RogueAgent

Preeti Vangani

AN APPLE A DAY

and a pear and a persimmon         a banana at six am   lately i’ve been eating
a ton of fruits      to accelerate my immunity        pomegranate coming loose
at its heart        bleeding the frontpage headline            another woman

in India raped, beaten, found      without bra/breath/uterus/belongings    fresh blood
oranges  i slice    dramatic as sunsets     bitter rind on my thumb       lingers then fades
like expletives   elegized in my mouth    i am immune          every twenty minutes 

a girl is raped in India       i let the statistic sticky as a jack-fruit      abduct my tongue         
late-show hosts      shade the body of the country into safe and unsafe         zones
and which country do i belong to         if my country begins        with my body   

do i even care            8262 miles away from home      i am gently breaking open  
segments of mandarins        arranging pips into smiley faces          for the girl i babysit 
her ear abnormality makes her wail       at the faintest sound    of firecrackers 

bursting on the other side of the water      i say   i am sorry my peachy but tonight 
again the Giants have won.    The words    desensitized   normal     not-news    lodged
between my enamel-losing molars     stubborn as seeds of tamarind --  sour pleasure

of pulp & flesh       which damaged my voice box    at nine    i secretly bought fistfuls
with lunch money    hid from mum    as i did the story    of the neighbor who begged
me to show him      what was under my cherry red skirt    is stillness a kind of reacting         

have i reacted enough       did i react      the night        a romcom loving banker       
Blue Moon and citrus-lipped          held my hair captive       at the back of a bar said   
call me your master     Yes No   what did i feed him     i am immune and is my yes yes yes      

a submission of presence   as in    Here, Sir     or a submission of the shame i am to feel    
but cannot        or is it a tick-box checked    under the pursuit of pleasure      and of course
this is not the same at all     as the news today         some say the average girl is incapable        

of telling what is-what is not        rape      a pluot is a plum crossed with
an apricot         tangelo is a marriage of tangerine with pomelo   
my body is the hybrid history    of my wanton desires     fucked by undefined boundaries

my ex is hashtag-ged a predator     my co-worker calls himself an ally     my boss circulates
a new HR policy           another girl is raped       i am immune          i carry my body         
an infested orchard            to another candle march              hold hands with women  

i have nothing       and everything in common with        every was it abuse or not   riddle
raises itself         as the disappointed eyebrow of the convent nun          who asked me
during my kindergarten interview            is this tomato a fruit or a vegetable

Disbelief is the first song      i picked up when i learnt to unbutton       my urges
knew it as my national anthem           before they could agree     on a final name         
my family christened me                 Chikoo                   a rough-skinned fruit     

sweetness of malt      survives    only in intense warmth      it is cold        inside a body
that knows not    was taught not       to husk tyranny from touch      i forgive   me
my every unknowing        my every denial a veil for    how could i let it happen to me

i offer my fruits  ripe unripe       even the rot that starts much before           the bruising
of skin                       to root-deep silences         my own            and the ones i loan      
i pray           that all                                  the missing parts      of the girl        can be found 

Marcy Rae Henry

SATURDAY WITHOUT A HANGOVER

Slick as a tick it burrows in

The quickest way to clear it from the head is something a little stronger than the night before

But why have one when you can double the pleasure; when, after two, three is easy

After three you stop counting because they say it becomes ‘bad for you’

 And they mean all of you, from brain to breath to breasts

No two are alike, they say of breasts and snowflakes

Touch both of yours often, they advise, of what becomes a chore

Few chores rival cleaning up after the night before 

To avoid embarrassment, throw away the evidence as soon as possible

Try not to count bottles, spills, splashes or ring stains

Try to find the phone you hid from yourself

Spend a contrite week, a month or forty-five days

Rest, and rest assured, the thought will return: I’ve been good, I deserve one, one more time

And, like that, slick as a tick, it burrows in

A song, a film, a smile, a slight, a glowing string of green and golden lights hanging in a window… any are enough to merit a toast

It may not take much to hang up a few Christmas bulbs, but to pull out a tick you must go slowly

Use tweezers, they advise, though I have used fingers

It’s sly going in and sneaky about letting go

Make sure the head doesn’t break off under the skin

The desire to be rid of it is overwhelming and desire, of course, is capricious and impulsive

Suddenly, before you know it, you’ve pulled something out, you’ve opened something, popped the cork, pulled the tab

And once again, you will have to beat it, beat yourself; beat yourself up

Did you stay out of woods in Michigan, piles of leaves in the city and bars everywhere

Did you avoid friends as well as forests

Friends mean well, but they may insist: just one, because we grew up together, because we had our first drink together, because we’re one year older

If you manage to stay on track, any Saturday without a hangover is precarious

Don’t step on a crack, don’t call friends, reminisce or read too much

It’s easy to give up, to lose patience, but if you can make it through the hour, the night doesn’t seem so long

And don’t make a big deal out of Sunday

Just remember to be grateful

Emily Uduwana

IT’S ONLY HAIR, PART I

You drench me in compliments
and detangling spray
and then you cut off
twelve inches
and two years.

I avert my eyes from the mirror
while you work,
accepting without comment
your assurances
that short hair is so flattering
to my jawline,

and when my mother asks,
and when your mother asks,

we’ll both pretend
that I sacrificed
those twelve inches
because the baby had lice
or the dog had a bad case
of fleas,

but we’ll both know
that we’re lying,

that after I’ve lost
those twelve inches,
you’ll be the one
sweeping them off the floor,

because I can’t lift my arms
to hold a brush,
so how could I ever gather
my hair in a tray
and toss two years
of my life
in the trash.

Juliet Cook

MUSEUM OF IMPENDING DEATH

Maybe it's your fault because you drank glass.

Maybe it's your fault because you left the house un-masked.
Maybe it's your fault because you opened a piece of mail.
Maybe it's your fault because you hugged a friend.
Maybe it's your fault because you held a human hand.

Throw it in the garbage right now.

Maybe it's your fault because you ate a rancid peach.
Maybe it's your fault because you didn't apply
enough bleach or because you didn't drink
enough bleach or because you drank too much.

Maybe it's your fault because you held an unwashed doll's hand.

Maybe it's your fault because you can't drive
yourself away from him.
Maybe it's your fault because you're homeless.
Maybe it's your fault because you're alive.

Mary Lane Potter

WHEN I PUT ON MY ANIMAL SKIN TO PRAY

And thou shalt bind them for a sign upon thy hand,
and they shall be for frontlets between thine eyes.
                                                     Deuteronomy 6:8

Like a Selkie living on land—as
a mother, a wife, a woman like any other—
who secretly slips into her pelt to dive
into the salty deep, returning home—
for a moment—to swim freely,
singing through the waters, I lay tefillin
in my living room while my children sleep.

I bind one black box to my left bicep, facing the heart;
the other I lay over my third eye—two houses for holy
words, built from the skin of an ox’s neck, sewn with thread
spun from sinews and veins of cows or deer, antelope, gazelles.

The inked parchments inside, one scroll for the house
of the heart—to live whole—and four for the house
of the mind—to discern—are the skin of a sheep
or a goat, tied with hair woven from the tail of a calf.               

The two black straps that crown my head, form a lettered
knot that rests on the bone above my nape, then dangle over
my shoulders down my ribs and breasts to the tops of
my thighs, skimming my pelvis, are the hide of a cow. 

Cowhide too is the strap I wind seven times—the number of
creation—round my left forearm, pressing deep into the flesh,
then round my palm and fingers, writing on my skin with cowskin
one of the names of God, Shaddai, meaning Almighty or My Breasts.

Wrapped in my pelt, I run home,
my spirit moving freely, no longer heavy, uneasy,
stubborn, and dumb but strong and sure, 
singing wordlessly through the deep.
Back in my animal skin, I remember
how to pray: The ox knoweth its owner,
and the ass its master’s crib.

Kristin Fouquet

MERINTHOPHOBIA

CLEITHROPHOBIA

PNIGOPHOBIA

Artist’s statement:

Most people have at least a couple of minor fears, but usually they are manageable. When fears become extreme and interfere with daily life, they are classified as phobias. These phobias can cause severe anxiety and physical consequences to those afflicted by them. Because fears are irrational, there are often misconceptions from those who do not suffer from phobias.

Agoraphobia is generally thought of as a fear of open spaces, but it can be the overwhelming fear of having another anxiety attack in a public space where one has had an attack. Unlike claustrophobia, which is a fear of small spaces, cleithrophobia is the fear of being trapped or confined in a space. Merinthophobia is the fear of being bound. The fear of being choked is pnigophobia.

Using long exposures in my “Phobic Portraiture” photography series, I endeavor to objectively address various phobias, some of which I have or had, and face them without judgment.

Kelly McQuain

THE GRIEVING BONE

The grieving bone gets lodged in places
other than the heart where one might think 

it would fishhook and stay. At night the trains
cut past our coal dark street, the day ahead

as flat as a penny left on the tracks, any promise
of milk and honey gathering like snow 

on my father’s beard. I had forts to build
and trees to climb. I left my father alone

to nickel and dime away his hours. One summer
night the town roundhouse burned, the heat

blistering the vinyl siding on the houses across
the street. I sat on his shoulders and watched

the smoke spiral, felt the flames dance,
sank my fingers in his hair, not thinking

of futures, his, mine. The sight of him
in a hospice bed would arrive soon enough.

Until then there was the clank and shudder
of metal lumbering in the dark, leaves falling,

the rush of blood in my ears, a ghost train
with nowhere to return, a sharp bone slicing

every part of me.

Meryl Natchez

BECAUSE I WOKE IN A PANIC

a dog scrabbling at a door
Because I didn’t know what
was on the other side
I moved towards your warmth
in the dark under.
Outside green lights
from our neighbor’s Christmas
glimmered like fireflies
over the oak.
The moon bloomed towards the horizon.
Because I could hear the chickens waking
because my flesh fizzed
and my throat clenched
and sleep would not return
and the dog would not quiet

Kelly Cressio-Moeller

ICONOGRAPHY OF A MEMORY SURFACING

Do no harm X bright tie alarm X smile flash trust me I’m a doctor
trash X alone no nurse no button press X undress he said the table
a bed X his looming head over my chest X nipples knuckle-grazed
goosebumps raised X neat stitch into my teenage breast X bared X
shame-scared X a final tug of thread X between teeth suture-dark
X made sure to leave his mark X

Moni Brar

MONTHLY TABOO

each month, house arrest.
seven days confine shame.
you tell me I’m dirty
and the garden will die
in my presence.
I am twelve and I believe
the tomatoes will fall
the peppers blacken
the cilantro wither
the okra shrivel.

but one day I stop believing.
I step outside
and the garden doesn’t die,
mother.
the tomatoes plump
the peppers glisten
the cilantro sways
and the okra stretch,
as I stand growing
among growing things
while the blood drips
between my thighs.

Caroline Rothstein

TINDER

When I say I am looking for a feminist, what I mean is: period sex 
on my yoga mat on the floor of my apartment after Chinese take out.

What I mean is: I tell you my rape story on a beach towel 
and you tell me you love being intimate with me. What I mean 

is: my legs over my head on the edge of your bed and you licking 
my ass and you saying it doesn’t matter if you didn’t orgasm again, 

and aren’t we just having fun, and you hope I’ll think of you when I 
touch myself back in New York. What I mean is: only hold the door 

for me because you want to. And sex in the shower after I pee and 
you’re already in the shower. And kiss my stomach on our third date. 

And stop touching my chest for the four months when I’m feeling 
triggered. And stop asking for sex the moment after I say I don’t feel 

like it. What I mean is asking to hold my hand even after a decade. 
What I mean is: listen. To my body. And please, let me listen to yours. 

Issue 63 Contributors

Moni Brar is a settler on traditional territories of Treaty 7 Region and Metis Nation Region 3, also known as Calgary.  She is a Punjabi, Sikh Canadian writer exploring diasporan guilt, identity, cultural oppression, and intergenerational trauma. She believes in the possibility of healing through literature. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in PRISM, The Selkie, Hart House Review, Ricepaper, as well as an anthology on women and aging (University of Alberta Press). 

Juliet Cook is brimming with black, grey, silver, purple, and dark red explosions. She is drawn to poetry, abstract visual art, and other forms of expression. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. You can find out more at www.JulietCook.weebly.com.

Kelly Cressio-Moeller’s poetry can be found at Boxcar Poetry Review, Crab Orchard Review, Gargoyle, North American Review, Poet Lore, Radar Poetry, Salamander, Southern Humanities Review, THRUSH Poetry Journal, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, Water~Stone Review, and ZYZZYVA among others. Her poems have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes, Best New Poets, and Best of the Net. She is an associate editor at Glass Lyre Press. Visit her website at www.kellycressiomoeller.com.

Kristin Fouquet photographs and writes from lovely New Orleans. Her photography has been widely published in both online journals and in print: magazines, chapbook and book covers, and CDs. Her preferences are conceptual photography, street photography, and the occasional traditional portrait. When not behind the camera, Kristin writes short literary fiction. She is the author of five books. You are invited to visit her humble virtual abode, Le Salon, at the web address https://kristin.fouquet.cc.

Marcy Rae Henry is a Latina born and raised in The Borderlands. She has lived in Spain, India and Nepal and once rode a motorcycle through the Middle East.  Truth be told, she was kind of a hermit (and a germophobe) before the pandemic. She’s also a digital minimalist with no social media accounts. Her writing has received a Chicago Community Arts Assistance Grant and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship. 

Kelly McQuain is the author of the chapbook Velvet Rodeo, which won the Bloom poetry prize. He has been a Sewanee Tennessee Williams Scholar and a Lambda Literary Fellow, and he has received two fellowships from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. He teaches in Philadelphia and shares his art and writing at www.KellyMcQuain.wordpress.com. 

Meryl Natchez’ latest book of poetry, Catwalk, is forthcoming from Longship Press in June. Previous books include: Jade Suit, and two books of translations: Poems From the Stray Dog Café, and Tadeusz Borowski: Selected Poems. Her work has appeared in Hudson Review, Poetry Northwest,  Literary Matters, LA Review of Books, ZYZZYVA, and many others. 

Mary Lane Potter’s works include the novel A Woman of Salt, the story collection Strangers and Sojourners, and the memoir Seeking God and Losing the Way. Her work has appeared in Witness, River Teeth, Parabola, Women’s Studies Quarterly, Minerva Rising, Beloit Fiction Journal, North American Review, Tampa Review, ARTS, SUFI Journal, Leaping Clear, Spiritus, Tablet, and others. She’s been awarded a Washington State Arts Commission/Artist Trust Fellowship and enjoyed residencies at MacDowell, Hedgebrook, and Caldera. 

Caroline Rothstein is an internationally touring writer, poet, performer, and educator. Her work has appeared in Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan, Narratively, The Guardian, BuzzFeed, NYLON, The Forward, Hey Alma, Radius, and elsewhere. She tours year-round performing, speaking, and facilitating workshops at colleges, schools, community organizations, and performance venues worldwide. She has a B.A. in classical studies from the University of Pennsylvania, and an M.S. from Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism. For more, visit: www.carolinerothstein.com.

Emily Uduwana is a poet and short fiction author with recent publications in Miracle Monocle, Eclectica Magazine, and the Owen Wister Review. She is currently based in Southern California, where she studies history as a Ph.D. student at the University of California, Riverside. 

Preeti Vangani is a poet & personal essayist. Born and raised in Mumbai, she is the author of Mother Tongue Apologize (RLFPA Editions), winner of the RL India Poetry Prize for First Book. Her work has been published in  BOAAT, Gulf Coast, Threepenny Review among other journals. She is the Poetry Editor for Glass Journal and holds an MFA (Writing) from University of San Francisco.