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This is the whole world: your shirt
stretched against your heartbeat,
your collar chafing your throat

as you swallow. Everything is fabric,
one fabric. You’ve been confused!
You were naked. You thought you were guts.

Days, you’ve sat among cockroaches
on cracked tiles. They eat the stale cake
on the plate beside you, and also your hair.

Before this apartment, you hallucinated
your way across desert. Remember?
The world was fantastic. The world was giraffes

on unicycles. This way you knew
the world was fabric: because the circus
of summer followed you into the desert come fall,

clinging like only fabric clings
to your skin. Your clothing is rags, but otherwise
faithful. Fateful. It is your whole world.



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
4 Nov 2024

“Did you know,” the witch says, “that a witch has no heart of her own?”
Outsiders, Off-worlders {how quickly one carves out a corner of the cosmos, / claims a singular celestial body as [o u r s] in the scope of infinity}
Lunar enby folks across here
Wednesday: The 2024 Ignyte Award for Best Novel Shortlist, Part Two 
Friday: A Place Between Waking and Forgetting by Eugen Bacon 
Issue 28 Oct 2024
Issue 21 Oct 2024
By: KT Bryski
Podcast read by: Devin Martin
Issue 14 Oct 2024
Issue 7 Oct 2024
By: Christopher Blake
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
Issue 30 Sep 2024
Issue 23 Sep 2024
By: LeeAnn Perry
Art by: nino
Issue 16 Sep 2024
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Issue 2 Sep 2024
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