Photography by Anne Marie Tamburro. Poetry by Tatum Blacher, Melissa Cook and Kelena Klippel. 


By Anne Marie Tamburro  

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


The Narwhal

By Melissa Cook

The trench warfare
of Mediterranean
sperm whales—cached the way Artemis stashed
Endymion in a cave—
is not seen in

frozen fords
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
runaway wife?

is never arbitrary!
Males joust to woo a new bride, tickling the
ivories. Tey’ve one last boast
of bravado

before they are
netted, their skins eaten for
the vitamin C, and their tusks sold of
to veiled medieval queens as
unicorn horns. 


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

while dreaming,

ghosts failing to acknowledge that there

is nothing for us after we die?