Into the Abyss
2024-2025
Entomophily
By Emma Keany
By Emma Keany
the closeness of a pollinating bee
finding herself deep, gentle, sweet-smelling
too much honey leaves our mouths dry
hungry for more, so we tear at it
don’t care if we’re stung
you can coat my wounds in your tongue’s nectar
find sugar in the folds of my flesh
does the bee want the flower?
does the flower want the bee?
mutualistic symbiosis: when both desires are fulfilled
the bee, fat and happy and lonely
the flower, soft and glowing and alone
the perfection of their union touted by nature herself
orchids calling to an extinct lover
a monogamy created by evolution
but wasps are pollinators, too.
In Place of Identity
By Emma Keany
Emma Keany
I have:
A few stray words—
Sitto, jiddo, sahha, kaak bi halib.
A single recipe I eat every morning.
A few stray hand-me-downs—
A golden cross I never wear, a stuffed bear, a plush snake.
My nose, my leg hair, my bad attitude.
A few stray memories—
A blurry fireplace, a house in the snow, a dusty garage.
The smell of my aunt’s house.
A few stray connections—
A piece of wordplay, an occasional jolt of recognition, a distant mourning.
The familiar sound of lesbian, the similar face we wear, the similar tears we shed.
Is it enough to identify? Is it enough to speak with my father’s family a few times a year? Is it enough to love them from a distance? Is it enough to see a banquet of song and dance and recognize my nose, my brows, my sideburns? Is it enough to see my father’s face in a martyr’s and feel I could cry? Is it enough to bake? Is it enough to butcher my few words? Is it enough to stay where I am?
What a filthy walk
By Sam Ferland
By Sam Ferland
Sometimes I climb up a tree and find that my hands get covered in bird-shit and sap
I can’t clean it off so I just leave it there
When it starts to rain I take a shower and use the shit-sap as shampoo
Shower with shit-sap shampoo
Shit-sap shampoo shower
Shower-shit, shampoo sap
Shower, sap-shampoo … shit
1. Shit 2. shower 3. shampoo 4. zap
That’s when the lightning strikes and the tree sets a-blaze
A torch in the storm growing and breathing
The rain is a mere breath in the winter
The wind is a monster paying the trees their debt
Pushing the acorns into the dirt to be reborn one day
And I am a human
Watching on with nothing to do but stand with shit and sap in my hair
How typical
Candled Soul
By Emily Clairmont
By Emily Clairmont
A spark catches on the wick
and it grows as the heat travels down
and the air caresses the small flame
until it is stoked into a roaring blaze
that dances its shadows across the walls
reaching for the ceiling
limited only by the wax its attached to
The accompanying scent of sandalwood
mimics that which followed you to Heaven
as your flame grew above the
safe confines of the tempered glass
and was snuffed out
