MICRO

When her husband shouts

By J. HIBA | 13 SEP 2017

By Viviane Sassen — Laundry day © 2010 Karlis Kadegis

she thinks first of her elbows, the flesh tilled
to bloody underscores. Then of the scabs
crude across her drumbelly, and then
of the old floral nightgown that veils it all
so cleanly, has rendered even her
a smeared wandering.
There used to be words for this strife.
She rarely finds them now but they leave
their punctuation on her bed like laundry.
The night steepening, she gathers the pieces,
shuts her eyes. Pleads that tomorrow
arrives without

J. Hiba is a VONA/Voices fellow and holds a BFA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing from Emerson College. Her poetry often confronts the wonderful, intricate, and alienating conditions of the multicultural self, as well as the coping mechanisms of emotional trauma. After-hours, she stirs cake batter and patiently awaits your book recommendations.

POETRY

& The Dirt

By SAMMI BRYAN

as in I’m scared
not by how much I need,

but by how much I’m prepared
to wreck to make it

MICRO

Quick Change

By CALLISTA BUCHEN

There is body in the coat closet in the hall by the front door, body under the bed in plastic bins, a pile in the garage by the recycling bin.

POETRY

I Guess By Now I Thought I’d Be Done With Shame

By FRANNY CHOI

I left the shower and kept
singing. I sang about my body
like I was proud. I was proud.