Lee Jaszlics is a technical writer and photographer living in Portland, Oregon. They share their life with a cat, two pet spiders and a dissecting microscope. Their work has never before been published. Out For the Season Winter left you breathless; fine frozen talc wrote a foreign alphabet across organs with classical names, and branching […]Read more "Out For the Season"
Maggie Hess was raised on a tobacco farm with a barn, a creek, and a beautiful view in Southwest Virginia until the age of four when she moved in to her family’s urban homestead in Bristol, Tennessee. Her poems have appeared in 20 publications ranging from Tule to Blue Fifth to Skyhorse. Maggie won the Leidig […]Read more "Heron Taking Off"
after Adrienne Rich fox danced between me and the very still water headed north past geese and white-beaked birds leaving V’s in the water, far from the cocker spaniel five minutes before or lighted towers brightening our left sides as we risky walked beneath darker skies, I felt the opaque absence of fear for her […]Read more "a standing still"
living so close to nature nature is forced to live too close to us barking, braying, biting animals on wheels endless animals — ourselves and others crushed beneath the treads in the desert, murderers steal her name slip into the crown of Isis, an empty throne a horned sun, a winged kite play-pretend at Calipha […]Read more "birding / breakage"
my cousin and I find the body of a bat on the ground near the old church demolition stones my cousin and I listen to a radio show about butchering We eat venison and white rice shrimp sautéed in so much butter The butcher reads a story she eats less meat The plane in the […]Read more "never never never"
When I caught up with Amy Wheeler for a profile in my women writers series, she was working on building a fire that would heat the dance hall she lives in on Whidbey Island near Hedgebrook. “Down here we’re so off the grid that we heat our big, huge, 100-year-old dance hall with a wooden […]Read more "Women Writers in Residence"
As a young woman, my mother’s long auburn hair
swept the back of her thighs
and the wind pulled it behind her
like the dark, red scream
of a horse’s mane.
The way I write has changed over the years. So has the venue where the writing has appeared. Also, the moisture content. It has become drier as a result of working in higher education and the mental health field, spending precious, gentle, vibrant language on diplomatic emails and research papers. This has been a steady […]Read more "Measuring the Marigolds"
It was not in 2073, but in 2008 that she realized some of her missteps may have related to men. Her head was already in a lot of pain as she thought this. At this particular moment, questioning the twenty-five years she’d been alive seemed like too much. What she had to concentrate on was […]Read more "2073"
“On the whole, I do not find Christians, outside the catacombs, sufficiently sensible of the conditions. Does any-one have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing […]Read more "The Force That Drives The Flower"