Photography by Anne Marie Tamburro. Poetry by Tatum Blacher, Melissa Cook and Kelena Klippel.
why is it that
By Tatum Blacher
somewhere in the world
a woman married for love
instead of the man she was assigned
and elsewhere a boy raped a woman
when she said stop but he thought go
why is it that
on a dirt road in daylight
a woman was stoned
and in a courtroom a boy was spared
when neither did as they were told
By Melissa Cook
The trench warfare
sperm whales—cached the way Artemis stashed
Endymion in a cave—
is not seen in
where narwhals play the kazoo
sounds of their calls. Te blotched dull gray of their
skins compelled the Norse to call
“corpse whales” these orcs
the foul flesh of drowned sailors.
Atop each male’s head is a tusk, a tooth
that chose to shoot up and out
like a great glass
What is the purpose of this
solitary incisor—perhaps to
spear Amphitrite, Poseidon’s
is never arbitrary!
Males joust to woo a new bride, tickling the
ivories. Tey’ve one last boast
before they are
netted, their skins eaten for
the vitamin C, and their tusks sold of
to veiled medieval queens as
Is it still called roadkill if clinging onto consciousness
By Kelena Klippel
The armadillo that was hinged open,
gut fora meshing among wildflowers,
in the dreams of the intoxicated youth
but without the pavement this time.
A guilty conscience, no, a haunting?
Or proof that we exist in other dimensions
ghosts failing to acknowledge that there
is nothing for us after we die?