Polina Riabova

I love New York

I love New York
I still hate everyone from New Hampshire
that volume of rejection was formative
and traumatizing
I don't hate anyone who didn't
reject me, lol
New Hampshire pettiness follows me
around
here i'm on my second close friend group
holding my breath
wondering the craziness
with which it ends
maybe like Michelle covered in grief
yelling at me —
I didn't know
and when I found out I still
didn't know
my poem about not knowing
was published online
but media people never like me with any
longevity, either
and so it goes
psychotic popularity contest
I'm losing state to state

---

Polina Riabova is a queer Brooklyn-based poet, writer and performance artist originally from Kupavna, Moskovskaya Oblast, Russia. She is the co-founder of Borrowed Birds Records, director of programming at The Ear and Editor-In-Chief of PLASTER COCKTAIL zine.

Tianna G. Hansen

ginger snaps

inspired by the movie Ginger Snaps (2000)

---

Tianna G. Hansen has been writing her whole life, born in the desert but now thriving in the woodlands of PA. She founded and is EIC of Rhythm & Bones Press (rhythmnbone.com), focused on turning trauma into art. Her debut poetry collection Undone, Still Whole explores how trauma survivors can reclaim their bodies, channeling the power of goddesses and witchcraft to heal. Tianna is also part of a three-poet opera A Victorian Dollhousing Ceremony where she takes on the role of The Firebird. Find more of her published work at creativetianna.com or follow her on Twitter @tiannag92.

Chris Prewitt

My Favorite Horseman

I doubt Kafka
and I would’ve been
friends. With him
it’s waiting on letters
from his fiancé,
with me it’s painting
my coffin, and the rain
holds the faces
of wild animals and Jesus
to my sliding door
as I go about
my recreational
grieving. Whereas
others are nihilists,
I’m looking through
the blinds. Years ago
if you’d asked me
who was my favorite
Horseman, I’d have
said 16-time world
heavyweight champion
“Nature Boy”
Ric Flair. It was for
his strange bumps
(how he lands
on the canvas)
and his begging
off opponents
before thumbing
their eyes.
Some people hate it,
his landing sideways.
But I say anyone
who survives a plane
crash bumps just fine.
Just the same,
now there’s not one
of the Four Horsemen
who speaks to me
the way Dottie Lasky does.
My heroes now make me
disbelieve determinism
temporarily. They make me
gather handfuls of snow
from my mouth
until I am face to face
with César Vallejo
who’s waiting on a public
bench with his burning
eyes fixed on
the animal light
radiating from the dark copse
of my satellite face.

---

Chris Prewitt is the author of Paradise Hammer (SurVision Books), winner of the 2018 James Tate Poetry Prize. Chris has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. Twitter correspondence welcome:@poetcprewitt.

Anne Marie Holwerda Warner

Raised by Robots with a Scarcity Complex

We
cannot
know
as we
name
our
firstborn
something that begins with “A”
how
often
we
will
butt-dial her
—once even on her birthday—
and how
it will
underscore
just how
infrequently
we will talk
with her, listen
and how inadequate we will be
[after six other siblings are pushed or lifted into the world]
at maintaining a relationship with her as an adult child living on the other side of Lake Michigan.

---

Anne Marie Holwerda Warner is a Chicago carpenter's daughter perched in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In 2019 her poems were published in Gravel and The Bitchin' Kitsch and is forthcoming in Moonchild Magazine.

Lynne Cattafi

The Deer Rest Quietly

The deer rest quietly on the side of the road.
The doe with her head slightly askew,
an unnatural angle I only comprehend
once I pass her on the highway,
could merely be sleeping. They are mostly does,
the ones who have been crushed beneath the wheels
of cars driven by people who have themselves
trespassed in these parts.
But there is one buck, his antlers hanging over
the white line of the shoulder lane,
close to the oncoming wheels.
To see them lying there, split open and raw,
seems wrong, like a second death.
What were they thinking when their lives were
cut short? What did their minds register
when the headlights barreled down,
too late to swerve or, worse, not caring to?

---

Lynne Cattafi teaches English at a private school. When she's not teaching her students to love writing poetry and reading books, she enjoys drinking coffee, building Lego cities from scratch with her children, walking her beagle, and reading historical fiction and mysteries. She is a Poetry Reader at Marias at Sampaguitas, and her poetry has appeared in Elephants Never, Marias at Sampaguitas, The Wellington Street Review, Vita Brevis, Dear Reader and the upcoming issue of The Hellebore. She will begin her MFA in Poetry in the summer of 2020, and she can be found on Twitter @lynnecatt.

Vincent James Perrone

Health Care

I am nearly crushed
by
the unyielding weight
of a human skeleton.

The due North
of a boney thought. The tricks
our bodies pull
like cruel magicians.

I am afraid of my own
blood. Afraid
of the tunnel
of sleep. That strange
medicine.

My skeleton is costume
I’m almost
not crazy now.
Like a car on its final ride.

Some things never occur
to an old dirt road.
Sometimes you mean
the other ocean.

What I meant was
I’ve been found
and forgiven.
That flowers were enough.
That I can be cruel
even in dreams.

There is no more medicine.
Luckily, there is no more
illness.
There is a body
like a white branch.

Veins are other stories
—your veins
watercolor. Your veins
unfurled and tempting
in the pastoral light
of a warm kitchen.

My body
is
an autobiography of dust.
You can hear the wind
whistle through it.

You may find it’s territory
familiar. The charred walls
of a fireplace.
the still drop
of blood on a pine branch.

Don’t assume
the dust will dissipate.
Don’t assume you bleed
to remember.

---

Vincent James Perrone is a writer and musician from Detroit. He is the author of Starving Romanic (11:11 Press, 2018) and occasionally writes funny/sad things on twitter @spookyghostclub.

Kristin Garth

womanchildish

for those who chose to fuck with me (I mean
reproductively — most seemed to want to make
a babyface contorted, pained between
a pillowcase, your throbbing veins that break
more than a womanchildish heart you found
inside a bar so old enough, at least
the parts you squeeze into and wrap around,
to make appointed little sounds for beasts,
their sweetest sacrificed, expect small prey
to play as nice and passive as a face
neither consented to nor designed they
deprive of air, debase, malign), should brace
yourself for tantrums inside pretty heads.
you took something womanchildish to bed.

---

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of fourteen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), The Meadow (APEP Publications) and Shut Your Eyes, Succubi (Maverick Duck). Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website http://kristingarth.com

Justin Lacour

love in the nineties

I had my first date in several years recently. We listened to riot grrrl music while making puttanesca. She talked about her student loans, totally ignoring the documentary on how across the world animals have learned to mimic the sounds of cellphones. There was some discussion of trying that place across the street from the batting cage (though it’s probably a meat market she says, even on Wednesdays, thanks to the commuter crowd). On my way home, I drove past your house. You had one of those styrofoam/Halloween gravestones with “Personal Accountability” written on it, the way normal people would have “Here lies Les Moore” or “R.I.P. Honest Government.” I remember lying on your floor, sharing a cigarette. We were having a conversation you later titled “love in the nineties,” pretending we came from the world of ghosts to find each other. The full story defies easy summary. One time, you drank absinthe in a storm. One time, someone punched holes in a coffee can to put stars in your room.

---

Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming from New Orleans Review (Web Features), Hobart, B O D Y, and other journals.

Sarah Morrison

I’ve Designed It That Way

It was true when Townes Van Zandt said, “My life will run out before
my work does--I’ve designed it that way,” and I’ve been wondering--
is that what it means to have a heyday? As far as I’m concerned
the prime of a girl’s life has nothing to do with work and everything
to do with how long she can eat the whole thing and not gain weight,
cake and Coca-Cola by her uncle’s pool where he’ll grunt,
“Skinny mini!” and she’ll fake embarrassment. There’s nothing like
arching into a compliment or cat call like pushing into your man who stands
pressed against the edge of the bed, aiming straight for you. Townes had
a few wives and as is usual when I see a many-married man I wonder if
fading looks were a factor. My looks will run out and then my life will--
I’ve designed it my way or the highway, the fuck you mean who am I getting
all dressed up for? That thing about the unobserved life not worth living--
Observe this ass, okay? Just as I observe that I say, “He’s probably gay,”
or, “He’s probably married” a couple more times each day. Townes’ days
they were the Highway Kind, they only came to leave. The leaving he didn’t
mind, it’s coming that he craved, and it’s the coming that I crave, and
it’s the coming that I crave. Oh, Townes, you get it. Oh, Townes, you didn’t
know the unobserved life at all, so it can’t be that unusual for me to be
disappointed when what I think is roadkill is actually just a wet McDonalds bag.
Let me observe the gore, to know how I will end if I’m lucky, dead before
my time, before my breasts get the memo to fly south, before my neck
catches wind. Observe me like you observed Townes: He died young but
later than we’d hoped, without 27 Club glory, and why not, after all that
talk of locking himself into rooms and drinking for weeks on end and sure,
he died before his work ran out but not before developing wrinkles, having
kids, and I guess he stopped looking for his heyday, to which I say thanks
for the cautionary tale. I will work myself to death like you, Townes, but
I refuse stick around too long. I’ll stop rejection before it stops me, I’ve designed
it that Black Dahlia way, that Sharon Tate way, with a Jane Mansfield
firework finale that explodes like an improperly tapped keg all across the highway.

---

Sarah Morrison is a musician and poet from Tallahassee, FL. Her 2017 collection Unmentionables won the Mart P. Hill award for Outstanding Honors Thesis in English. She has been published in Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Apalachee Review, and elsewhere. After the completion of an upcoming musical project, she intends on returning to school for her MFA.

Jill Mceldowney

Dynamite

A ghost leaves your body and never returns—
this is a lie.

A person has to earn
the right to forget.

What if, from now on, I subscribe to that specific turn
of the century belief that illness is caused by spirits—

use this to explain why
I tried to protect your body with mine: My life for yours,
remember?
No matter where that promise would have taken me
I would’ve made it. I would’ve

slept forever for you to live.
I’m sorry I lived

through what you could not.
Do you remember the earth before this earth,

your birthplace on fire?
Now my body is kindling owned by your ghost. If I become anything
let there be no stopping it—

let there be grace in living thigh to thigh with ghosts.

That’s the thing about using ghosts as explanations for illness:
you hold them close enough and they become a part of you,

long enough and you forget they are there—
they rip the roof off of the sky.

You forget
there are rules.
They become an apology.

---

Jill Mceldowney is the author of the chapbook Airs Above Ground (Finishing Line Press). She is a founder and editor of Madhouse Press. Her previously published work can be found in journals such as Prairie Schooner, Vinyl, Muzzle, Whiskey Island and other notable publications.

Sarah Nichols

After My Mother’s Death, I Become a Witch

after Suspiria (2018)

I dance her body into
the ground.

Rituals have
their own

geographies: the women
wash her even as she

murmurs that I am the
stain she smeared on

the world. I am instead
the initiate who hosts

all the mysteries that
she prayed to keep me from. I offer up our blood
for the

promises, red wings, red
rags, my costumes.

I pirouette with her body,
my own fire

to the other shore.

---

Sarah Nichols lives and writes in Connecticut. She is the author of eight chapbooks, including She May Be a Saint (Porkbelly Press, 2019) and This is Not a Redemption Story (Dancing Girl Press, 2018.) Her poems and essays have been published and are forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, Five:2:One Magazine, and the Twin Peaks poetry anthology, These Poems are Not What They Seem (Apep Publications, 2020).

Carolina Casabal

Dark Spring

We drink the warm lake water with our hands, we call it tea.
We wander down hallways, try to fill vacant star space
in our current universe. You wrap your hand around us, look
in disbelief at our bright glowing cheeks, tampered rooms
where clusters on the wall explain how trees grow in patterns.

We drink the warm lake water with our hands, we call it tea
and look at things differently now, like the new lush scattering
at the dappled end of day, the light, summer almost gone
heavy with the possibility and impossibility of truly knowing someone.
Now everything is about the rose hue that has set where clusters

hang from the wall and explain how trees grow in patterns
while the drying hills hold static. Through a dull fog, the seven
shingled houses emerge around the lip of the graying
ocean the way leaves do, but blackening, as with a certain
knowing the hardening seasons will live quietly in our minds.

The hardening seasons live quietly in our minds, they claim
the sunken sky in unforgivable brilliance but still we walk
around the lip and possibility of falling never so much as we do
now the rose hue has set the hardening seasons fast and quietly
where clusters on the wall in our minds explain how trees grow.

---

Carolina Casabal was born and raised in NYC and received her MFA in Poetry from Columbia University. Her work has also appeared in Cordella Magazine & Small Orange Journal.

Nicholas Alti

I GORGE ON HUNGER BWAHAHA

You’ll have to excuse my super villain laughter there
I just fantastically hate heroes & want to become
a warehouse devoted to burning down.

You’ll have to excuse my heroes here
they are mostly victims of suicide & wanted to become
absolutely nothing forever.

You’ll have to excuse me burning down warehouses
it's just I gazed into the abyss & it stared back at me
completely in flames, patience without remorse.

You’ll have to forgive my immensely groaning stomach
for I gorge on hunger
& there is no sound to save me save the trill of thrushes nearing.

You’ll have to forgive the garden tilled & the field fallow
for whether intentionally depleted or consciously plucked
the hydrangeas & cayennes are colorless.

You’ll have to forgive my smiling there
you see I’m tremendously inebriated on multiple substances
reassuring myself in intoxicant numerology.

You’ll have to excuse my three years of addiction
I just wanted to become absolutely nothing forever & I miss & I miss.

You’ll have to excuse super villains
when they set warehouses on fire
because the darkness is terrifying.

You’ll have to excuse the darkness for its thick ubiquitous existence
but you know as well as moons it’s possible to every day
wake into something in broad daylight terrifying.

You’ll have to forgive
nothing,
ever.

You’ll have to forgive me eventually
because I’m begging you &
I live as an apology.

---

From the depths of the rural Midwest, Nicholas Alti is a disabled depressive with trigeminal neuralgia, poor timing, and a sparkly criminal history. He enjoys all things nebulous and anomalous or otherwise bizarre. Recent yowls have found homes at Swamp Ape Review, PULP Literature, Yalobusha Review, Always Crashing, and Puerto del Sol. Nicholas is an assistant editor of poetry and fiction for Black Warrior Review.

Kim Mannix

The Boy That Got Away

Remember the slow-motion waterfall, us
trying to keep from slipping on the spray-slicked rocks?
I wore a plaid skirt and pale blue sweater, but could never feel pretty.
You could never be more than an outsider — lucky you —
pair of one-eyed jacks every time we played strip poker,
you, born with a blank diary, no future etched by the letters
of your last name, no destiny set by the size of your breasts
or fullness of your red mouth. Never confined by towering pines
or plastic
people pretending to be everything they’re not.

When I remember you, it’s like a dream, a sensory swirl
soothing scent of coffee and a whisper of breath on the back
of my neck, every colour muted by a layer of mist
then gone, a wisp, a ghost
when I reach for your hand and wake up
cold.

Remember when you told me not to be afraid?
That I could leave too, no more coming home
to a red room in a hollow house.
That I — we — could build a new place
together, in a tall city teeming with strangers and light?
I should have left.
But
fear is a knot, I said, in a rope we’re all holding on to,
scared that if we let go, even men from away
will pick up the slack
tie our hands behind our backs
or wrap it tight around our throats.

---

Kim Mannix is a Pushcart Prize nominated poet, fiction writer and journalist from Sherwood Park, Alberta. She has been published in several journals and anthologies and is currently completing her first book of poetry. You can find her on Twitter @KimMannix posting about kids, cats and all things spooky.

Josh Medsker and Adam Frese

I am Want

Danger lies

beneath the peaks.

I am he. I am

want.

I consume you. I am

control. Borne

of fission—base elements

rearranging reality.

Your weeping is my food. Blood

into blood. My eyes glow

in your pain. And I am hungry

again.

I will nurse your murder, for more

pleasure. More chaos and play—

You are my instrument.

---

Josh Medsker is a New Jersey poet, whose debut collection, Cacophony, was just published by Alien Buddha Press. (www.joshmedsker.com)

Adam Frese is an editor with Oxford University Press, primarily on the Oxford Bibliographies project. He also plays music, obsesses over anything Grateful Dead, and rewatches Twin Peaks on the reg. (freseadam@gmail.com)

Jordan Cameron

Love Sonnet #315

I trace the red lip of my black coffee
Mug stain’d with gentle kisses for warm drink
We’re dancing dreamy in my fantasy
I have so much more power than they think

The thing is, I know that I am special
But I still want to hear it from your lips
I’ll wait for you to find me here in hell
You cannot prevent the next exodus

Like trees that reach but never quite touching
You have opened my world to something new
The end of our path-cross’d time is coming
I’m certain I will never forget you

You’re a full journal and I’m a new page
I can’t believe you were ever my age

---

Jordan Cameron is a New Englander living in Philadelphia. She balances her day job at a non-profit with her passion for photography and writing. This is her first published poem. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @jordanofjune.

Leyla Gentil

The Heavy Cycle (of clothes)

You need new clothes; there’s no choice. Everything either has a rip, tear, stain, split… ugly.

So, you walk into the store. Every mannequin laughs, faces empty and emotionless. They’re conniving, skilled in persuasion. Reedy-high voices call out, “Try on this dress. These pants are slimming. This shirt is cute. It’ll look just as good on you.”

Like a lamb to slaughter, you follow along, forgetting what has happened before, and before. You take clothes off the rack.

It should be the right size. You have hundreds of items in your closet with that number (ripped, stained, torn, split…) It should fit. On the hanger, it looks perfect for you. Slip on like a glove.

Hope. Stupid hope. Just… maybe?

Layers are removed and you are bare. There’s nothing to hide behind.

Tears in the skin unveil, red against white. Angry marks that rip through, areas of growth that took place too quickly. Streeeeetched out. Something to hide.

You feel...

Sick. Vile.
You want to rip off pieces of your body. In vain, you grab folds of your stomach, ripples of your arms, layers of skin and flab.

No use. Misuse. Disuse.

You try on the first item. Shirt. No problem. A shirt is easy…
And it’s tight in the wrong places, showing folds in your back, ripples on your belly.
Get. it. OFF!

Next one. Dress. It should fit, it’s a stretchy material…… and it can’t even fit past your knees. Who knew you could have fat knees?

Next. It’s the last item. You look in the mirror, wondering if it’s worth it. Your face is starting to get red and you’re SWEATING! How? HOW ARE YOU SWEATING?

But you try. You pick up a shirt, innocuous and not even great looking, but it’s simple enough that it should work. Should. Work.
Alright, it’s on.

You look like you’re wearing a potato sack.

Look up. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry… Breathe.

You take off the shirt and put it back on the hanger.

All you see, staring back, is a fat, sweaty tomato. Who’s trying to not cry. Just. Don’t. Cry.

You give up. Put up the battered armor, covering every fresh wound. Can’t cry. People will hear, people will see. Hidden laughs will cover their mask-faces.

Leave. Never come back.
“We never wanted you here to begin with.”
“What a fool, thinking that she will find what she is looking for.”
“Poor, fat, deluded girl.”

And so it is, until the cycle starts again.

---

Leyla Gentil is a SUNY Purchase graduate (B.A.) and is happy to be growing professionally within the Buffalo arts scene. Her passion and love is theatre, but she has always been fascinated with the written word. As a plus-size woman, she finds difficulty navigating through societal expectations of her body and her love for food. Adoration to her wonderful partner, Jay, and her little demons, Tiggy and Heresy, who keep her on her toes.

Flose Boursiquot

Hedonist

for Anthony

It wasn’t until your
death that I understood
me. Before you, what I craved
was a world that I had only
read about in religion class.
Soon images of my flesh
engulfed in hellfire
followed. Then there
was you. Making tongue
action with oysters and
publicly discussing eating
pussy. I can see it now —
pussy — wet, fleshy, soft, juicy —
I, too, like to eat pussy, but
some forms of pleasure
I keep hidden from the private.
Publicly, I admit. I like
to follow pleasure. I don’t
lust much, I mostly listen.
It’s a heartbeat. It’s a smell.
It’s my stomach turning itself
into my mouth to tell me
something. Then I go.
I’ve never found the
devil that way. Only
people to know
wet pussy
bruised ass cheeks
delicious food
drunken dancing
barefoot in the rain
breasts in the wind
so much dessert
him! his beautiful spirit
city lights
Heartbreak.
never hellfire
but sometimes roaring
burning heartbreak erupting
in my soul — blood all over the walls.
I chase. I like
to chase. So I chase.
No one stops eating
because they got food poisoning once.

---

Flose Boursiquot is a Haitian-born poet and writer. Her work has appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, HuffPost, on Blavity, and in 2017, BET named Flose one of its millennial poets to watch. The Malala Foundation's Assembly Platform featured Flose’s story and spoken word poem “March On Sister” in their September 2018 issue. Connect with Flose via www.letitflose.com or on Twitter @letitflosepoet.

Lucy Whitehead

A Biography of No

My no began as rustling leaves, the rush of wind in treetops.
One day he hatched as a tiny chick, unsteady, staggering, comical.
People laughed at him, called him cute.
When he opened his beak, he was a whisper, silence,
a squeak, a child's voice, a question.
A toddler apologizing for messing up the living room.
Something dangerous in a locked box, covered in razors, barbed wire,
booby traps. A hand grenade, plastic explosives, gasoline and matches.
An atom bomb.

Now my no is growing up, putting down roots, getting fat.
He has started smoking and talking back.
He is refusing to clean his room, his personal hygiene questionable.
He is working on a withering look.

He has dreams.
He has taken out a gym membership, is buffing up
He plans to get really big.
Some day he will fill a hillside, his letters blazing with carnival lights.
There'll be theme music, a brass band, an orchestra, fireworks.
He will be groomed, polite.
He will have a whole choir to back him up, friends ready
with megaphones, trucks, electric fences, shields, blockades.

If necessary, he will fill the whole planet,
beam a hologram of himself into space.
Take over the universe.

He has a sister.
She tries to help him, but she keeps getting in his way.
Her name is yes.
He wants to make the world safe for her.

---

Lucy Whitehead's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Barren Magazine, Black Bough Poetry, Burning House Press, Collective Unrest, Electric Moon Magazine, Mookychick Magazine, Neon Mariposa Magazine, Pussy Magic, Re-side, and Twist in Time Magazine. She lives by the sea with her husband and cat. You can find her on Twitter @blueirispoetry.

Kailey Tedesco

[ethereal whooshing]

i.

my organza sleeves raptured
off me the day i made my pain

into something separate. here, bloodspill
& sword-wound tourniqueted

on the feast-table, twisted off like a loose tooth,
& contained as sculpture of what could

have killed me in a
minute. my tongue velvets itself

in worry, chrysalised speech
waiting for the bloom-seasons. it was

on this day, all those years ago,
that the carpet leaked out into the boxwoods,

extinguishing the garden quite

entirely.



ii.

from the dictionary:

house; a building for human habitation —
gone humanoid. the sheetrock

sprouts limbs, arachnid. in the films, the house
is a character — a swoon, an irritant.

i’m in it. someone will stab me thrice
in the general vicinity of the heart & my house will

catch flame behind all of it.

my friend’s dear mother
hired a medium, but her dear mother didn’t need a medium
to know my friend had been sleeping in her own bed, next
to her own ashes in a vase of silver.

now, the card pull:

heartbreak; betrayal.

please, dear haus, lick my wound.

iii.

what is it that you’ve buried? from the dictionary: haunt; (of a ghost) manifest itself
(at a place) regularly. it’s breakfast time & the place

is weeping for an omelette. i speak to the wallpaper directly:

“sometimes, i feel like falling & falling & falling. it is then that i must
force the arms of the floor. it is all that’s left to hold me still.

sometimes, i escape the place in a vehicle. i drive & drive but my bloods turns to
candlesticks, then curtain rods, then floorboards then wall studs & i’m
back like a sepsis. i cannot see well, anyways & so the road

disappears entirely & i think the house is absolutely the only thing

that ever was & so now i must eat it.

---

Kailey Tedesco is the author of She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publishing), Lizzie, Speak (White Stag Publishing), and the forthcoming collection FOREVERHAUS (White Stag Publishing). She is a senior editor for Luna Luna Magazine. You can find her work featured or forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins, Electric Literature, Nat. Brut, Black Warrior Review, Fairy Tale Review, Bone Bouquet Journal, and more. For further information, please follow @kaileytedesco.