays, poetry, and aspires to be a literary translator.
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It Got Dark

That month I stayed by the ocean, I couldn’t learn to read
the tides or why everyone but me had their own lighthouse.
Tsunamis almost never happened and so we still live by the sea.
Sometimes, though, the asphalt looked purple
as flowers. A mother and daughter walked in blocks
of bright sweatshirts against the flat void of fog.
Bird shaped birds on the beach shaped beach.
Daisies and foxglove flickering past us,
pink and white and pink and white. In a town
smelling like wet dogs, they were watering the woodyard
which they have to sometimes in some places
for some reason. You said you didn’t mind being unhappy
the way I do. I couldn’t find it in myself to feel anything
about that. At the tire store, a hand-written sign in a truck window
said LOVE ‘EM ALL AND LET GOD SORT ‘EM OUT.
I used a man’s name. It wasn’t mine. I wanted someone
to be kind to me in a meaningless way.
I stared into the face of a foreign animal,
taxidermied and hung on a rack of all-terrain Goodyears.
Less than half the people in this country have seen
the Milky Way. In turquoise breakers, the sun sank
hazy and pink as a fingernail. The sand turned the color
of a mirror and I stood up to my waist in the water
for a long time. I missed those years I loved you
and it didn’t matter what you did. If snow is the place for the soul,
the Pacific is the place for painful little hearts. It got dark.
The light didn’t know what I wanted. It said nothing
in the shadow of the cypress tree cutting across the house like a gash.
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Written by Gion Davis.
Gion Davis is a trans poet from Española, New Mexico where he grew up on a sheep ranch. He performs with DIY music collective, Clementine Was Right. Website: giondavis.com
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Landmine

Some bodies are temples,
some, sanctuaries—
vessels to worship, protect.Others are vehicles, products, artwork—
built to be used, sold, admired.But mine is a landmine,
wired to detonate
without warning—
on others, or myself.
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Written by Rebecca Dietrich.
Rebecca Dietrich is a poet and photographer from Atlantic City. Her debut collection, Under the Stars of Turtle Island, was published by Wayfarer Books (2025).
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Lost Track

I seldom remember until I hear it:
The bellowing rumble prowling
Under the carpeted floors of my bedroom;
A waning whistle crawling,
Creeping through my open window
Like a cold breeze on bare skin–stealing my attention
And sense of security as I read.I have no idea where, or from how far it’s come;
Never even seen the tracks on my walks through the woods,
Or come across a station, but it’s out there–waiting for me.
It pounds its guttural whispers into the ground
From across the shadowed forest calling to me.I picture it as an ancient thing,
Not some modern, electric, lifeless machine
That looks like it came out of a subway, but a real train:
One blasting plumes of smoke like frosted breaths of winter;
Galloping like a band of galvanized horses
Across tracks to nowhere. I close my eyes and feel
The bright coals burning like signal fires inside its iron belly;
With no caution given to bestial heat that lies within.I open them again to find their eyes
Staring back at me. I feel them glaring
Through the walls of my home;
Searing their watchful gaze into the back of my skull.
My skin begins to boil as they brand me,
And the lamp-light succumbs to their reddish-orange hue.Then–it all burns out:
The static rumble, the silenced whistle,
And the sleeping infernal eyes of the beast.
As they fade and drift into the night, so does their memory.
A soft, wandering wind fills their absence;
Cooling the burns left in my mind
Until not even ashborn scars remain.I hope, one day the wind will carry me
With it into the night; over the forest
And aboard the train to nowhere, so
I may return its watchful gaze, and ask,
What do you see in me? What is it you’re looking for?
Incapable and ignorant, my wishes are left
Scattered amongst the wind.
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Written by Adam Campney.
Adam Campney is a current student at SUNY Plattsburgh pursuing a degree in Creative Writing and Anthropology.
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Market Price

All my life I’ve been told
my sex is a commodity, a currency,
something to protect, to hide, to shame.
It was a burden, a disgrace, yet
endlessly sought if not on the highest guard.Mothers being shamed for telling their daughters
to cover up around a male relative or family friend
when all they want is to teach their girls that no,
not every man, but still possibly any man.Eleven years old, my great uncle—
kneeling beside where I lay on the couch,
talking to me like an equal, a grown up,
so mature for my age, and the prettiest eyes,
his hand, too warm, on my shoulder
leaning over me when the door opens and
his face changes, his body lurches away,
my great aunt and cousin looking on
brows drawn as he slinks from the room.Two weeks later, swinging side by side out back
on the swing-set, baking in the summer sun,
my ten-year-old cousin confides in me
that’s how it started,
but no one walked in to interrupt
as he knelt over her.Twelve years old, at my stepfather’s wake—
a party, at a bar, after his drunk driving death,
choking on cigarette smoke, adrift among clouds of it
some old man, hands on my hips as he ‘shows’ me
how to shoot pool, and tells me how sweet I look
in my black dress.Twelve years old, Christmas Day, my grandpa—
his hand up the back of my sweater,
beneath the band of my bra, but he’s just
rubbing soothing circles and he’s had a bit to drink
and I shouldn’t have worn that top anyway so just
step away quietly, gather your things to go
not knowing you’ll have nightmares for
the following month.Thirteen years old, my favorite teacher—
last day of school before the holidays,
I’m wearing a giant bow on my sweater, and he asks
if I’m a gift or a decoration? ‘Be careful,’ he says,
‘if you say gift that means I get to unwrap you!’Too many moments to list, too many moments forgotten,
on purpose or on accident, I couldn’t say.Sixteen years old, my first boyfriend—
I said no, but I shouldn’t have been naked,
on a scratchy couch in a screened in porch in February
and I’m not sure, but well it already happened
the sky didn’t collapse and mistakes happen,
so, I guess no harm done, he said sorry
and they never apologize.Sixteen and it’s supposed to hurt for girls
is the lie we’d been fed and so I’ll just keep trying
and eventually it won’t.Eventually it will be like they told us.
Pleasure, passion, connection,
metamorphosis.Until then it becomes bearable,
sometimes almost nice.Until then it becomes a commodity, a currency,
something to barter or reward, to protect,
to hide, to shame.
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Written by Ameythist Moreland.
Ameythist Moreland holds a B.S. with concentrations in English, Language, and Health from WMU. For more information on her poetry and novels please visit ameythistmoreland.com
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Metamorphosis/trans formation

By Christmas in a decade
when the snow we remember refuses to fall,
the only thing you’ll know
is the name you used to call me.
Not a chosen metamorphosis,
but one that swam its way to my frame,
bubbled from vein to heart to brain.As a child, I looked at the tiger-striped cocoons liquifying their insides inside our mesh cage, bodies returned to water, reshaped into light. You said that as long as the cats don’t get to them, they’ll be beautiful.I’ll molt this shell: parasitic chest,
binds of long hair,
a name long gone,
body transformed into the other,
something whimsically grotesque,
joyfully butchered—a body you can no longer see.
Cats declawed in the only ethical way.
I’ll glide up through sunset clouds
with my new glass wings,
soak in our sun’s burning orange,
let those warm hues highlight my metamorphosis,
one that must happen without you.
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Written by Basil Payne.
Basil Payne (they/them) is a queer poet-artist living in Logan, Utah.
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On Co-opting Cement Ships

From the shoreline, I see her
Cracks, the crumbles mixed sea salt
slowly slipping, turning sediment as
they whorl. Bow turned skyward, gazing
away from ground that reclaims her, a begging
for new features, a different tomorrow.wires and poles push out
of her, a remembrance of days
with purpose, their quick liminality and easy slip
from her grasp, like seafoam. I wonder
of the parts of her, no longer visible
if they miss the sun’s warmth, how a wave
feels, brushing through them, over them
constant. I see hollowness, a slow death
decay predating it, as the ocean brings her
to cradle, once more.thoughyou see the home in her. The pier
now washed away. By rain or god
or rot that connected you, bridged
the gap from your heart to others, you
to shoreline. Brown curls mixed sea salt
a wobbly fist full of leash. How you’d walk
to her, warm concrete running the length
of your palms. already past her prime, oh
how she’d welcome you, beg to be
a part of a future as her empire waned. sounds
of war, then carnival games etched her skin, distant
by the days she’d met you.of how now, you wished to touch her
once more. home, a rinsed away pier
unreachable, kindling
to a submerged pyre.
.

Written by Lillian Fuglei.
Lillian Fuglei (they/she) is a lesbian poetess based in Denver, Colorado. Their debut chapbook, “Girlhood Scrapbook” is available now with Stain’d Arts.
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Petoskey Stone

Somewhere there are oceans
forgotten by bass
but remembered in calcite.
Shallow seas that swallowed up
rays of sun reflecting
golden light as a spectrum
of blues and greens.And somewhere there is a stone
resting in your pocket
smoothed from your fingertips.Somewhere we stumbled
along sinking hills
over the dunes. Ankles
deep in sand and
you taking my hand
to steady me. Somewhere
our voices were masked
by fog and waves.And all I could give you—
a remnant of forgotten seas.
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Written by Kayla McVeigh.
Kayla McVeigh was born and raised on Alaska's Kenai Peninsula. She earned her BA in English with a concentration in linguistics in May of 2024.
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Please, Stay

I can help you wait
one more day, to inhale
the dew of another morning.
Let’s feel life coursing through
the fertile hush of soil
as we clench our toes.I will press the weight
of a sunrise into your palm,
show you the way light moves
like a gentle quickening,
remind you the earth keeps
              breathing,
              even in silence.I will gather every bird song,
every rustle of wind
              through leaves,
and scatter them at your feet
like offerings, asking nothing
but one more forward step.I will whisper words
to tether you in time.I will show you
tomorrow, wrapped
as a gift,
waiting for you
to open.
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Written by Maudie Bryant.
Maudie Bryant is a multidisciplinary artist based in Shreveport, Louisiana. Her writing explores memory and identity, attuned to the disquiet that lingers beneath the surface.
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Poem-Writing Pace

Some of us are so good
at turning trees into reasons
to pray
but I’m watching this iguana
climb a palm
slow enough
to write about it.When he makes it to the top
his sharp head
is crowned by frondsfrom the earth beneath
I see him
like a god.
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Written by Naudia Reeves.
Naudia Reeves is a queer Floridian poet exploring queerness, loss, and self-critique. A new Michigan transfer, her work appears in The Passionfruit Review and more.
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