MARTIN, L.—Died publicly on March 9, 2021, in the same way a caterpillar must die to become a moth. MARTIN, L.—Died quietly on July 16, 2020. All of her organs began to dissolve, with only the important ones remaining. For instance, the letter P. She will...
[audio mp3="https://www.queensquilt.ca/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/Host.mp3"][/audio] The dread comes first. The signs begin later, though still months in advance. You’ve seen it happen before. You know what to expect, what to fear. The way your sister’s body changed and betrayed her. The way your best friend survived, only to wish...
Salt embers my tongue, Flushing newness Into her shore. She retires my memories, Refining them through moss Until they run clear. Here, my body is new, Existing only as a vessel For her to cradle. She takes my hand, Guiding my soles through barnacles As the surf ribbons my toes. An exhale lures me into her Luminescent dreams, Rendering...
i. At the spindle top branch balancing flightless, thin and heavy, when the siren sings (Golden one golden one golden one) of her – Fleeing for earth, exile’s attempt at homecoming slip down bark, scrape palms break knees prostrate to ground shove a hand wrist-deep through stubborn soil until elbow, shoulder, wracking knuckles against roots ripping, tearing, wrapping knot around the waist, leashed. ii. (golden one) She recognized...
In The Deep, Rivers Solomon loosely adheres to the science fiction genre to confront the relationship between post-colonial ideologies and the persistence of memory in a novella deeply coded with genderqueer possibilities and reclamation of racial fantasy. Adapted from a song of the same name...
Poisonous saliva slips between your teeth. Mouths hungry for parts of a body but not a soul, not a mind, not a word: Butterflies swarm around me then fall to the ground as a caterpillar. I climb trees forty feet tall that shrink into blades of grass. I submerge in freezing lakes and wash up on a shore with a crimson sand shower curtain. I meet...
Trigger Warnings: Death, blood, violence, homophobia, self-harm, ableism ________________________________ There is no funeral for the boy who drowned in the lake. He was only sixteen, a year older than me. A life ahead of him, until there wasn’t. Until someone saw him kissing Tommy Gilner from down the...
24th March Dear Charlie, I miss you. I know you’ve been busy, but your last letter was two months ago, and I’m going crazy. I can’t stand being without you. The longer I’m stuck here, the more I want to tear across the page and scrape ink into...