Issue #48

The Daughter of Coroneus Tries to Drown Her Woes

Michaela Mayer

cw: rape

as i tip another finger of sorrow into the drinking jar

and begin to shake with my body’s knowledge ::

the press of his will against mine, what was

denied me—: your disbelief another violence,

his lies, the curve of your eyelid slit against my

testimony—: i swill my sorrow again, burning

down my throat like swallowed pride, the clunk

of its glass against the counter yet another sunk cost ;

your belly grows round and taut with hypocrisy—:

you, apotheosis of my folly—: the air humming

with a song of lost years, the ground bending beneath

my unsteady feet :: pin feathers burst from my arms

as i totter, elongating in time-lapse fastness to quills

glossy and black—: the room sprouts roots, the walls

fall away—: i take off, feet clutching the empty glass,

my warning call wasted on empty forest—

Michaela Mayer is a 26-year-old teacher and poet from Virginia. Her works have previously appeared in Claw & Blossom, Feral Poetry, Barren Magazine, Perhappened, and others. She has forthcoming poems with Olit, Monstering Mag, Susurrus, MAYDAY Mag, and The Lickety~Split and can be found on Twitter @mswannmayer5.


Kerry Trautman

Years of art classes meant stacks of self-portraits—

staring, memorizing every freckle, scar and nostril

hair, documenting asymmetry in gouache and

graphite. In the 1990s I plucked my eyebrows

to near oblivion, 30’s film vamp style, uprooting

the Brooke Shields shrubbery of youth.

This is what was done then, in the nook of my world—

the way the milliners’ cravings for stilled

beauty nearly decimated songbird populations

by 1900. Later I allowed my brows to re-grow in

proportions that made sense for the topography

of my face, the fat, fertile shape I needed

in the flowered July of life, the gift of pinfeathers.

By forty, brow hairs began to vanish, unreplenished,

as though follicles had given all they had,

now held open the empty pantry, said

to those waiting, hungry, there simply is no more.

I pencil-in sparse paleness like spring road

crews patching potholes with fresh glinting asphalt.

Where is the lush weediness of girlhood? The

obliviousness of downy leg hair and stink of an

afternoon running in backyard grass?

I regret past plucks like being hungover,

recalling just which whiskey it was set me over.