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but I was also told they act as an open door
for ghosts to possess you. That must be why I can’t stop shaking and I’ve stopped eating and I hardly leave my room, where it’s coldest. That must be why, when I do leave, I drift from room to room, through doors, through walls, through floors, through time — it doesn’t make a difference. That must be why nothing makes a difference. Justice is a woman.
Here is how you make her. Soil her with gold body paint, Fill her hand with a sword Stand her above So you can look underneath. Tell her to be blind, and still. An artefact. Justice is a woman. Make sure that when a girl stands at her feet. Palms holding what is left. And tells Justice of lip gloss Sticky, smeared. Of his twisted knife Is a woman man made?
What was woman before man? Did she have reason to get mad? Did she cry until it hurt? Did she ever wonder, who it Was she served? Who was she? Or who could she be? Do women still wonder? No. Yes? I find myself looking up at the skies’
pearlescent cotton ball clouds waltzing slow and steady, lazing along riding wind currents. Birds are snaking through cloud-capes twirling around. Free, with no concept of time. But do they know deep down in their bird brains that every second of life beautiful life, love, nature, all of it are temporary things that surround us in our lives, but not in our deaths. We have so little time to live, no time to think about what comes next. The timer ticks…ticks away every day. What can I do before I run out of time? What can I-- Madisen Bellon is a poet and fiction writer. She is the founder and Editor in Chief for Cosmic Daffodil Journal. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, birdwatching, and playing video games. When I give birth they’ll serve him to me,
I’ll touch him, and when the skins connect I’ll feel his pulse. Maybe another cord will replace the umbilical and eventually I’ll learn to walk him with puppet fingers, sticks to adjust the hands and feet, to prevent collapse. Maybe, when I dress him in my glasses, scored lenses from looking at the world, the blurring will break his newborn eyes, I think of love as the way one unspools a ball of yarn
or diligently untangles a knot before threading the needle and sewing anew. I think of love as the pocket on the inside of one’s winter coat; hidden from view but blooming with secrets. I think of the nickel you hadn’t known was there, that you unearthed because you sensed that there was more to the coat than its water-resistant nylon. I think of floating, but so does everyone, not the dread palpitating in your chest cavity when you feel that you have something i got my insatiable grief from my father
and learned to mourn like a dove by my mother it is a gift of elephantine proportions (runs through our veins like a snake) passing down from the old groups to new ones living in the girls that soon grow into women pooling in their Mary Jane shoes (and it looks like this) you are twelve and bleeding for the first time you forgot to change the pad and so you’ve smelled of blood for days the stench of being woman strong; you cannot scrub it off in the days that follow you are filled with nervous fervor you cry for the loss of your self and an angel appears it says ‘i’m sorry-- we thought you’d ordered womanhood’ and you say ‘it’s okay-- it’s all part of the American dream’ Rose McCoy (she/her) is a poet and writer from Morgantown, West Virginia. She often writes on themes of love, loss, and other things that hit her in the heart. She has been published by Graphic Violence Lit, Free Spirit Publishing, Cathartic Youth Lit, and Bullshit Lit, and her debut chapbook, Sink or Swim: Reflections on an Ending, was published through Bottlecap Press in April. When not writing, she can probably be found screaming into the void as she has an existential crisis. Writing updates can be found on her Twitter @24hrmccoy. My Ex's Evangelical Mother's Perspective of Womanhood by Lauren Elise Fisher (Connecticut, 22)7/3/2023
We make space for grief and gratitude.
A simple motif: Men do brood in disbelief when we snap back with attitude. He may be deadbeat, but you shouldn't be shrewd! (He needs a debrief every time you’re rude) Grief. Almost a religious belief, We exude expectations before giving in to “when/if”. (The feelings We exclude to keep our belief…) Gratitude. I accrued it quietly in brief moments imbued with relief of what it takes to kill a dream. Lauren Elise Fisher is a stage manager and writer based out of Bridgeport, CT. She holds a B.A. in theatre studies from the University of Connecticut where she studied stage management, performance, and puppetry. Her most recent publication, "Moving Forward" may be found in CultureCult's Spring Offensive anthology (April, 2023). Keep up with Lauren on Instagram and Twitter: @AllFishSwim. |