Hothouse

By Turi Sioson

licking your teeth 

between the 

braided sweat, 

i fancy my hands 

are what you 

like best. 

with painted sea and 

sticky longing, pulled 

from your neck like 

black embossing, 

i trace the holy 

ghost upon your bicep. 

this is where 

my re-religioning springs 

from my chest, 

where our hands meet 

under my thighs, 

and with thunderstorm 

comes the surprise 

that you are 

touching me, 

every part of me 

that you can catch. 

in the morning 

you’ll count 

the tattoos that 

i have scratched.

By Ryan Nowicki

There was a blossoming in my chest 

One night, when I was alone 

At home, mulling the day over 

Again in my head, 

Where my heart awakened, ceased to rest, 

From which vines grew greener than envy— 

She was there, an aspiration, 

Both newly conceived 

And forever longed for. 

They were callously thorned, so prickly 

That when they fruited, the red flower— 

Bloody, 

Bloody, 

Bloody as all get out— 

Died and became an ulcer, a shower 

Of fertilizer onto a stomach lump. 

Nextdoor in the hospital, 

A woman, too, waited 

For her tumor to be examined. 

Next to my bed, she was gleeful, plump 

Bellied and pushing her tumor out— 

It hurt, I could tell— 

Her teeth grimaced, 

Her muscles focused— 

From her womb, her stomach; her long bout 

Was intense and, once over, was calm— 

She sighed relief, 

The weed plucked from her bed, 

A garden’s harvest clutched close in her arms— 

With an ambience of love, no psalm. 

I stared at her in silent, solemn loss— 

Why the pleasure? My abdomen aches 

And yet the tumor is still, 

Never to move, 

Never to grow, 

Never to ache and break and become anew, 

Forever wilted in my arms—

My heart curdled; I knew mine could try,

But no matter our predicament, I would

lie, I would die.

By Wynn Wilkinson

We’ll be lucky to hear, over cast iron sizzles 

A pillbug scampering earnestly in the grout 

Glinting, concealed halo, I stoop but can’t quite see. 

Silent Thatagāta, long beyond the wondering, 

Patient wanderer crossing icy marble seas, 

Middle way over crumbs, hair, skin, dust, 

Whose antennae peruse the driftwood of life. 

Please, please kneel with me. We are hosts. 

A guest has resolved to spend precious time here. 

Relocation can wait– let this humble secret keeper 

Feel the warmth reserved for the most tender prayer. 

And don’t you dare roll up that jaundiced old digest! 

First, butcher and scatter my libational corpse 

In segments and space as this Godhead has limbs.

By Trin Viet Ho

every nerve receptive and tender 

my body gentle and yawning 

corners of my lips curling 

tip of my tongue orbiting 

tingling tracing titillating 

how sensitive can we be with our soft subtle grazings between fingers 

lips 

nipples 

nerve endings? 

every space 

touches brushes presses 

little cosmic surprises 

peach fuzz electric crossings 

honey-like heat 

radiating soul stuff 

star stuff 

the stuff of dreams that don’t have words

By Julianna Riccioli

give me plum-colored fingerprints 

i can wear around my waist 

like an unholy halo of adoration 

or, i am Saturn, with my own rings 

because there is no love 

so divine 

as ours. 

in the hazy hours after midnight 

as we bask in our shared sticky-satiation 

i pray this heaven 

(our heaven)

lasts forever. 

your love is moonlight 

that never wanes. 

i will glimmer 

(only for you)

and wish 

on silver streaks of shooting stars 

for more nights like these. 

“dear celestial body, 

(one apart from you or me)

 

i worship [you] at the altar of our affection, 

my supernova, 

and ask that this heaven is not some one-off 

and we continue to have more than the fuzzy nighttime before the dawn and you always revere me. 

humbly, 

[me].” 

so

while we’re here 

(or anywhere) 

in the light of the streetlamps sneaking in through the crack of the curtains i leave you love-bites 

like asteroids 

colliding on your neck 

you read me collections by Neruda

like they are our sacred texts 

the words jumping in the dim of the dark 

and we feel silly and lovely 

and we can exist 

in our own paradise 

together.

By Ty Jones

Down 

down 

down in the sea, in her cold, 

sharp arms, 

quiet, 

finally unable to hear the ringing in my 

ears, 

Dark, 

no more blinding light in my face, 

no more need for the epileptic settings on my devices, 

Even pressure against the 

parts of me escaping, 

pushing my soul back to 

where it’s supposed to be, 

like fixing a slipped 

disk. 

Falling away to my sweet silence no more playing the game of when to speak and when to be silent and what to say and what not to say and why would you say that that was so

rude and hurry up and say something, 

be polite. 

Just peace. 

The fish next to me don’t drown 

(I am not sure yet if I have gills but that’s a risk I’m willing to take) 

I can see the parts of me I hate, 

and the parts of me I hurt, 

and the parts of me I hate that hurt, 

and I am at 

peace. 

No one to twist the knife. 

Me and myself and they and us and we and you are all gone. 

I am at peace. 

I am cold inside and out – for once not half burning-half stone – all together, all at once.

If I am in the sea the salt water will heal my wounds double time, 

she fixes me up. 

I don’t have to hate the drowning, the sea doesn’t hate me. 

The sea just is. 

I am there even if me and myself try to hide it at the end of the day I am there and I just am and that is okay. 

I don’t have to hate the drowning within myself and I don’t have to have or show a scar to have hurt.

By Lucia Llano

the places in the wet, forest dirt where our little 

fingers once dug knuckle-deep in search for the 

purple, swollen rubber of odd creatures, are still 

standing, the same throbbing earthworms are 

there even now, crawling and slurring through 

the wet dirt and now unbothered by our tiny 

fingers, spend their time instead planting 

soft little kisses all the way down the sleeping 

carcass of our old childhood dog.

By Lucia Llano

bc isn’t life just nerves like kitchen lights? 

or like the same poem again and again? 

hasn’t everything love-bent already been said? 

ihavesomuchtosayitsbackloggedmythroatisallcloggedupnow 

how bout you stick your fingers down it? i’m 

just kidding. 

i’m just stoned 

in place, 

a granite statue, 

sending you a text 

thinking of you, 

the other day, 

remember how 

i put my fist in my mouth 

just to see how it would fit and 

it just kept coming back lavender 

when i spit, 

or like, a fist full of grass. 

anyways. i think i swallowed wrong and 

i think you forgot to ask but 

yes, i’m still stuck. 

yes, i’ve been trying to find my hands ever since. 

until then, 

just know, 

(i love you) 

i am not trying to walk away from you 

i am just always trying–

i am just always breaking 

in a new pair of shoes. 

i am 

also sorry. 

or more like 

just waiting on you. 

bc i know it’s so cool to be calm and collected 

but like, i’m sitting here, freezing to a still. 

cmon, turn on my kitchen light. 

give me a little heat. 

oh, that reminds me 

once i rolled out the hot-womb with a godlike fear of language 

so my first word was laughter and 

i never found a word 

that laughter didn’t already say 

and you make me laugh 

(it’s) so hard. 

i’m just a kid 

learning to speak all over again. 

i just roll around the hillside of each mouthfeel 

white socks painted green 

by the small hands of each small word 

i just stand there, pointing at the world 

saying, look! look!! look!!! 

nothing else. 

sometimes, 

just sputtering,

love 

!

By Wynn Wilkinson

The full Moon shone ‘cross the babbling stream, and spoke: “Be still! 

I’m full tonight, but your ripples shatter my image; 

Be still, mirrorlike, and reflect the untarnished light of my grace!” 

The stream cried, “I’m trying, I am! But think of my state–— 

The earth consumes me, I fall through the sky, and my bends 

Fall downwards with the slope of this hill. But I’m calm, if not still; 

I’ll end in a pond, crystal clear and serene– meet me there 

To gaze on your gleaming cheeks and precious eyes 

Through your loyal and hardworking vessel, O Moon.” 

But the stream saw no more of the Moon that night, 

And that quiet, still pond sketched shadow in the shimmering starlight. 

I have lured you to the desert with promises of an oasis, and the mountaintop with promises of a monastery. 

They exist in time I do not have. 

The pastures of our eternity have never been greener; 

frolic, and see your own eyes through mine as I forecast the oncoming snow. Lay me face down and in the direction of the enemy, my Love, 

and wish on the smallest wheat-grain you can find that there is no Heaven. Let’s trade: I’ll be the pond, tranquil and still, missing your wandering beams; lest I be the Moon, in glory and grace, crying out for that babbling stream.

By Molly Tompkins

You proposed forever, 

Twisting your knuckles above, 

The honeyed veins of the tree Top 

Table, in the corner of the coffee shop 

Where we met, the first time, of many. 

I put my hands over 

Yours, easing the nerves that struck 

Like hammers through your skin, 

Merely at the thought of pressing a key 

Into a wood lock that could stir into a living room. 

Your eyes shone. 

I never would have foreseen you, 

gone. 

How many proposals do you think this tree saw? Thousands, you traced the raw 

patches beneath the lacquer. 

Fairies, princes, hikers who scaled the mountain, That sounds like the beginning of a tale. 

I thought you broke the promise, 

But now, watching what the tabletop witnessed— Scarred with stirred stars and run rivers, 

Stained with birthmarks and unlashed eyes, I realize such proposals can’t crack. 

Branches, light enough for children and the sun, Dated into calendars and captive chairs, 

That prop scenes for romantic affairs, 

Corner tables set with one-days, 

Until, one day, there never need 

Come Another.

By Molly Tompkins

Between there and here, I 

Saw a two-headed sunflower 

That reminded me of him. 

A double imprint in the green 

Thumb, pushing the seed deep in soil 

must have betrayed a cleft heart. 

Still, planted— 

The history of his insides 

Were written in Vietnamese, 

The signature resembling Fansipan peaks. 

We only understood his language. 

Before English, he spoke signs, 

Ten rayed sunbursts 

Meant, Mama, hold me. 

Baby boy, smiling with nubby teeth 

Fuzzed with cavities. He loved 

To rub our fathers’ bald head, like a globe. 

His black bangs hung like night sky 

high above the sahara, no 

Sign of the metal river sloshing 

Runoff thoughts from his brain 

Like a Venetian afterthought, dead 

Ending in a side street. 

He wouldn’t have known the French— 

Grand Mal, seizing him, back to a metal 

Barred crib and nurses’ honey breasts. 

The whites of his eyes blew back, 

like a wave break against the gale, 

His body clapped like air between 

Two hands, clasping and letting go 

For the sound of good.

I thought his forehead swam the Pacific’s Length because he kept eyes for two suns, Never seeing the silver shunt seeded Until weeded beneath the operating light. 

They asked for your mother, 

One of the two, watching, your eyelashes Unwind two disks of brown, 

Spiraled with gold. 

Where are we all? 

We could answer only 

Covering him in kisses.

By Ryan Nowicki

She gazes beyond the cave toward the frigid gales that ruffle the oak trees, a little creature within a great earthen tower. Her many compatriots and acquaintances and strangers flood in, wind-swept waves of them cresting the doorway in search of shelter. Some make their way through the colony to labor, moving foodstuffs and construction materials and information. Others don treated grasses and furs and brave the breeze, hobbling off to other mounds where strangers lie. They will be welcomed there, just as she lets the strangers wander about this mountain. They will not dare approach her room, nor any other chamber they are not guided toward. She knows this. The air waves tell her this. Patterned plosives and approximants in the atmosphere pressure them, little wind-lifted marionettes, singing plots and director’s cuts. She makes her own and responds to those of others in turn. She uses these waves because she cannot smell well, and neither can they, not on these lengthscales. This makes them quite different from other colonial animals, and as a result of their lack of typical pheromonal communication, they lack proper queens, their naked bodies all equivalently small, only distinguished by their chosen adornments on their backs and their bellies and their buttocks and their breasts.