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You come to me with your hands full of severed hearts,
heels tapping the white linoleum floor,
and lay them on the counter, wipe your fingers on your dress:
so many hearts I can't tell which are yours
and which you've only borrowed. I thank you anyway,
drop them in the blender, mix, open the chute
once used for laundry, pour them in. Below
we hear the slow sound of large things rising, chains
skimming concrete, low breath, lapping tongues.
You listen. You watch the chute drip red.




Zella Christensen is mostly from Wisconsin and studied creative writing at George Mason University. Her poetry has appeared in Star*LineMirror Dance, and elsewhere. She lives online at zellawrites.com.
Current Issue
5 Jun 2023

Jackson sat at Kay’s bedside, one of her hands laid atop his, palm to palm, fingertips against the soft inside of her wrist. His fingers measured her temperature and pulse, her blood pressure, and her blood oxygen levels. She was no weaker or stronger today than yesterday. He was unsurprised and uneasy. Her vitals were regular with sleep. She had been resting when he returned from the shore.
You do not mean this as slang.
certain people of the town go outside, kick off their shoes
Friday: The Half-Drowned by Trynne Delaney 
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