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Of course they lied that there was a
cishet god of fear in wild places, as if
fucking,drinking, hunting, feral dancing
isn’t universal as forest. Nature fluxes,

gobbling bloody maenad genitals,
bulldozer operators, overgrown boys
demanding Mars to rule. Desert saguaros
sing dirges to long life chopped short for

Potemkin border walls. The anima mundi
gathers discarded needles, jams them into
billionaire homunculi: brain, kidney,
tender flesh. Green one grows kudzu

fortifications; deep face drinks glacier melt,
shark tears, fuels tsunamis. The reckoning arrives,
forces marshaled for climate Ragnarok.
The fear settles on those who know the stats,

while everyone else sleeps, like there’s
never a margin call. Volcano explodes,
angry that the Kingdom of Hawai'i
remains occupied, furious at tourists choking

Indigenous lungs with gas fumes, naval fuel
in the drinking water, haoles claiming birthright
on stolen sand. The New Madrid hums
with fracking, ready to explode. Panic will come

for every fuckwitted one of us, remind us
that we are small, lack claws, world never
our fiefdom, and soon in fear of forest,
field, and fire, they will remind us why rabbits run.



Elizabeth R. McClellan is a white disabled gender/queer neurospicy demisexual lesbian poet writing on unceded Quapaw and Chickasha Yaki land. In kan other life, ka is a domestic and sexual violence lawyer. Ka can be found most places online as popelizbet and on Patreon as ermcclellan.
Current Issue
14 Jun 2026

this desire to mold something more than mere inert earth
How to Court a Siberian Tiger 
Get used to being held inside of her mouth completely.
Log 6324, earthdate unknown 
We didn’t think we’d make it this long, but there were others.
The Keyhole 
A light, he realizes, piercing the dark. It’s coming through the keyhole of the door leading to the living room. But how can it be? There’s no one else in the apartment—hasn’t been for years.
The fact of the matter is that the basic acts of our species' survival - sex, birth, nursing - are discomfitingly sticky. They upset the rather delicate balance of mind versus body that we all, one way or another, have to achieve, sending the squishy-meat-sack side surging to the forefront in all its oozy, dripping glory. Werewolf stories expose this side of human existence, which we usually don't highlight. Werewolves excel at externalizing bodily fluids.
For a Handful of Salted Teeth 
What I’d taken for white beads are actually human teeth, mixed with white crystals I identified (via taste, to Mole’s horror) as salt. Mole looks at the mixture and shudders. I don’t know how to explain why I keep them. As much as I wish to deny the strangeness of our near-death experience…if some wyrdcraft did take place, this feels like a talisman.
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Thursday: Fantasy: A Short History by Adam Roberts 
Thursday: Nonesuch by Francis Spufford 
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