BY LEIGH HOPKINS
She rolls over, summery skin soft and dark against the curved line of shirt sliding beneath sheets. Before morning pulls me under lushdelicious, I push my mouth against her shoulder, wrap an arm and drape a leg.
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BY MARISSA KORBEL
Go inside me, next to the stack of shoulds, under the manuals on How to Be a Girl/Teen/Woman. Push aside the blue blanket of shame, and burrow through my metaphor to my tissue.
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BY LEIGH HOPKINS
Tentatively, I hold my trembling hand up to stroke the side of my neck. I rub my fingertips lightly along the surface, separate and comb them with my fingers. Slippery, feathery gills.
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Something that makes people feel as hopeful and beautiful as this moment is, and even though that seems like an impossible thing to do, although it actually seems like the very worst thing to do, I say OK, I’ll try,
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BY MARISSA KORBEL
Every once in awhile, I get the impulse to look again. A whole body itch, from my fingers to my knees. Rifle papers, digging through stacked, moldy boxes. Handwritten 20 years ago, the play I wrote about him, the poems.
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BY ZINN ADELINE
Where we came from, on the wrong side of the suburb, it wasn’t cool to read. But we were both cool and popular and we did, and it was one of the ways we found each other.
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