Issue 5

August 2023

Fake It ‘Til You Make It

One hundred times a day I am a hypocrite, 
imploring my children to house more hope
in their little bodies than I have ever let in. 
I whisper promises of happy endings 
during scary scenes, though I myself curl 
my insides into fists, bracing for the day
my words ring hollow in the space between
us. I point to a coneflower, a crow, a cloud 
shaped like a turtle, as if I do not also go on
and on behind closed doors, spewing over 
the specific hells one twenty-four hour day
in America has wrought. Still, I tell my children
God is kind to them, so it is the last thing 
they hear before they fall asleep, though 
I myself tally on my fingers all the people 
who stand poised and eager to tell them
otherwise, all the people who, even now, 
are saying in so many slippery ways: 
Well, now, it depends. Anyone will tell
you the first week at a new job to fake
it ’til you make it, and isn’t that what I am 
doing now? Faking it. Making it. Shielding
my tender hope until it can stand 
on its own. Saying the words 
until I believe them.

Krista Drechsel

Real or Not Real

I didn’t understand it
when Peeta asked 
real or not real?
Until I was 22 and 
waking every night 
with a 
racing heart 
and 
sticky 
with sweat. 

The images in my mind
seared behind my eyes. 

Real or not real?

That simple question became a mantra
that I never wanted. 

Real—
what happened to me. 
Not real—
the things that haunt me 
in my sleep. 

Is it real or not real? 
Sometimes 
that’s the question that 
lingers
for days
and 
days. 

Somedays I don’t 
know the answer.

Taylor Epperson

Oranges

Maybe she’ll look over a lover’s shoulder one day and say: 

My mother sliced oranges like that.
She said they were easiest to eat this way, 
and that the circles plated up really pretty.
I wonder if it had something to do 
with her serious thing for sunsets? 
The color and shape makes me think so. 
She saw the sun in everything, 
and she would say she could taste 
it in the little orange tomatoes, 
the ones you just pop whole 
into your mouth? 
Yes, those. 
Do you know they’re sweeter 
because they're lower in acidity? 
She told me that too. 
Sometimes she’d burst them 
open under the broiler and 
put them on eggs and toast. 
She was really big on breakfast. 
She was always waking us up
to these beautiful spreads. 
I think that’s why I remember 
the oranges.
 

Megan Sciarrino

Middle-Aged Woman Looks For a Job 

I used to want to climb the tallest 
tree to a branch with a view
now I only want to plant 
myself in the 
ground

grow
down 
deep 

dance in the spring, hang out 
in the shade in the summer, 
shed the dead weight 
in the fall, have a 
sleeping beauty 
winter 

repeat
repeat 
r
e
p
e
a
t

Michelle Windsor

an unlearning

i tell my daughter it’s okay to scream
to take that anger and unleash 
it on the world - a feral, rabid
thing snapping at our ankles. for too long women 
have bottled it up, tucked pain into their hearts’
crevices, carried despair like a disease passed down
from generation to generation. heart of my heart,
let your pain be heard. destroy the world if you must.
but let my daughter rage.

i tell my son it’s okay to cry. 
to take that sadness and fling
it back into the world - a blackbird
of grief flying free, a smear
of darkness against a sanguine sky. for too long men 
have bottled it up, pressed grief into the sinew
of their muscles, carried softness like a secret shame passed down
from their forefathers. heart of my heart,
let your sadness be heard. destroy the world if you must.
but let my son weep.

Jillian Stacia 

What Mothers Say (Beach Vacation Edition)

No, we’re not there yet / Just one more / Donuts for breakfast / Please get your wet swimsuit off the / Yes, another bath tonight / We still have four more hours / Chocolate ice cream is dripping down your / Look! Dolphins are playing! / Kite strings are / Don’t forget your hat / Rub sunscreen in on your / The towels are still drying / We’re still not there / That’s deep enough / Would you like a snack? / The shovels and buckets are / Before coming in, rinse sand off your / You’ll get a sunburn / Two and a half more hours / Please smile for the picture / No ice cream before / How fast can you run down the / Two hours left / While you ride the wave make sure to / Can you believe this weather? / We do sleep harder here / Not yet, please don’t ask again / The sand might be hot / Where are my sunglasses? / We’re here! / I’m not ready to go, either.

Alyssa Silvester

A Museum of Sorts

Inspired by Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci

From her perch on our wall
She watches
Watches
Watches

That slight smirk sees
Cars dumped on the carpet
Crumbs sprinkled on the carpet
The desperately-needs-to-be-vacuumed carpet

Her hands perfectly folded
For the 20th viewing of Encanto
Pizza at the coffee table
Five bodies folded together on the couch

I swear her smile got wider 
When we had that dance party 
Music blaring from the sound bar
Did she want to dance along?

This might be less dignified 
Than the hallowed halls of the Louvre
It’s rather less French
And rather less pristine

But still
She’s here
And still
It’s home

Amy Grass

An Ode to My Skirt

Hello swirly skirt, swishy skirt, 
hello fluttering around my legs skirt, 
hello whimsy, hello ephemeral, 
hello glinting sun on forest green,

O midi, how I love thee, 
I’m sorry for all the time I wasted
with jeans and pants and shorts, 
buttons and zips and pragmatics. 

I regret my teenage affection, 
entanglement with mini, 
my twenties infatuation with pencil skirts
and harsh lines. 

Swirl with me in my thirties, midi. 
This is no infatuation, but deep 
abiding love. 

Bec Fergie