Hothouse
Literary Journal
Author: hothouselitjournal
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Iliana Tangarova On Sundays,the woman wise enough to measure the amount of alcohol pours threefingers of vodka into the bohemian wine glass that sits two feet awayfrom the kitchen countertop’s vast ledge. Her arms, fastened by herperished lover’s (was there more than one?; she cannot remember),cradle, are spasming, confined by unperceivable safety strapscrisscrossing her body.…
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Genevieve Kent Grief is when you are sourdough, a puddle from the motherno end, no beginning, amorphousspread out, held only by the shape ofwhat happens to contain you.Then, you are beaten, again and againthwapped against the wallof the mixing bowlor the counterhowever god prefers to toughen you up.Each beating you grow tighteryou cling relentlessly to…
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Victoria Trevino You still waltz with me in my dreams.Gifting me the nurture I’ve always craved from you.The warm, gentle kisses I’ve never secured.Viewing life from a rose-tinted lens.Forgetting to hide my soft underbelly.Like a child’s gaze for approval.Why do I ache when I’ve given everything you wanted?It’s been years since I’ve felt your painful,…
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Cain Yin I was once a perfect angel– now I spin in empty rooms. Picture me on fire, now paint me as the star. When I’m good I sing like preachers. Every good thing comes to life. Day dreamers, starlets. Dead girls and their pills. Claria Bow splits a fag, ashes it in a can.…
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Divya Goruganthu Monday, I am a raccoonclutching a coffee mugdigging through the trashof my inbox. Wearingsweatpants and hoodiesin the winter but,the rest of the yearI wear pajama shortsand pretend they are pants.But I always have a realshirt. Sometimes it evenhas buttons.I work my real jobtyping on a real computermaking fake images appearon a real monitor…
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Trin Viet Ho Home lights go low brief cries for your mother rest into the old rocking chair swish creak your baby hand finding the crook of my neck your tummy on my tummy your chest on my chest swish creak your baby breath deepening no more cries for mother except mine swish creak safety…
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Sarah Forest Cisco I saw through the midlands of my town to the creaking chair where my mother sat, dying while still weaving her gold and purple scarves as fast asever. I look down the dusty road to my aunt’s house. It was as far as our mom would let us roam initially. It is…
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C.V. Schultz Mule-jaw straight to the brain, I’m bordering on a Samsonian meltdown. I got my eyes gouged out on 2nd and Mesquite in a broke-down house with wild cats watching from the backyard. When’s the time to kill again? When’s the time to reap? Did I miss it? Did I miss it? I’m a…
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Eden Rumsey Bones lay silent in decorous spread Across the springtime moor On their wildflower bed. Thrushes in the ribcage Nest along the spine, Raising baby songbirds In lung space and thyme. Swallowtail chrysalides cling to the skull, Dormant souls in flux ’til Ancient instincts pierce the lull. As above, so below: Rabbits burrow underneath…
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Wynn Wilkinson for K and the cicadas we had to shout overA summer curse to be endured (BEAR)They sound (to her) like oil drills (BORE)Their calls cut deep, through wax and stone (GROAN)Then into oil (and ear) drums spill (ROAR)Buzzing on a Xiangshan boulder, We’d snuck off to dream up Answers to the question: “Can…
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Alex Compton I Salt, Earth, and Air betwixt I bathed in the night’s palindrome With ghosts at my back II The space between hair and mind The ardor one clings to A sense; diminished III Fragments form a whole What is this tingling, this sentimentality Water recedes and passes over IV The history of one…
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Cain Yin first day bringing a gun to chekhov’s party, & here i am in the rose colored coat, here i am with old stomping boots, lines of cheer on my good natured face–look, today i am growing old, today i am in a room full of people, today i love them & they love…
Hothouse 