Issue #35

Red Canvas

Cara Waterfall

Bingerville, Cote d’Ivoire

for Yubah Sanogo

“I was painting and blood spattered onto my canvas. A bullet had grazed a woman who was running with her child. I left the wound to say ‘never again.’”

- Yubah Sanogo, about the 2010-2011 post-electoral crisis

I see red / in the forecast / a crimson dye

spreading across the sky / punctured by gunfire

& the hiss of smoke

I see a wound in the sky / rubricating the clouds

as the bazaar of war / saturates

my city red

I see the entrails / of dead chickens

auguring men / wet with sweat / & women

flesh drenched red

I see the penumbra / of carrion beetles

underfoot / as they swim / toward the pulp

of red bodies

I see fear tunnel / into faces / through the round caves

of eyes / the reckless mouths /

the red garb of the body

I see the bedlam of a red city / its burning cutbanks

its bloody corona / & the red clamour

of the rooster / on the roof

I see blue men / running / with white masks

bearing red bodies / in black tarps

I cannot unsee / these colours

this timbre of red

this rhythm of light

the canvas speaks

& my paintbrush writes

Ottawa-born and Costa Rica-based, Cara’s work has been featured in Best Canadian Poetry, CV2, The Fiddlehead, The Ekphrastic Review, The Maynard and more. Cara won Room’s 2018 Short Forms contest, second place in Frontier Poetry’s 2018 Award for New Poets. In 2019, she was a finalist for Radar Poetry’s The Coniston Prize and shortlisted for the CBC Poetry Prize. In 2020, she won the Editors' Prize for PULPLit’s The Magpie Award for Poetry and Room's Poetry Contest. She has a diploma in Poetry & Lyric Discourse from The Writer’s Studio at SFU.


Nora Hikari

(For Tyler Ezra)

My dreams have been giving me premonitions

about my gender. The other night

a frog told me I should try out new pronouns.

They handed them to me like a pair of well-worn boots:

new to me but, ragged, and breathless.

I said “thanks,” and I meant it, this time at least.

My eyes are closed, so there’s no way I can see what color

the boots are, or what they’re made of. I know they’re brown.

I know they’re full of scuff marks from someone else loving them.

I take my fingers, calloused and tender, and drive them through

the interstate of crisscrossing scars on the leather.

Someone found a home here, I say, passing a gas station

overrun with baby’s breath. Someone lost a lover here,

standing in a rest stop bathroom,

the abandoned name scrawled on the metal stall,

scratched deep so she could not escape.

This time I am sitting on my porch sipping sweet tea and whittling

a name out of a piece of driftwood I picked up at Corpus.

This time I am on a ferris wheel and picking out the lights that

I want in my new pronouns. That yellow one. The one quivering and

bright and warm. The fact that you can only see it at night.

Nora Hikari is a poet, artist, and Asian-American trans lesbian based in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming Perhappened Magazine, ANMLY, and Ogma Magazine, among others, and her poem Deer-to-Fish Transition Timeline has been nominated for the Best of the Net award. Her debut chapbook, DEAD NAMES, is forthcoming from Another New Calligraphy. She can be found at @norabot2.0 at Instagram and at her website

My Own Bluets LMAO

R.A. Lisner

Bluet 1 My moods and blue powder coated boogers on my COVID swab or handing girls glistening Advil LiquiGels the morning after trying to quell the blue as well as the sky when it looks solid against the Ridgewood brick during any old golden hour and me just posing basking in it from my bed in my LL Bean robe with my name embroidered to it because navy blue is the official color of boyfriends and I’m holding up a Blue Frost Gatorade to the sun and it tastes like what the sea should probably taste like and I bought on my Chase Sapphire card all to spill some on my royal blue rug

Bluet 2 Though I keep yammering on that I should be pushed in front of moving traffic I am really at brunch

We’re being ridiculous


Poached eggs Lamb Shank Tagine Squeaky halloumi cheese

In fucking Williamsburg

Bluet 3 When you come around my fingers

I can usually tell

When you leave I am not devastated

You’ll text to say it’s gorgeous out and I say

You’re my weather woman

With the latest

R.A. Lisner is a poet, journalist, and researcher based in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Their writing has been featured in GQ, Allure, Funny Looking Dog Quarterly, and they are a dedicated student of Elaine’s Kahn’s Poetry Field School. Their work aims to capture queer living, intimacy, and culture, often against the backdrop of New York City and its iconography. Find them on Instagram as @rachiesbarmitzvah.