Our 2017 Short Forms Contest Honourable Mention.
Every night, you sleep on my neck.
Contentment seeps through our chakras.
Low dirt path parts Loch Awe as a helix unbinding.
We walk like thistled mutants to Kilchurn ruins.
. . . I found a pair of velvet-coated antlers,
three fingers reaching from an open palm
still throbbing with platelet’s hot breath
Hold a winesap apple to your brow and think of the worst possible outcome.
Or has the worst already happened? How do you define cataclysm?
Are you dead yet?
We're writing letters to our future selves
wanting to know if we can outlive men with beautiful hands.
black pearls on a string
when young lustrous
men dazzle yet frighten us
for many our first encounters a plundering
The tongue is lost—now blood pools
in her mouth. Her maid stops the wound
with a tampon, split down the middle
like some carpenter’s unlucky thumb.
we only remember
the bad things
that happen to us
This is the part of the story about my first time getting wasted that most don’t hear
A trace of her hair tucked away, his skin
beneath her nails. Each square reminded him
of hopscotch. Her head like a tetherball. What kind
entitled little shits
With her new magic, she makes you
We, women, grew hungry, ate
from a pile of unassuming, pleasant rocks. They fell
down our throats, slipped into the blankness of our bodies.
This is a game for girls: putting a hat
on the cat, putting pants on
the cat, drawing a turkey by tracing
her hand. Little girls like cats.
I don’t remember much
of the train, but I remember William
who gave me his engraved
penknife at the station
When I finish my first book,
I wonder who'll blurb the
my father landed
upside my head.
“An unforgettable voice
When I finally told you that my first boyfriend
raped me, I was worried you would be mad
I’ve heard there is a room where hooded
women enter, writing dates on the wall
with the torn edge of their finger. I’ve heard
you can cipher the numbers to bodies, to
the graceless edge of some men’s beds. Is
Fear the caging of birds. Strangled and brown.
Moving here was like crossing a river,
debriefings, scaling back. Clay pots clogged,
awkward like an ingrown hair, browning down
in the sun. Staring at walls draws a crowd,
like a hardened nipple, a tear-streaked thigh.
Currently on Newsstands
Room 40.1, Food
Edited by Rose Morris, Kayi Wong
In this issue:
Sarah Beck, Ashwini Bhasi, Kat Cameron, Lucas Crawford, Dora Dueck, Marilyn Dumont, Rebecca Fishow, Veronica Fredericks, Rachel Jansen, Jane Kirby, Alexis von Konigslow, Lee Lai, Tess Liem, Alice Lowe, Tanis MacDonald , sab meynert, Silvia Pikal, Marika Prokosh, Keyu Song, Sylvia Symons, Ivy Tang, Carol Wainio, Kayi Wong, Catriona Wright, Nicole Xu.