Rodeo, My Way by Tess Kelly
I watched that cowboy through the fog of spray-on sunscreen, sunscreen that oughta be outlawed –up, down and sideways–the way it fucks with oceans, with air, with the sea turtles lolling on the Maui beach…
Beached by Rachel M. Hollis
“I’m a beached whale,” my mom says, tugging at her stomach in the mirror like she’s trying to peel it off.
Exit Wound by Bethany Bruno
The night the sirens came, my mother was labeling leftovers. She used blue painter’s tape and a black marker that bled through plastic.
The claw machine by Nadia Born
now offers babies for prizes. limited-edition grow-in-water ones that you can take home. no special instructions.
Vishnu’s Navel: My Creation Myth by Sherry Duggal
My family friend’s dog tugs on my white frilled cotton dress—saves me from falling down the stairs. I am four years old. My mom says that it didn’t happen.