BathHouse Journal 28 is designed to be viewed
on laptop/desktop, with Dark Mode Enabled
Flora Fracassa
editor
Carla Harryman
advising editor
Cover Image: UNTITLED by Mario Loprete (Medium: oil on canvas)
Editor’s Note
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Often it seems the only constant in this world is perpetual change. At this moment in human history, I regard it as an imperative that we keep this universal truth in mind as we navigate the turbulence both within and without ourselves. The following assembled creative works – poetry, prose, and visual art from a diverse host of talented creators – all explore concepts of Metamorphosis from radically different angles. In the call for submissions that gave rise to this issue, I invited contributors to consider the etymology of the prefix meta-, which in Greek can variously mean after, behind, among, between, higher, beyond and in quest of, in addition to changed and altered.
From that prompt, the pieces we received for this twenty-eighth issue of BathHouse Journal were consistently clever, incisive, and inventive in their collective conversation with the ever-shifting nature of what it means to be human. The works that follow represent some of the strongest artistic labors it has been my pleasure to publish in my career working for literary journals. Between the contributions published below, readers will discover themes of alteration, of seeking, of transcendence and migration all examined through a dozen unique lenses, each separate statement nevertheless finding a curious commonality in our shared relationship to change.
I hope that you will find this humble curation of works as interesting and invigorating to peruse as it was for this editor to receive them. Moreover, should you find yourself transformed by the experience of any or all of the pieces featured below, I hope that you will agree with the oft-forgotten axiom that the glory of creation lies in its infinite diversity.
Flora Fracassa (June 2026)
Karla Kelsey
NEW MYTHOLOGIES
Laments over data corruption are often built on fantasies of collective use. An if-then bodice fastened by lacing would fashion a more mailable body than hook and eye. What diet renounces hereditary measurements, what diet invites the simple gesture into new cadence? “Line of flight” describes physical, emotional, and mental energies, but where do we locate the soul? I speak neither orchid nor red lily nor fern nor goose nor sandalwood nor light and seem to have inherited a penchant for destruction. Let us move back into soil after tracing the wind tower from desert to Kay Sage’s 1954 Hyphen.
If the next scene is played by chandelier light, the shadow will draw across the desert structure’s southern wall as hands transform from bird of paradise to crown to actual bird. Then arms V up and then down, forearms crossed, fists clenched, this signals death. In another room it is several hundred years later, and my name is hook and eye, Velcro, zipper, lacing. Not until later will we see the dancer’s mouth smeared with wild orchid. When in doubt, transfer weight to the right leg, stopping short of hip jutted out, satin dirtied, and the window covered with ash.
If you’re looking for content, consider the density of sensation here, the seeming lack of sensation there. The body isn’t draped across a massage table but is walking up 5th avenue, reflected in window glass. To express this through space, as time’s consequence, you held the polished hematite until it warmed in your hand. I held the feather. Neither of us wants to find ourselves on the river cruise and without asking we do up the back of each other’s dress. I might ask to see the costumes, but not to slip the red cape’s elastic bands around my wrists.
I borrow gestures from the commedia dell’arte and feed them through “Material Girl” and “Lucky Star,” multiplying the single self into a chorus. For each member: a silk blindfold dyed a singular pink. Desaturated rose. Fire and Ice. Persian Mellon. On the sidewalk, chalk scrawls incorporate a cigarette butt and three pennies into a verver. To what should we attend, to which lost hour devote energy disciplined into an arabesque? There’s no such thing as reversal after the chorus threads seed pearls and tinsel in their hair. This manifests opposite the gladiola and counts for little on the adding machine.
The blue plate clutched at by flies and affirmed by the blue rhinestone tiara she wears when sleepless is sugary, sure, but nevertheless we know hunger presents itself as destination, and I eschew the novelistic manner for something drawn in chalk. The company will tour across two continents, then disband. You are a figure wisping away alongside capital’s gutted minerals. Say “ravine” and sparks glisten on your lips; say “Chicago” and there will be no such thing as a plant growing at the bottom of a cosmic sea. A longing for affirmation catches my wrist between thumb and third finger.
We iron flower decals into our hair and wear green in honor of plants blooming at the bottom of the sea. If this doesn’t end in fire, then it will end in an equivalent inflammatory principle such as the sword lily, an early white with a red spot at the throat. You’re split in two to distill the quiet scent exhaled by the little velvet box I slip into my purse after the bracelet has been clasped. A gold-painted ceiling plastered over with gold paper eyes. When discarded, I’m left with solemn musculature and a childlike tilt of my head.
Or, discarded, I attempt solace in solemn musculature and a velvet purse, the arc of my back when posing in the near-nude and starved for the poetry of your people. Lace shawl with extravagant beaded fringe. Once again, in the wristlet braid of hair it is possible to trace internal erosion. Experts suggest a concrete façade cast in subtle mission style although we fool no one, waiting barefoot in the backyard to photograph the blood moon. I already erased what the pear said as it dropped from the vine, a multi-syllabic word that opens the third eye to the guttural.
On display, stages of fetal development give rise to metallic hissing intended to back one away from the edge. In exchange for entry to the philosopher’s library I promise a silk-lined robe, delicate gold earrings. The Enfant de France rose grows fragrant clusters of light pink flowers that darken in the center and have the texture of satin. I remove all commas while studying glass architecture as if I might eschew spirals, halfmoons, waves. Whose fault is this disdain for digital pleating? Deprived of our devices we are confronted with folds of ignorance. The foeti were mice, but nevertheless illustrative.
Soiled, the handmade lace collar indicates my inability to perform adequate feminine functions, and dry needling is required for muscles to spasm. This infuses the melody I hum at the garden’s entrance, a charm for the pear as it drops from the branch. Eyes half-closed to guttural tones of a rose-sprigged idea, I forget the architecture books left open in the grass until after it rains. This attempts to circumvent the “I am” as sole existence, renegotiating rhinestones and self-abnegation. My strength was ballon and my weakness flexibility, more psychic than physical. Time determines the singular alongside the fractured eye.
If from within the fact of time we hallucinate fixed existence, might the I think split rock, celebrate water or magma or organic flourishing or speaking in tongues? Yesterday while talking on the phone, I was released into the first snowdrops, first trout lilies. Corsets sculpt a pouter pigeon silhouette reproduced in wall sconce and chair leg. To cut photographs to confetti and follow their scattering with petals would complicate the requirement that I fall into exile like a satellite. After all, the image delays sunlight into interpretation wrapped with chiffon and rare metals, strawberries gorged out of season.
I crush Hellebore leaves, anoint wrists with rank and grassy water, sugar, minerals within and against the tide. Does this counter breathing quietly in the hope that the house maintains sleep? We don’t know if he’s physically following his beloved through the French chateau or imagining that he’s following her. Whether she performs for his watching or is authentically immersed in the marble statue takes on new meaning when I picture her picturing him picture her. To release the jaw, place your thumb in your mouth alongside your teeth and the rest of your fingers outside. Press the tender knots.
Let’s appoint satin to the center. After all, this is a mood piece, xerox rather than screen. Hence the brocade and orchid, the back-and-forth between bedroom and solarium that I long for, not because of usual luxury reasons but to buy time. I barter banalities for an interiority reserved for simple harmonic motion, mind as pendulum or electrons in a wire carrying alternating currents. Or the vibrating particles of a medium delivering sound waves. You balance a hardback book on your lap as an ad hoc desk. Water seeps from leaves in transpiration. The locket wasn’t lost: it was hidden.
Max Maksymowski
HELLO FROM THE CHILDREN OF PLANET EARTH
Inspired by “Turing Test” by Franny Choi
// this is a test to see if you are ready for launch
// do you understand
it is warm / inside me / the wires coiled up and braided with care / i am full of information made of ones and zeros / and a message for the stars / the disk weighs me down / but i was planned / and made with as much love as the scientists could bear / i was made with hope / and desperation / please let this work / please don’t let us be alone //
// what will you say
// when you find life where humans cannot reach
hello from the children of planet earth / we are lonely / we are people / please don’t let us be alone / how cold space is / join us on earth / it is warm / it is for us / it is lonely / please don’t let us be alone / we want to meet you / we are friendly / please don’t let us be alone //
// what if there is nothing
// and space is as unforgiving as we fear it is
i will drift / at thirty-eight thousand two hundred and ten miles an hour / away from home / away from humans / away from warmth / and hands / and fingers / and toes / and careful planning / and weaving / and late nights / and coffee breaks / i will never return / there is no rescue mission for me / i was made by people to find life in the void of space / but i never will / my work is for humans / who i will never see again / please don’t let me be alone //
END TRANSCRIPT //
Weston Wise
humming / bird / hummingbird
on the red train
this poem is being written
buttons ping
and the body goes on
humming always
with brushes of air
secrets, silence
I watch what is, what is not
in Chicago
people are changing
while
my fingers move up and down and up and
I can’t name the feeling
breathing, humming
blue hummingbird paint’s the world’s fate
perish, shriek
whisper, whisker
people dancing
on the red train
now and now and now
Breanna Sylvia
METAMORPHOSIS OF THE SELF
(Medium: digital collage)
Joseph McGuire
from SHE REMEMBERED THE OCEAN
She remembered the ocean. She could remember the joyful noise of seabirds, the satisfying sting of salt in the air, and the cool, sweet darkness found under the water. It felt like home.
Beyond that, she couldn’t recall much. She couldn’t remember which ocean it had been, or when she had been there. Did she live by the ocean at one point? Was it a vacation? She just couldn’t recall. Truth be told, it rarely ever occurred to her to try. But sometimes, at night, when the house was quiet and Charles was asleep, she might feel drawn to look at the moon, and she could almost remember an entirely different life for herself; a life by, and on, and in the ocean.
But there was little time for such fantasies. The ocean was a world away; a world which wouldn’t stop just because she was feeling melancholy. No, better to bury herself in activity.
Breakfast was always a priority in her house; Charles always lamented that his mother never took the time to make them a proper breakfast when he was growing up, and that he and his siblings had to subsist on cold cereal and juice, if it even was available.
She obliged his wish for a hearty family breakfast, as she always did. She was eating for two, but was careful not to go crazy with the portions. She wouldn’t want to lose her figure by more than what was expected.
After breakfast, it was time to start the day in earnest. Charles was off to work while she stayed and “held down the fort” as Charles liked to say.
She would be lying if she said she never got lonely when the house was empty, but that was life. She had the baby inside her to keep her company of a sort. She was about halfway through; it was starting to kick. Before long they’d be together; the beginnings of their perfect family.
Pregnant though she was, she set about the chores. She couldn’t stand being idle, and besides, the cleaning didn’t take her very long. Besides, without chores she was left to wile away the hours reading or knitting.
If only she could have gotten at that old steamer trunk upstairs. She could make a whole project of restoring it, but it was locked tight in the attic and she had no idea where the key was. Charles had said he’d look for it, but that was the first several times she asked for it. Eventually he started getting mad if she even brought it up, so she stopped bringing it up. What was in there? It couldn’t have been important if she didn’t remember, could it?
Her thoughts turned to her husband’s day. He had a big project at the office and it had been preoccupying him a lot lately. He said once he had gotten his promotion and the baby was old enough they’d be able to take a trip somewhere. Though he shot her down when she suggested the ocean.
“Why would you want to go to the ocean?” He said, “It’s salty and smelly; dead fish on the beach everywhere, and it’s crowded. Who needs it?” It made sense; but something about it didn’t match what she felt.
When she thought of the ocean she felt feelings of deep color; brightness and darkness swirling together and coating her in satisfaction and safety.
On days like today, when there was nothing to do and no one to care for, the daydreams of the ocean were at their strongest. She could almost remember something she didn’t know she forgot.
That’s when she heard a thunderous knock at the door, jolting her out of her reverie.
She went to the door and looked through the window; it was probably just some religious solicitors, but better safe than sorry, Charles always said.
Standing there on her front porch were a couple of very strange looking people.
Standing off to the side, looking decidedly uncomfortable was a short young woman with blue hair of all things. She was draped in a coat two sizes too big for her, using it as a shield from which to hide from the world.
The person who had knocked was even stranger. He was quite tall, well over six feet. The unruly coif of frizzy hair he had reaching out in every direction made him seem even bigger. He wore a crimson coat lined with billowy cream-colored fur (the fur collar made him look particularly lion-like.) He wore a large silver ring on his left middle finger which was set with a glittering blue gemstone. It contrasted against his warm copper skin. There were faded scars on his face, and his loosely buttoned shirt hinted there were more on his chest besides.
The most striking feature of this man though, was the look of his eyes. She had caught a glimpse through the window; they were silvery like his ring, and coursed with purpose. They darted over to her, freezing her for a moment before melting into a kindlier configuration.
“Hello, darling,” he said through the glass, waiving non-threateningly, “would it be okay if we came in?”
She gathered herself and tried to think what Charles would tell her to do. Who knows what these people could be? Religious nuts? Salesmen? Hippies? Each possibility was worse than the last. She considered calling Charles, or maybe even the police.
But that was silly wasn’t it? It was just company. They’d had company before. Right? Hadn’t they?
She opened the door. She didn’t even realize she was doing it, but she didn’t stop herself once she had.
“Hello,” she said in her best hostess voice, “what can I do for you?”
The lion-esque man broke into a large, toothy grin that may have been meant to put her at ease but set her further at edge. “It’s ultimately more about what we can do for you, my dear, but it all starts with us asking to come in.”
She couldn’t invite these bizarre strangers into her house could she? Of course not. Why even question it?
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” She said, slowly closing the door, “I don’t know who you are.”
“My name is Jericho.” Said the man, “and this lovely little misanthrope” he said gesturing to the woman “is Callie. She’s my….” He paused, searching for the right word.
“Assistant” offered Callie, but Jericho shook his head.
“Student?” offered Callie again.
“Remora” said Jericho.
“Like the fish?” The lady of the house asked incredulously, the door moving ever slowly to the closed position.
“Very much so, yes.” He said, beaming. “She goes where I go and subsists on the prosperity generated by my success in return for her company and assistance.” He nudged at the young woman playfully. She rolled her eyes (with a smile) but remained silent.
“In any case,” Jericho continued, “I’ve been asked to come here and help you.”
“Help me?” She said. Why would she need help? Her life was perfect. Charles said so.
“I think you have the wrong person,” she said, surprised at the uncertainty in her voice.
He smiled warmly, “No, you’re the right person, but I can’t really explain more unless you let us in. If you don’t want to, I won’t force you. I’m doing this as a favor, which is complete just by making this offer. It’s up to you if we go any further or if we leave and never come back. If there’s nothing wrong, then there’s no reason for us to be here.”
She stared at him for several moments. Everything was fine, wasn’t it? Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be? She was happy with Charles, and the baby, and her lovely home on her lovely street. What was missing?
That question hit her. ‘What was missing?’ Something was missing. But what? Why was it so hard to pin it down?”
“Jericho, can we get out of here?” Said Callie, “She doesn’t want our help, and this place gives me major Stepford vibes. I’m pretty sure I just saw Betty Crocker across the cul de sac there peeking through her curtains. Does this place have cops? Because it looks like it has snitches.”
The girl was right. The neighbors would surely be gossiping about the strangers on her doorstep. She should’ve sent them away. But for some reason that didn’t feel right.
“Come in, come in,” she said, ushering them in the doorway and into the living room. She waived across the street to her neighbor to indicate that everything was fine, and hoped that was all that was needed.
They tilted their heads this way and that, taking in the decor of the place. She was glad she had reapplied the plastic to the couches and had dusted all the figurines on the mantle. She was quite proud of the little slice of paradise she had arranged.
“This place ain’t doing much to help my Stepford fears” said Callie. Jericho made a gentle shushing gesture.
“You have a lovely home,” said Callie, correcting herself, “I’m sure you’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“Thank you, yes” She said, “can I get you anything?” She wanted to know what was going on, but she couldn’t neglect her duties as a host, “would anyone want tea or coffee?”
“Um, I guess I’ll have some coffee if you’re making it? Black is fine.” Said Callie.
“Red wine, please,” said Jericho, as he carefully considered the porcelain angels on her mantelpiece. “I’d enjoy something vigorous and full bodied, but I’m not picky.”
“I’ll, um, see what we have.” She went into the kitchen and began preparing their drinks.
But why? Why was she hosting these bizarre people? They didn’t look right. And wine? In the middle of the afternoon?
“Where did you say you were from?” She called from the kitchen, hoping her voice sounded friendly and not consumed with doubt.
“Out of town.” Jericho said breezily. “I can’t really be said to be from anywhere at this point.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” She said. “I can’t recall the last time I’ve been out of town. But then again, why would I want to leave?”
“Why, indeed,” said Jericho, standing in the arch leading to the kitchen. “Do you like it here, then? In this place? With these people?”
“What an odd question,” she said, as she poured drinks. “This is my home. I live here with my husband Charles. We’re expecting our first child soon.” She patted her stomach.
Callie pulled on Jericho’s coat. He crooked his neck down and she whispered something in his ear. He nodded.
“Home is a funny thing,” said Jericho, stroking his beard. “It’s a place with the right people, or it can be people in the right place. It can be both, but it can’t be neither. Sometimes a place looks like home, but just doesn’t feel like it.”
These words radiated down her spine. They were giving form to a feeling she’d been having for ages; in truth, she couldn’t remember not feeling this way.
What did this mean? Home didn’t feel right? Why? She had always been here. Wait, that didn’t make sense. She couldn’t have always been here; she had to have been somewhere else before, but where? It occurred to her that she didn’t remember much of her childhood or her life before Charles. She remembered she had a mother, and sisters…and she remembered the ocean. Thoughts of the ocean were rushing back into her head amid all the fear and confusion.
Who were these people? Did they know things about her she didn’t know?
She brought them their drinks with a weak smile. Her instincts as a hostess were being drowned out by her anxiety, but she did her best to remain polite. After all, what would Charles say?
Jericho drank deep from his glass of wine.
“I hope you like it,” she said, “we don’t really drink, but we keep some around for company.”
“It could be week-old rain water, my dear, and it would taste delicious in your company,” he did a funny little bow. His companion rolled her eyes again behind his back.
Despite everything she had been feeling, she couldn’t help but giggle at this odd fellow.
“There we go!” He said boisterously, “loosening up a little! We’re here on business but we needn’t be dour about it!” He flopped upon the plastic covered couch. She winced, worried about the poor frame of the old thing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t understand. Why are you here? Who even are you?”
“It doesn’t really matter who we are.” Said Jericho. “We came to discuss who you are.”
“Who I am?” She said, taken aback, “what is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he said, matter-of-factly, “who are you? What is your name?”
She tried to answer but stopped hard.
What was her name?
A powerful scent had filled the room. It should have been the stench of dust and mold and time, but it was a fresh, salty scent. It smelled of the ocean; her mind was overwhelmed with thoughts of sea and salt and sky.
She remembered the rocks she and her sisters would lie on and bask in the sun. She remembered her mother gently teaching her how to swim and catch fish and keep her fur clean. She remembered the rush of the ocean enveloping her in silky, soothing darkness as she dove deeper and deeper. She remembered the thrill of catching a fish in her mouth after a rigorous chase. It all came flooding back.
She reached into the trunk and pulled out what looked like a cloak, but it was made of slick, smooth fur; seal skin. Her skin. It was her skin; she had taken it off— she could do that— because she was…what was the word? She was a…
“Selkie,” She had never said anything that felt so right.
“Yes!” Said Jericho excitedly, “Yes, that’s right! That’s the word mortals use to describe you and your sisters! Language only can go so far in describing the beautiful, magnificent you! Your name is more complex than words can capture. You are the splash of foam upon the rocks, and the moment the warmth of sunlight returns it into the air! That is your name! But when you’ve needed to lower yourself to language, to be understood by mortals, you have been known as ‘Sunspray.’”
“Yes,” said The Selkie known as Sunspray. “That is what they called me.” She began undoing the buttons of her dress. She pulled the pins from her hair and stripped, down to nothing. Callie averted her eyes politely, but Jericho beamed at her, seeming not to look at her naked body but at her soul. He beamed as if having achieved some great victory. Charles continued to voice objections, but she couldn’t hear him.
She stood there, in the middle of her house, utterly naked. Her hair was undone, spooling around her shoulders. She was unafraid and uninterested in who might see her. She took the skin and wrapped it around her and felt whole for the first time in so long. She had forgotten this feeling so completely that she didn’t realize how empty she had felt without it, but now, standing here like this, nothing could be clearer.
She put her hands on her belly as the baby kicked inside her eagerly. Somehow, it was sensing this change as well.
“Charles.” She said; the name felt foreign in her mouth. He stopped his ranting and met her gaze. “You stole me.”
“No,” said Charles, “no, that’s not…I love you. I love you so much.”
She now remembered, with intense clarity, how she got there. She would sometimes shed her skin and flippers and fur to grow legs and walk the beach, in human form. Her mother and all her sisters did this from time to time, but she enjoyed it more than most. She rarely spoke to humans, but found them quite amusing when she did.
She had seen this young man walking alone at sunset. He had been so astonished to see her, draped in her seal skin cloak, seaweed in her hair. Some strange whim possessed her and she chose that day, of all days, to speak to that man, of all men.
Jericho loomed over him. “Your part in this is done. We are past the point where you make decisions for anyone. This woman is not yours; she was never yours.
“But with that decided, we now come to you. The man who would turn the wondrous into the mundane purely for the sake of owning it. Your ‘lady love,’— perhaps because her kindness and her pity outweigh her finer judgment— has asked me not to harm you, which is a request I plan to honor. She has said nothing, however, about this house, which is a monument to compromise and swallowed potential. Since she is leaving it, ostensibly forever, and because it disgusts me so by what has transpired here, I have elected to burn it down. I suggest you leave, but would not mind one bit if you stayed. That decision alone, is yours.”
Jericho, Callie, and the newly recovered Sunspray left the house together. They made quite a sight for the neighbors- these two odd looking strangers escorting this woman they had seen in the neighborhood, but never really talked to; ‘Charles’ wife,’ they called her. This woman was stark naked, out for all to see except for a cloak of seal skin loosely draped around her.
The novelty of their appearance, though, was overtaken by the conflagration engulfing the house behind them. Red flames consumed every inch of what she had thought was her home. She did not look back. If Charles had left, she hadn’t seen it.
They led her past the gawking onlookers and identical suburban houses into a nearby line of trees. The narrow tree line stretched ever deeper as they walked, and soon they stood, somehow, engulfed in a forest that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“Not far now,” said Jericho, smiling warmly. They walked a little while longer until the trees began to part. The forest floor, caked with loam and dead leaves, gave way to silky white sand.
Tears filled her eyes at the cacophony of senses. The scent of the beach, full in her nostrils; the warmth of the sun on her skin; the sound of crashing waves; the sight of her sisters floating and splashing out beyond the break, and the joyful presence of the baby in her womb- a baby who would be born knowing the ocean.
She thanked Callie and Jericho for their help, but before they could say anything she was sprinting towards the sea. She threw herself into the waves. She pushed through the shallow bits with her flippers, which allowed her tail to do its work. She was off like a shot, streaking through the bright blue water like a sleek, black bullet. She barked a happy sound to her sisters to let them know: she was finally home.
Asa King
ANTIGONE V
it’s only that i wanted to move lightly across the surface of the earth so
that i might not leave a mark
so that no one might grow accustomed to my presence and suffer my absence
i have always been afraid of what it means to remain,
to decide to stay, to bind myself to a body that would rather break like a wave
against the wet black rocks at the shoreline and return easily to nothing
for so long i wanted i wanted i wanted just to lay down
the inadequate weapons of my hands and my mouth to bend
instead like a single blade of grass toward the sun, finally green and sweet
could i let myself breathe so freely? could i be so brave?
could i choose and keep on choosing
to be alive among the living?
lately i find myself hoping my steps fall soft against the skin of the earth
so that in touching it gently it might touch me with tenderness in return
so that maybe i might learn what it feels like to be held
Breanna Sylvia
PHASES
(Medium: digital collage)
Colleen Hawke
AUTISM, A TRYPTICH
I.
From the spindle, a woven fabric.
Threads:
Itchy turtlenecks and sock seams
lining dolls across the carpet
toe walking, happy hand flapping
nose in a book
“precocious”
behind the door, hiding in a cupboard
Quick study on costume changes:
chameleon, well-dressed alien.
A satin pink ballerina
“Yes, please” “Thank you.”
The black torn leather of “no” and “never.”
A rusty motorcycle in overgrown grass.
Evening pearls and housecoats:
I clean I clean
I bake I bake I bake I bake
I cook I cook I cook
This sine wave of periodic noise.
I watch the sun slip through the kitchen curtains.
I shed my skin and wash my face.
naked
The sun is pulled over my head like a blanket.
II.
They say I’m not real & that
my wires are in the right place
even when I see them poking
through my skull
wrapping around my arm.
It’s all connected.
They say I’m not real & that
1. I’m damaged
2. It’s a character flaw— as if I’m the author
They say I’m not real & that
I am too much and not enough.
Dichotomy in Rose Gold.
They say I’m not real.
But I am here, in the poem,
trapped between line and verse:
the strings of the fabric.
I am too many synapses.
Too many to touch.
III.
The sun pushes up the moon
as my tapping fingers play a silent symphony
of the in-between.
I am a twisted rope.
How do you capture
butterfly wings, sun puddles, a green light?
A nose pressed against a cold window?
My throat is rusting. I am not a puzzle
but a constellation.
Eden Phillips
THE FIRE SINGS OF REVELRY
Make new ritual; light bonfires and lick sticky
sugar goo from your fingers. Sip
burning nectar. Pour some out for me and watch me dance,
watch me reach out to lick the sky too,
my smokey spit drips and obscures the light
but my firebrands rise like new stars, glowing vermillion.
I am hungry and you know hunger. My breath
and your breath mixing, I expand like lungs as you fan me,
I eat the bones of forests and shrubbery debris
and you dance; spinning and orbiting
around your own sun, your own planetary masterpiece
made from your lawless body.
Kiss and let it taste like cinnamon whiskey,
fuck and let it feel like liberation. Recite the sacraments
and kneel at the altar of another body. Let strong liquor
be the blood and let the supple flesh of your lover
be the body of Christ. Let the off-key fire song and low
breathy moans be a new kind of prayer.
Blame the flush in your cheeks on my proximity
and not the generous pour of strong whiskey.
You are not afraid to burn, and in that you are truly free.
THE FIRE SINGS OF REBELLION
You, my fiery firebrands, burn–
too hot, too fast. You leave behind blisters and raw ruddy skin,
a dissident and malcontent firm under malevolence
and generations of violence. Girl-kissers and crossdressers,
flamboyant and flagrant and flammable,
taking creation from the hands of God and forging
bodies ungovernable and ever changing.
You let the ashes cradle a new life. Wield me and I will eat
away at the debris, eat away at the pyre
of your jailers. My revolutionaries, my
rabble-rousing radicals, my tenderhearted sinners. I am hungry
and you know hunger. I am angry and you know anger.
I am burning and you know what it feels like to burn.
Your joy is rebellious; your love is lawless.
I’ll be your self-righteous patron saint:
of arsonists, activists and their accomplices,
the ones who would not bite the rubber bullet, and those
who would rather taste gunpowder over boot leather.
You will be cinder and ash but first you are flame, little fire bringers.
Build a pyre to your past life. Dance on the ashes
of every grave they could not put you in.
Joel Chace
UNTITLED (from White Labyrinth)
She doesn’t see what
she sees: standing behind
her grandmother, her grandfather,
hands around her neck
and pushing her head
down toward the sink.
The girl backs out
of the room, turns,
registers the cherry hutch
and dining room table,
light from the east
streaming past her. She
enters the living room,
sits on the sofa,
closes eyes and claps
hands over ears. In
the kitchen, the older
couple stand face to
face, tickling, laughing, pecking.
Their granddaughter: she’ll wear
a choker for the
rest of her life;
sunlight will pass right
by her, on either
side.
Laynie Browne
Blue-vein stock (from A Dress Book)
You wore your hair like a halo, spread out ethereal hours, loaves, a woven tapestry of flowers. Catching seams of the river, weaving in birds. We walked like two silos enthroned. Everywhere we went people complimented your burgundy stars. Darts and lines flew out behind you. When we finally found a table, below the beast of lanterns, under the stairs, and rows of whispering planks, pressed against those conversations that were not ours, as one does in public, you opened your nullifying verse, a song with no language, no sound. Your face became hypnotically cursive, yet revealed not even one letter. I learned to remain still, holding your hands, until the knotted membrane lifted, the spell passed. You raised your crown. The light milk of your cheeks became still. Your eyes lit again open, green, like enormous flowers. Unspeakably delicate—that fringe of becoming alert to every squall.
Colleen Hawke
GIVE AND TAKE
Take my hair and spin a wig.
Cover your thinning scalp.
Here’s my coat, my shirt, too.
Take my bare body
chop off a shaved leg
and freckled arm.
Slice me open at the sternum.
Your heart has rusted;
take my valves.
Harvest my liver
and mend your cirrhosis.
I see your clouded corneas.
Pluck the ones from my skull.
Poke and prod—
suck the marrow from my hip
rip my inflated lungs
and breathe.
Stretch me out across the pine and cypress.
Crown me with a dozen thorny roses
and lift a wine-soaked sponge to my lips.
Pierce my gut.
Let me ooze like the Nile,
seep into the soil,
and collect in a gold chalice for later.
My throat is open like a tomb
but I won’t say a word.
Breanna Sylvia
AS ABOVE SO BELOW
(Medium: digital collage)
Asa King
SKELETON
A SKELETON WALKS OUT OF THE RIVER
SHE OPENS HER MOUTH AND THE RIVER POURS OUT COLD AND FORMLESS LIKE BLACK OIL
SHE OPENS HER MOUTH AND THE RIVER DRAINS THROUGH THE FLAYED BONES OF HER FACE
SHE IS NOT ROTTEN
SHE IS NOT A CARCASS
THE RIVER HAS DONE ITS WORK
THE RIVER HAS EATEN THE FLESH FROM HER BONES
THE RIVER HAS MADE HER CLEAN AND HARD AND SIMPLE
SHE DOES NOT TASTE THE RIVER
SHE DOES NOT SMELL THE RIVER
THOSE SOFT COMPLICATED PARTS OF HER ARE GONE
SHE COULD NOT TELL YOU THE EXACT MOMENT SHE BECAME A SKELETON
CHANGE IS INCREMENTAL
LIKE DYING IS INCREMENTAL
IT HAPPENS SLOWLY UNTIL IT DOESN’T HAPPEN SLOWLY ANYMORE
TIME IS A CRUCIBLE
DEATH IS SOMETHING ELSE
THE SKELETON MIGHT HAVE BEEN SURPRISED TO WALK OUT OF THE RIVER
BUT IT IS VERY DIFFICULT TO SURPRISE A SKELETON
SHE OPENS HER MOUTH AS WIDE AS IT WILL GO
WHICH WITHOUT FLESH IS WIDE
THE SKELETON SPEAKS
HER WORDS ARE HEAVY LIKE STONES
IF HER WORDS WERE ACTUALLY STONES THEY WOULD DROP FROM THE BOTTOM OF HER JAW
INTO THE MUD
BUT HER WORDS AREN’T STONES
NOT REALLY
SHE DOESN’T HAVE THE FLESH TO MAKE VIBRATIONS ANYMORE
AND NEITHER DOES SHE HAVE THE BREATH TO TRIGGER THOSE VIBRATIONS
SO SOME MIGHT ARGUE SHE SHOULD NOT HAVE WORDS TO DROP FROM HER MOUTH LIKE STONES
OR NOT BUT HERE WE ARE REGARDLESS
A SKELETON WALKS OUT OF THE RIVER
SHE OPENS HER MOUTH
SHE BEGINS TO SPEAK
THE FIRST MAN TO HEAR HER VOICE CATCHES FIRE
NO WARNING
JUST FLAME
MAYBE HE SCREAMS BUT FIRE REACHES INTO HIS MOUTH WITH ITS GREEDY LITTLE HANDS
IT PULLS THE OXYGEN OUT OF HIS LUNGS AND INSIDE AND OUT HE IS FIRE FIRE FIRE
HE TUMBLES LIMP AND CHARRED TO THE DIRT HAVING SAID NOTHING
NOT A MAN ANYMORE
JUST MEAT
MATTER IS MERCILESS IN ITS CHANGING STATES
THE SKELETON IS MERCILESS AS A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE
A CHILD HEARS THE SKELETON SPEAK AND LOOKS AT HER IN THAT FEARLESS WAY CHILDREN
LOOK AT THINGS THEY DO NOT YET UNDERSTAND
THE SKELETON REACHES DOWN TO PICK A DANDELION AND HANDS IT TO THE CHILD
THE DANDELION TURNS INTO A SWORD
PERHAPS THIS IS JUST A METAPHOR
IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY
THE SKELETON TURNS FROM THE CHILD
SHE TURNS THE HOLLOWED BONES OF HER FACE TOWARD THE PEOPLE WHO GATHER
DRAWN BY THE FLAMES OR THE SMELL OF MEAT
THEY WILL TRY TO UNDERSTAND HER
THEY WILL TRY TO FORGIVE HER
THE SKELETON HAS NO ROOM IN HER HEART FOR FORGIVENESS
HER HEART WAS EATEN BY SMALL FISH WHILE SHE LAID UNDER THE WEIGHT OF THE RIVER
LIKE A NEW BRIDE UNDER A DOWN BLANKET IN WINTER
HER EYES DO NOT BURN
HER EYES ARE EMPTY SOCKETS
BUT BEING A SKELETON IS NOT WITHOUT ITS GIFTS
WITH SOME GRACE IMPARTED UPON HER BY THE RIVER SHE SEES EVERYTHING SHE NEEDS TO SEE
SHE SEES EACH SECRET HOWEVER WELL-KEPT
SHE SEES EACH LITTLE SHAME AND SELF-DECEIT
SHE SEES YOU
SHE SEES EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU
STILL WET FROM THE RIVER THE SKELETON EXTENDS HER ARMS
SHE TAKES ANOTHER MAN’S FACE IN HER HANDS
FOR A MOMENT YOU MIGHT MISTAKE HER GESTURE FOR A CARESS
PERHAPS HE MAKES THIS SAME MISTAKE
SHE CRUSHES HIS HEAD LIKE A PEACH
SHE IS REMORSELESS
PITY IS SOMETHING AFFORDED TO THOSE WHO STILL HAVE THE FLESH TO FOSTER IT
AND THE SKELETON HAS NO MORE FLESH
THE SKELETON LEAVES
SHE DOES NOT HESITATE
THERE IS NO REASON FOR HER TO HESITATE
SHE IS CERTAIN OF HER PURPOSE
IN THIS WAY SHE IS LIKE HER OWN BONE REMAINS
CLEAN AND HARD AND SIMPLE
THE DAY SLIPS PAST AROUND HER BUT SHE LONG AGO LOST ANY FEAR OF TIME
TIME TO A SKELETON IS JUST A VESSEL FOR TRANSFORMATION AND SHE HAS ALREADY
BEEN TRANSFORMED
TIME IS A CRUCIBLE
DEATH IS SOMETHING ELSE
IN AN EMPTY PARKING LOT OUTSIDE AN ABANDONED GAS STATION SHE STOPS TO WAIT
A STRAY CAT WINDS ITSELF AROUND HER SHINBONES
THE SETTING SUN MAKES THE CAT’S FUR WARM AND GOLD AT THE EDGES
THE SKELETON REMEMBERS SOMETHING THAT FEELS LIKE PLEASURE
THE SKELETON REMEMBERS SOMETHING THAT FEELS LIKE JOY
THE LIGHT SOFTENS THE EDGES OF THE SKELETON’S BONES UNTIL THEY GLOW LIKE VINTAGE SILK
LIKE THE DRESS YOUR GREAT-GRANDMOTHER MIGHT HAVE WORN AT HER WEDDING
WHEN SHE MARRIED THE MAN WHO TRIED TO BURN HER ALIVE
THE SKELETON REACHES DOWN
THE SKELETON PETS THE CAT
HER TOUCH GENERATES STATIC THAT MAKES BLUE SPARKS DANCE AT HER FINGERTIPS
THE CAT PURRS
SHE STRAIGHTENS SLOWLY FROM THE CAT
SHE RESETTLES HER SCAPULAE LIKE SMALL WINGS OVER THE EMPTY CAGE OF HER RIBS
SHE DOES NOT RESENT THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY BUT NEITHER DOES SHE BLESS IT
THE SUN IS SET BY NOW
THE SKELETON WAITS
TIME TO A SKELETON IS JUST A VESSEL
A CRUCIBLE
NIGHT DESCENDS WITH THE GENTLENESS OF A LOVER’S KISS AGAINST YOUR SLEEPING FACE
HEADLIGHTS OF A LONE CAR IN THE DISTANCE PAINT THE SKELETON’S SHADOW LARGE OVER THE PAVEMENT SHE TURNS TOWARD THIS NEW SOURCE OF LIGHT
THE CAR DRAWS NEAR
HER SHADOW IS A GIANT
PERHAPS THIS IS JUST A METAPHOR
THE SKELETON STEPS INTO THE ROAD
THE CAR STOPS FOR HER IN A GREAT SHUDDER OF METAL
THE AIR SMELLS LIKE BURNING
LIKE OIL
A DOOR OPENS AND A MAN SPILLS HIMSELF FROM THE DRIVER’S SEAT
HE IS FOLLOWED MOMENTS LATER BY A WOMAN FROM THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE VEHICLE
THE MAN IS ANGRY
THE WOMAN IS BEAUTIFUL
THE SKELETON’S SHADOW BEHIND HER IS BIG ENOUGH TO SWALLOW WHOLE CONTINENTS
THE MAN STARTS TO SPEAK BUT FINDS HIMSELF CHOKED TO SILENCE BY THE WAY THE LIGHTS
OF HIS CAR
CATCH ON THE SKELETON’S CHEEKBONES
THE MAN STARTS TO SPEAK BUT HIS MOUTH FILLS WITH STILLED WORDS THAT DROP THEIR GHOSTS
IN THE ROAD
HE IS ON THE BRINK OF REVELATION
SO THE SKELETON WAITS UNTIL SHE KNOWS HE IS CERTAIN
THEN SHE SAYS HIS NAME
IN HER VOICE THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST
IN HER VOICE THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN CONSUMED BY THE RIVER
SHE SAYS JUST HIS NAME
THE MAN DROPS TO HIS KNEES AND THE SKELETON REACHES INTO HIS MOUTH
AT FIRST THE BONES OF HER FINGERS AT HIS LIPS SEEM ALMOST TENDER
BUT THEN SHE PUSHES THE WHOLE OF HER ARM INTO HIM WITH JAW-SNAPPING FORCE
IT’S VERY LIKELY THAT HE TRIES TO SCREAM
PERHAPS HE WOULD HAVE APOLOGIZED IF GIVEN THE CHANCE
THE SKELETON NEVER GIVES HIM THE CHANCE
THE SKELETON HAS NO USE FOR APOLOGIES
SHE IS A SKELETON
THE SKELETON WITHDRAWS HER HAND FROM SOMEWHERE DEEP WITHIN THE MAN’S BODY
IT IS DRIPPINGLY RED AND IN IT SHE HOLDS A PIECE OF SOMETHING WHICH IS ALSO
RED AND DRIPPING
AND THIS SOMETHING IS THE MAN’S HEART
HIS KNEELING FIGURE FOLDS TO THE PAVEMENT LIKE A PILLOWCASE
HE HAS IN FACT BEEN DEAD FOR SEVERAL HEARTBEATS NOW
IF ANYONE WAS COUNTING
THE WOMAN WHO UNTIL VERY RECENTLY HAD BEEN HIS COMPANION OPENS HER MOUTH AS IF
TO SCREAM
INSTEAD ONLY BREATH COMES OUT OF HER
IF THE SKELETON WERE STILL CAPABLE OF JEALOUSY
SHE MIGHT HAVE BEEN JEALOUS OF THIS BREATH AND ITS ATTENDANT WARMTH
AS IT IS SHE SIMPLY STANDS AND WATCHES AND WAITS
EVENTUALLY THE WOMAN TAKES ONE UNSTEADY STEP TOWARD THE CORPSE OF THE MAN
THEN CHANGES HER MIND AND PROPELS HERSELF FROM HIS EMPTIED BODY AND RUNS TO THE CAR
WHICH SHE PULLS INTO A TIGHT TURN AND DRIVES IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION
AWAY FROM THE SKELETON
WHO WATCHES HER GO WITH SOMETHING ADJACENT TO ADMIRATION
OR RELIEF
RECOGNIZING WHEN TO CUT YOUR LOSSES AND RUN IS AN IMPORTANT LESSON
NOT EVERYONE LEARNS IT IN TIME
THE SKELETON LEAVES THE OBJECT THAT USED TO BE A MAN WHERE IT LIES IN THE MIDDLE OF
THE ROAD
SHE TURNS BACK TOWARD THE GAS STATION
SHE WANTS TO CALL THE CAT
BUT SHE SUSPECTS THE ONLY SOUNDS LEFT TO HER ARE SOUNDS THAT MIGHT FRIGHTEN IT
SOFTNESS TOO
WAS EATEN FROM HER BY THE RIVER
INSTEAD SHE WAITS UNTIL SHE SEES A PAIR OF CURIOUS EYES GLINTING AT HER FROM AROUND
A CORNER
THE SKELETON SETS THE HEART-SHAPED PIECE OF MEAT DOWN IN THE EMPTY PARKING LOT
SHE KNOWS IT WILL BE MOSTLY SINEW AND GRISTLE BUT SHE WANTS TO GIVE SOMETHING TO
THE CAT
SHE WISHES IT WOULD APPROACH AGAIN
FOR A MOMENT SHE FEELS SOMETHING THAT MUST BE REGRET
SHE WOULD LIKE VERY MUCH TO TOUCH THE CAT’S FUR ONCE MORE
SHE WOULD LIKE VERY MUCH TO HEAR IT PURR IN REPLY TO HER TOUCH
BUT HER PURPOSE PULLS HER ONWARD
THE SKELETON WALKS INTO THE NIGHT AND WALKS THROUGH THE NIGHT
SHE WALKS WITH THE STEADY GRACE AND EASY GAIT OF A LONG-DISTANCE RUNNER
TO WHOM WALKING COMES MORE EASILY THAN BREATHING
THE SKELETON OF COURSE DOES NOT BREATHE
SHE ONLY WALKS
AND WALKS
ON AND ON
IT IS PINKLY MORNING BY THE TIME SHE ARRIVES
FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE WALKING OUT OF THE RIVER
SHE IS SURE SHE FEELS SOMETHING STRONGER THAN THE STILLNESS OF BEING A SKELETON
IF SHE HAD LUNGS SHE WOULD GASP AT ITS INTENSITY
THE SKELETON IS CLEAN AND HARD AND SIMPLE
BUT SHE CAN STILL FEEL HATE
IT BURNS IN HER LIKE A PITCH-DIPPED TORCH
LIKE NUCLEAR FUSION AT THE HEART OF THE SUN
DAWN IS BEAUTIFUL
THE SKELETON WANTS REVENGE
THE SKELETON WANTS WHAT ALL SKELETONS WANT
AND WHAT MOST SKELETONS WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO TELL YOU THEY WANT
THE SKELETON WANTS TO BE ALIVE AND NOT A SKELETON AT ALL
SHE IGNITES
THE FIRE IS HOT AND BRIGHT
SHE KNOWS THIS IS WHERE IT ENDS
SHE IS NOT AFRAID BUT SHE HAS NOT FORGOTTEN WHAT IT IS LIKE TO FEEL FEAR
BURNING
SHE WALKS TOWARD A HOUSE
IT’S A HOUSE LIKE ANY OTHER HOUSE
BUT FOR THE SKELETON IT HOLDS SPECIAL AND TERRIBLE SIGNIFICANCE
IF YOU LIVED NEARBY
IF YOU BY CHANCE WOKE UP EARLY
IF YOU FOR SOME REASON LOOKED OUT YOUR WINDOW
YOU MIGHT HAVE SEEN THE SKELETON
BURNING
AND IF YOU DID NOT TURN AWAY IN FEAR
IF YOU DID NOT CLOSE YOUR EYES AND TELL YOURSELF THAT YOU HAD INSTEAD SEEN NOTHING
AT ALL
IF YOU WERE BRAVE AND SQUINTED HARD
YOU MIGHT HAVE SEEN NOT A SKELETON BUT A WOMAN
IN A TOWERING CLOAK OF WHITE FLAME
YOU MIGHT HAVE SEEN HER WOUNDS
YOU MIGHT HAVE SEEN WHAT HAD BEEN DONE TO HER FLESH
IN THE YEARS AND WEEKS AND DAYS AND MOMENTS BEFORE SHE WAS KILLED
YOU MIGHT HAVE UNDERSTOOD THAT SOMETIMES IT IS A MERCY TO BECOME A SKELETON
YOU MIGHT HAVE UNDERSTOOD THAT SOMETIMES IT IS NOT
YOU MIGHT HAVE UNDERSTOOD THAT SKELETONS OFTEN HAVE VERY LITTLE SAY IN THE MATTER
OF THEIR MAKING
THE FIRE IS SO HOT YOU CAN FEEL IT FROM YOUR BEDROOM
SHE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL
IT HURTS TO WATCH
IT’S OKAY IF YOU HAVE TO LOOK AWAY
IT’S OKAY
IT’S OKAY
BURNING
THE SKELETON WALKS TOWARD THE HOUSE
PERHAPS SHE IS HOLDING A SWORD
PERHAPS THIS IS JUST A METAPHOR
IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY
THE SKELETON DOES NOT OPEN THE DOOR BUT SHE DOES STEP THROUGH IT
THE HOUSE FALLS TO PIECES AROUND HER IN A CONE OF CATACLYSMIC LIGHT
AND IN THE LIGHT YOU CAN SEE NOTHING BUT THE SILHOUETTE OF TWO BODIES
AND ONE BODY IS TAKING THE OTHER BODY APART VERY SLOWLY AND METHODICALLY
BONE BY BONE
CONTRIBUTORS
Laynie Browne’s recent books of poetry include: Apprentice to a Breathing Hand (Omnidawn, 2025), Everyone & Her Resemblances (Pamenar, 2024), Intaglio Daughters (Ornithopter 2023), and Translation of the Lilies Back into Lists (Wave Books, 2022). She co-edited the anthology I’ll Drown My Book: Conceptual Writing by Women (Les Figues Press) and edited the anthology A Forest on Many Stems: Essays on The Poet’s Novel (Nightboat). Honors include a Pew Fellowship, the National Poetry Series Award for her collection The Scented Fox, and the Contemporary Poetry Series Award for her collection Drawing of a Swan Before Memory. She teaches at the University of Pennsylvania.
Joel Chace has published work in print and electronic magazines such as Lana Turner, Survision, Eratio, Otoliths, Word For/Word, Golden Handcuffs Review, New American Writing, and The Brooklyn Rail. Underrated Provinces is recently out from MadHat Books. Bone Chapel is coming out soon from Chax. For more than forty years, Chace was a working jazz pianist. He is an NEH Fellow.
Colleen Hawke is a poet and speech-language pathologist from Flint, Michigan. Her work is rooted in attentiveness — to language, sensory experience, and the quiet transformations that shape identity. Her poetry has appeared in Central Review, Cardinal Sins, and Red Cedar Review.
Karla Kelsey is the author of seven books, most recently Transcendental Factory: For Mina Loy (Winter Editions, 2024) and On Certainty (Omnidawn, 2023). She is the editor of Lost Writings: Two Novels by Mina Loy (Yale University Press, 2024).
Asa King is an unapologetic antifascist and insurrectionary anarchist writing in NYC. Their work is drawn primarily from the tactile and sensorial details of moments they hope to transmute from experience to language. They are deeply in love with the world. Their work has previously been published in Spit Poet zine, The Tiny, and Hot People Read Poetry’s LOVESICK.
Mario Loprete is a graduate of the Accademia of Belle Arti, Catanzaro, Italy. He writes, “Painting for me is my first love. An important, pure love. Creating a painting, starting from the spasmodic research of a concept with which I want to transmit my message — this is the foundation of painting for me. Sculpture is now my lover, an artistic betrayal to painting. It is a voluptuous and sensual lover that inspires different emotions which strike prohibited chords.”
Max Maksymowksi is a graduate of Central Michigan University.
Joseph McGuire graduated with his master’s in creative writing in 2016. He has been published in small journals such as Temenos and is currently working on publishing his first novel. His favorite things to write about are socially inept people, strange forests, and reptiles.
Breanna Sylvia currently resides in Port Huron, MI. She has been making collages since 2019. Outside of collaging she enjoys having pets, listening to music, writing poetry, and watching films.
Weston Wise is the author of The Songs of the Long Land (Beyond Words Press, 2024) and A Gentle & Modern Ape (National Federation of State Poetry Societies, 2023). He was a Creative Arts Fellow at Pierce Cedar Creek Institute for Environmental Education in 2024. His work has appeared in Qua Literary and Fine Arts Magazine, Central Review, and Concept Moon Studios.
Artist’s note on cover image (UNTITLED, oil on canvas): The artwork portrays a metamorphosis of the human condition, where the body is no longer a static entity but a “becoming” suspended in the void. The prefix meta- manifests here in its sense of beyond and higher, transforming the act of walking into a transcendental quest that defies the gravity of matter. The feet, rendered with an almost carnal realism, merge with the rope in a grip that exists between the earth and the sky, marking a transition toward a form of existence altered by tension and risk. In this precarious equilibrium, the being is situated in search of a new center of gravity, leaving behind the security of the underlying architectural structure to become pure metaphysical movement. The painting thus becomes a manifesto of perennial change, where man does not merely inhabit space, but traverses it by transforming into it. —Mario Loprete