Jennifer Randall Hotz

Deployment

Online, I find a picture of your ship

crossing the Strait of Gibraltar,

the rising sun a golden grimace

sailors lined up at the edge,

peering off into the distance—

the first solid land you’ve seen after

days at sea.

I keep enlarging the picture,

straining to see a certain tilt of the head,

maybe a telltale hand gesture—

anything I might recognize—

but everyone looks the same,

like Lego people placed there by

a boy playing at patriotism,

like one of those military ads

that makes war seem Instagrammable—

the successes unbloody,

the backgrounds unsullied,

the loved ones back home—

certain they’ll see you again.

Pink Slip

After the last child pulls away

from the family home in a moving van,

she realizes she’s been laid off:

After years of faithful service,

we regret to inform you:

your services are no longer needed.

No one else seems to see the loss.

She’s watched paid workers receive

sympathy after being let go,

but she keeps being told

how nice it must be

that she is now free.

She dreams she’ll write

the Great American Novel,

land a spot on Good Morning America,

explain to the audience that

Yes, she’d felt down after the layoff—

who wouldn’t?—but she’d harnessed that energy

to create this multimillion dollar success

and if she can do it, you can do it, too!

Instead, she lingers in

the kids’ bedrooms, now

stripped of argument and laughter,

mourns that neither one will watch

the leaves of the Norway maple golden,

laments that not one person remains

who likes Saturday morning pancakes.

For longer than she imagines possible, she

stands mute before this cavern of loss,

nurses the fear that she might never emerge.

Eventually, she starts to write:

words break through,

transfigure the pain,

allow her memories to lilt,

flutter far afield,

figure eight with all that she’s become,

beckon her back to possibility.

Jennifer Randall Hotz is an award-winning poet whose work has appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, Naugatuck River Review, and Connecticut River Review, among other publications. She won 1st place in poetry for the Virginia Writers Club 2023 Golden Nib Awards and has been nominated for a 2024 Pushcart Prize. Find her at: jenniferrandallhotz.com

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Brittany Brewer

The girls I grew up with were slick

after Karyna McGlynn

& sweet as Splenda, saccharine, four packets please,

they soak you sickly until you forget it’s bad for you

They had skin like frogs, elastic & moist, shedding

their bodies every weekend, not afraid to mislead you,

to try on another & another, catwalking brazenly

through the aisles of the Goodwill off of State Road 46.

They steered me down the highway of adolescence.

Converse & Matching Shirts & We aren’t talking to them

today. They stepped down the halls silently & not without

pride, claiming the senior hallway every morning at 7:05

with a slouch like the high school itself was propping them up.

Their eyes glinted when they tossed quips, no hands needed,

instead fisting mickey d’s frosties & fries from Arby’s & when

one got get, banter dripping like Arby’s sauce from the corner

of another’s mouth, you could sometimes see their eyes strike flint.

They all took up late-night messaging, keeping watch for alerts

of alt lyrics & door creaks & rotating besties [pre/de]moted

on the daily. They had MySpace Top 8 & Bath & Body

Works sweet pea spray & intentions to be teachers & nurses.

Absent-mindedly, their tongues sliced at my folds, making pulp

of me. I was a blank page for them to write their stories on,

shoved into the corner of their backpack, tossed in their car.

I contorted myself into the little space remaining in their

Toyota Camry. I was eager & pliant & flexible & quiet.

& they didn’t hear me—when the weight got to be too much

& they bore down too hard. They didn’t listen for me at all.

Even though I’d learned all their favorite things & practiced

their subdued smile, the one that doesn't reach the eyes.

The Store is Closed now

there is a soft sensation

a stinging-numb-tingling

that encircles my thumb

the phantom pulsations

reminding me to take off

my ring at night, to never

wear it too long, though

I never used to take it off—

I remember my mom lost

hers in the ocean several

years back, how crushed

and naked she felt missing

this circlet we delighted in

choosing out together in an

airport jewelry store, one of

the moments of mother-

daughterness where every

thing falls into place

—but last week I took it off, or

maybe it was the week before,

it became easier to leave the

band off than to coerce it over

my knuckle, to force it across

this newfound bloated barrier.

At least, that is what I whispered

to myself, what I repeated like

a spell when I tried to join her

back to me.

Brittany Brewer (she/her) is a queer, chronically ill poet, [theatre] artist, and educator. She researches and writes pieces whose aesthetics sing of sticky, Midwestern basements; stumbling queerness; female friendships, sexuality, and bodies; and the magical possibilities that exist in the in-between. Currently, she lives in Michigan where she is a doctoral student at Michigan State University. Her poetry has appeared in Rougarou, Months to Years, and Wild Roof Journal. For more: www.brittanybrewer.com.

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Kent Neal

Conversion Therapy for a Straight Razor

After you left, the bathroom sink

overflowed. A plumber arrived,

dismantled pipes, removed

what had stopped the flow between us —

Our beard clippings dotted the ooze

of two seminal fluids, covering

the promise ring you tossed

before leaving me,

next to the straight razor, dull

in dried blood after having cut through

my abandoned flesh.

With water made holy

from distilled kisses and caresses,

I filled the kitchen sink, immersed

the straight razor several times, rinsing

my dried blood away.

The blade grated against

a whetstone until it gleamed.

With extended blade, I meticulously

trimmed my mustache. Then,

back into its leather case

in the medicine cabinet the razor went.

Maintaining the Line

I care for

an umbilical

lying along

the Atlantic floor,

stretching from

mouths to ears.

Anchors threaten

to break it. Sharks

bite

into its fibers.

Through it all,

I listen in.

Je suis enceinte.

I’m pregnant.

Their voices flow

from Boston

to Bordeaux.

Nous allons nous marier.

We’re getting married.

Their voices,

it absorbs.

Elle a un cancer.

She has cancer.

Their voices,

pulses of light.

Il s’est fait viré.

He got fired.

Their voices,

inhibited by

static and bleeps.

Like each repeater

I monitor along

the phone cable,

each conversation

amplifies the signal

connecting them,

unlike the way

a plastic sack

slumped against

a dumpster,

too dirty to mingle

with garbage—

my clothes

20 years ago.

With siblings silent

as snow fall, without

a winter coat,

our parents pushed me

out into the street,

just steps from the ledge

of a steep plunge

down through the air,

down through the waves

into the depths.

The numbness of

a million icicles

entered me,

then left.

So now, I listen.

Men Like Us

We, men like us, are what

with hips that swish, with

hands that flip, with

lips that lisp, when

kept from fire trucks, when

cut from rugby teams, when

banned from armies?

                                  Exiled

from manly endeavors, we’re asked

what wallpaper matches

these emerald curtains,

if that sauce

needs more salt, if this blouse

goes with those boots.

We, who may seem weak, take

off Truth's ugly clothes, make

up her honest face, take

on the damaged hair, place

on Truth's bare body

its sincere disguise.

Kent Neal, a gay poet, has published three poetry collections: The Compass, the Labyrinth, and the Hourglass (in French, ErosOnyx Editions, 2015), Where Saltwater Mixes With Freshwater (in English and French, Red Moon Press, 2017), and A Ray of Light in the Lion's Eye (in French, French Haiku Association, 2021). He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University in Cambridge, MA. Originally from Oregon, Kent lives in Lyon, France. His poems have appeared in Painted Bride Quarterly, Broadkill Review, Modern Haiku, and elsewhere. You can find him online at www.kentneal.com

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