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I blamed you
for the way my right breast dried up
after my third son was born.
As if you resented
where he sat in my lap, a mirror
to where you should’ve sat.
My son fed and fed and fed
still, on that one breast
his eyes sliding over
as if he could see
something I couldn’t.
Me, a lopsided drawing.
One side filled with milk, the other

Even though you were gone
I still knew the shape of you
if only because you were a blackened spot
dragging along the peripheral of my eye
as I went about my day
caring for my three sons.
Sometimes I still hear someone calling
and find myself running
into an empty room.

I dreamed of you
before you were conceived and
as you filled my swollen belly.
I dream of you still
a blackened spot
sliding out with the blood.
I wake up clutching my son
as he sleeps next me, I wake up clutching
my body, all the drained places

Laura Cranehill lives in the Pacific Northwest with her spouse and three sons. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vastarien, [PANK], The Future Fire, and elsewhere.
Current Issue
17 Jun 2024

To fly is to deny death / as the body’s natural state
scrawled in the ashes of who I might have been
Ellie Mathieu can tell when the Big Easy arrives by the smell of its engine.
Wednesday: A Magical Girl Retires by Park Seolyeon, Translated by Anton Hur 
Issue 10 Jun 2024
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Issue 3 Jun 2024
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Issue 29 Apr 2024
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
Issue 8 Apr 2024
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