By Kiersten Czuwala

After dinner, my boyfriend tells me that I should learn to slaughter my own meat.

That actually, farmers have pinpointed down to the angle

exactly how to position a barrel against a cow’s skull

to flood the hollow of the bullet hole

with serotonin.

By Luci Arbus-Scandiffio

Being a baby, I think, was like that–looking up and out

at something like a sea wall

feeling waterlogged

feeling nearly extinct

my face shiny like a seal’s face.

Paintings meditating on the ocean, ecology, and a vision for a better world.

By Kaci X. Tavares

It’s been too long since I’ve tried to write my Chinese name 黃曉殿 Húang Xǐaodìan. Muscle memory—barely. In Chinese, your family name comes first, the unit identified before the individual. My family: orphaned sisters who borrow a benefactor’s name. Me: Daybreak over a Palace. I cannot find the palace—

By Saúl Hernández

I lick every drop of sperm off a white man"s navel, / put my lips on his shaft, / his hand grips the back of my neck, / I open my mouth to swallow again, / Tell me something in Spanish. / Sound of my slob in the air, / Tell me something / in Spanish, Tell me / something in Spanish, / Tell me something / in Spanish. /That’s how English asphyxiates me.

New work from Brooklyn-based painter Clara Curbera.

By Owen Torrey

They always arrived in the morning. If there was snow the night before, that is. That winter, there was. They appeared through the window above the sink on the hill. Slashing upwards in loose diagonals. Often in pairs. Often alone. I was alone.